procrastinate

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Ahem?

I hate interruptions. I find them particularly annoying. Put me in front of a computer and give me an article to write or a pile of photos to edit, and I have no problem staying focused. When the house needs cleaning, I set aside a day and get the entire place sparkling. When digging in the garden, I might forget to come in for lunch. And when I read a book, I often read all 400 or so pages in one sitting, even to the point of staying up half the night.

While this predilection to concentrate can be an asset when it comes to getting tasks done, it isn’t so helpful when it comes to relationships. Almost by definition, doing anything with another person tends to involve interruptions. That’s the reason we do things together in the first place. Parenting takes this to an extreme. As anyone who’s ever raised a two-year-old knows, kids are nothing but interruptions!

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Oh Well

For the first time in several years, I didn’t have a blog post queued and ready to post this morning.

I could list the excuses (quite valid)—I went camping all weekend. I came home sick. The decongestants make my brain fuzzy. I stayed in bed and watched The Hobbit with Pete instead of getting up and traipsing downstairs to write. But in the end, it all comes down to this: writing a post was not my top priority, and it didn’t get done.

Oh well.

I think we’ll all live. And just to entertain you, I’m reposting this extremely pertinent little story I wrote back in 2010. See you Friday.

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I’ll Do That Later

I wish I hadn’t procrastinated.

The room was still dark when I woke up this morning. Squinting at the clock, I read the glowing numbers: 4:25. Ugh. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but my brain had already switched on—then immediately kicked into overdrive. I tried to tell it that I didn’t need to get up for another two hours, but it wasn’t listening. “Taxxxxesssss,” my brain hissed, reminding me of Gollum.

That’s right. Today is the deadline. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to fill our my quarterly sales tax forms—one for the city and one for the county/state. I imagine the FBI knocking on my door in the middle of the night and dragging me away for sales tax delinquency. I shiver.

“Sales tax? That’s all?” you ask. “What’s the big deal?”

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