.Borrowed Thoughts.

I woke up this morning and looked around my room and wished I could crawl under my blanket and shut my eyes tight so that when I woke up the mess would be gone. I really hate a messy, cluttered room but by every Friday that’s what it is. A warehouse crammed into my small suffocating bedroom. I’m suffocating because the room -the only one in the house without insulation is unusually hot (probably because all of the crap in it) and hiding under the blanket isn’t helping. Sometimes, I have to turn the AC on in the winter.

I wanted a Queen size bed so there is really not much room for anything else. I have boxes piled up by my closet door. Some empty, others filled and need to be shipped back out for a refund. Clothes hanging on the doorknob, hats everywhere from my recent addiction to hats that I think I might have finally kicked. But I could be wrong, I haven’t really been going out much,hence not having many occasions where wearing a hat would be appropriate. I am not allowed to at work and wearing a fedora to Duane Reade seems a little silly.

On the other side of the bed-by the wall, instead of it being an empty space for, I don’t know–maybe a lover sometime this century, are stacks of magazines, my alarm clock, lotion, my huge bag, and my cat’s old bed. Inside that little bed are more magazines, some books, wires for all my gadgets that I buy and forget I have and never use, boxes of software, unread mail, or read mail that I hold onto because I have a feeling that the minute I throw out that porn catalogue that came in that I never asked for, someone will find it. I’d like to avoid that situation.

On my hamper are stacks of clothes. Some clean and never worn, folded neatly, and others dirty and just thrown on top. I guess I shouldn’t really call it a stack since it’s more like a heap. On my desk that I never use for what desks are meant for are more hats and another pile of clean clothes that were brought up from the basement on the corner. When I open my door to come either in or go out of my room I have to twist my body around them in order for the pile not to fall on the floor. I can tolerate many things–but I won’t tolerate clothing on the floor. That is just gross.

I just looked at my desk again. I really can’t breathe. I am trying to block all peripheral vision and just focus on this screen but it’s hard. I forgot to mention that on top of the hats (That are actually very neatly arranged) are more clothes thrown on top of them. Vests, a bra that’s peeking through, oh and my camcorder that’s charging. This is madness.

In-front of my desk is a Buddha wall art thing that I had purchased at Urban Outfitters probably 6 months ago. I really have not made any solid plans to hang it up so maybe I should. In front of that is a cardboard tube containing a softball ball. My favorite; Demarini EVO (FP). I already have one-it’s an ounce lighter though. But they sell so cheap now that I felt it would be wrong of me not to snatch one up for $55 on Ebay. Since I have one that is perfectly fine and pretty new–I haven’t opened the one taking up space in this already crowded torture chamber. I might sell it. I can’t decide. So until then–the box will stay there.

Every Saturday I make progress. Two weekends ago –I had the box with my new printer on the floor so I finally got rid of the old one and made the switch. It doesn’t sound like a big deal–but oh it was. Atop my old printer was a gigantic stack of magazines. Stacks. Magazines. The words plague me. Pretty soon–if I didn’t do something about it, the piling would reach all the way up to the ceiling.Every time I would enter my room–I’d eye them and feel dread. They haven’t been read and I refuse to throw out reading materials until I actually read them. I sucked it up and threw away almost half–maybe more. It felt empowering. I made several trips up and down the steps carrying as many as I could each time. All the Janes went. The Wireds stayed. Most New Yorkers stayed too. Blenders stayed but most Rolling Stones left. All video game magazines were chucked–but only after I took the demo discs that I’ll never even play. I felt confident with my method of selection. In the end–I must have thrown away 70 magazines or more. Now I had a small enough pile that I could just put on my bed next to the catbed. The new printer looked so nice with nothing on top of it. I felt calm. The only problem was that the plug type won’t fit into the socket I have so to actually use it–I have to take it down, put it on my bed, and plug it into the other outlet. I never use my new printer because of this.

I spent the next 3 hours that night reading as many magazines as I could. It was kind of like homework. You are supposed to read magazines leisurely. Like on the train, or in a doctor’s waiting room office–or on a lazy Sunday on a hammock with a cup of coffee, wearing the most comfortable white linen clothing and barefoot. Not sweating manically and scanning each page ferociously like a mad woman throwing them on the floor when your done and picking up the next without hesitation. My room looks like a warehouse and I am reading magazines like I’m a one-woman assembly line.

I am now getting subscription renewal notices and the feeling I get when I rip them in half and chuck them is great. I just don’t have time to read 30 different kinds of magazines anymore. I’m going to try to cut it to maybe 10 this year.

Two weeks later, today–the magazines have accumulated again and on top of my printer are some books and the boxes to my iriver clix. I read most of the books; The Road (great), Running With Scissors (great), Same Sex in The City (horrible), Endgame (not my cup of tea). I read them all the last two weeks. Why can’t I read the magazines this quickly? The boxes need to be put somewhere out of sight but I haven’t gotten around to that yet. I actually want to order more books, but I won’t until I straighten up this mess. I have to set limits and standards for myself. I also remember that I still have some books I haven’t read yet–so no need to get more until those have been taken care of.

I wish it was raining today–like pouring rain. Then my room wouldn’t feel as warm because the sunlight wouldn’t be peering through the blinds (I need to find some that successfully block out all sunlight) and my father would not be outside hammering something. Every Saturday morning he is outside hammering away. I have no idea what he does. Since I never ask or look–I just imagine him taking random plates of wood and just hammering senselessly giving him a feeling of purpose. Several months ago my mother said it was because he was installing basement windows. That seemed to me, like a one or two day task. Not 5 months.

My room is at the back corner of the house–one window facing the backyard (the window by my head)–and the other facing the driveway on the side of the house which is parallel to my neighbor’s backyard. It is especially suicide-inducing when my father is hammering the same time the children next door are playing basketball or a game that has no name but involves blood curdling screams of horror. I am pleased to say they aren’t out there today. Thank God–I don’t think I’d be able to take the recent state of my room, my father’s hammering, and screaming kids playing rapist killer or whatever they play- all at the same time.

So after I write this–I am going to get to work cleaning and organizing everything. I wish this would be easy for me. But it’s not—that is why I am procrastinating by writing for as long as I can about it. I simply don’t have any room to store my things. I am addicted to online shopping–and when the stuff gets here I have no place to put it. I have no idea where I am going to put away the clean clothes. There is no hanging room left in my closet or in my gigantic armoire and definitely no room in my drawers. This is gonna be hard. I am suppossed to go out tonight–but I might be so tired from cleaning and magazine homework reading that I’ll end up taking a nap and waking up in the middle of the night missing everything.

I gotta do this now. Wish me luck.

To see most books on my bookshelf and read reviews of some of them visit my shelfari page.

As I sat in the kitchen eating the manicotti my mother cooked earlier, I hear my cat, Loon meowing by the trap door in the basement. Instantly, I feel relieved and grossed out. The piece of pasta I had just put into my mouth was cold and the sauce contained a piece of garlic I overlooked. I guess I hadn’t warmed them up enough in the microwave. I hate piping hot food, but not as much as I hate garlic. My focus was no longer on my cat as as I feverishly tried to wash the horrid taste out of my mouth with some water and bread. The bread (french) had just been taken out of the oven several minutes prior. I knew it would be useful for absorbing the disgusting taste of garlic, but also- it’s bread–and I love bread. I imagined it would contain the perfect ratio of crispy crust to airy dough. Warm, delicious, and comforting. This was not the case. Instead it was dry, stale, and hard. What’s with me and stale bread lately? It felt like I had just tipped my head back, opened my mouth wide, and poured a can of breadcrumbs down my throat after being dehydrated for 3 days. The only bread worse than this would be garlic bread.

Damn. I really could have used some nice warm comforting french bread after spending time freezing outside earlier tonight. I have trouble the beginning of each season adjusting to temperature changes and always spend a month or longer inappropriately dressed. Sleeves in 90 degree heat, and tank tops and light jackets on windy 45 degree days. That reminds me, I need to clean up my room and bring out more winter clothes and put away the summer stuff. But I have too many clothes. I have so many clothes that it becomes too overwhelming that I wear the same combination of things to work everyday. I need a bigger room. I need my own apartment. What am I waiting for? I know I can afford it. Damn that breakup messed up all plans and time-lines I had set for myself. Stop thinking about the breakup–you are over it remember? Does this mean I should see a shrink? No, yes, I don’t know.

My cat continues to meow. My focus shifts back to being relieved. You see, a few days ago I went down to the basement to get some pants that had been drying and I couldn’t find my cat. Usually she runs up to me, throwing her head against my leg repeatedly like some retarded [read: mentally ill] child with a football helmet banging against a wall. I panic. She got out. She gets out all the time because my dad could care less about “the stupid cat” and leaves the doors and windows open. Why is he so mean? But I haven’t been checking up on her all week so who knows how long she’s been out there. What if she got run over? What if a male cat tried to rape her? Wait- do spayed cats get raped? Or do the males know not to bother unless a female is in heat? I should research this on wikipedia.
I also started thinking if I told someone this story they’d automatically make the assumption that I was a horrible parent/pet owner. I should maybe keep this a secret. In my defense–I was just so busy–Mets games, long nights at work–I simply didn’t have the time or energy to go down and play with her. Plus, she is fed everyday by my father (oddly) who hates her or my sister who doesn’t. Ok, I decide it would be safe to tell the story as long as I explained that part.

Cat is still not around. I’m running late for the train again. How could somebody be running late for a 12:02 train when they are to be at work by 10:00? I should start going to work earlier. If I take a mini break, I’ll get back on track–I’m just too burned out right now. A few days, a week off–I’ll be good to go. I feel sad that my cat might be gone but I need to get these pants on and rush out the door. I make another mental note to call for her when I get home that night. My cat is going with me when I move out of here. She’s my buddy–I’ll be torn into bits if she wasn’t around anymore. Absolutely crushed.
I came home later that night and I didn’t call for her, I forgot.

So as I drink more water to wash down the dry breadcrumbs that have now caused a minor cough attack -I think about how happy I am to know my cat isn’t dead. She’s back. Missing me, meowing for my affection and attention–everything back to normal. Yes!

I clean up the kitchen and pour myself a tall glass of ice water to take upstairs. The cat still sitting in the same spot by the clear plastic trap door window, calling for me, as I make my way to my room without turning back.

I am a horrible parent after all.