Sculpin

Today’s lack of fun:

1. Get on the bike, fail to gain momentum fast enough, fall off shrieking.
2. Try again. Get on the bike, fail to gain momentum fast enough, fall off shrieking.
3. Give up for the time being, because there’s no point rubbing my nose in failure.

On Saturday I biked with Josh on the tandem to Wallingford. On Sunday, we took the tandem up the hill to the Blue Saucer, which is near the second-highest point in Seattle if I recall correctly. For me, this is a hell of a lot of hill-climbing, and my knees feel it. I’ve even got some minor limping going on. Maybe that’s why I failed today. Failed failed faility failed, friends. I was more or less on the flat here, with a very slight uphill grade; next time, I’ll point myself downhill.

I’m not sure that this forty-pound bike is the best thing to be learning on, either. I could turn on the motor, but OH HELL NO am I adding a motor to this learning process. Like I don’t have enough to think about.

I was about to add, “And I can’t find the charger anyway,” then turned to the right and saw it where it has been sitting there looking at me for months. Seriously. I can’t find anything in this house.

What I need is an electrician. Can anybody recommend an electrician?

See, once upon a time we were going to have a hatch put in so we could store things in the attic. For my birthday, my mother gave me a few hours of handyman time from the husband of someone we know. That was last October. Hooray. Josh bought attic stairs and everything. We tried and tried to get on the same page with the handyman, but he had this and that, hernia surgery, extra work, a family reunion, etc. So that took about seven months. Then we realized that the only place we could put the stairs was in the hallway. That meant moving a light. “I’ll do that this weekend,” said Josh, and then he took a good look at it. Oh, God, it all goes down the rabbit hole from there, but the upshot is to do much of anything to the wiring, we’ll need a bunch of electrical work done. We took bids, accepted one, and the guy put us off for weeks before admitting that he was really too busy to do the work.

Meanwhile, no attic storage space. And my mother has moved from her three-story house into a two-bedroom apartment. I, foolish only child, have said, “Oh, sure, you can store that in our attic.” Which we will have any day now, right? No. No. I live in a storage depot. Not to mention that she’s given me about fifty pounds of random papers and photographs to sort through. (“This is yours!” says Lady Bountiful, dumping another load of old report cards my way. Oh joy.) It doesn’t help that Josh was laid off in spring, and the contents of five years of clutter buildup in his horrible office has now taken over the dining room. I am going mad, I tell you, mad.

And because I live in a storage depot, I don’t have enough room to do my Pilates exercises. Basically everything has gone to hell here.

I’m going back to bed.

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