<

But it's not just a normal boredom. I'm bored out of my mind and yet completely loaded with stuff to do. I alternate between giving Clara Jane my full attention and grabbing five minutes here and there to read a little, write a little, knit a little, clean a little, stare at the wall a little. It's boredom paired with perpetual motion and a brain that's always engaged.

After nearly two years of motherhood, this still trips me up. It seems like if I'm doing so much I shouldn't be bored. But I am. And I don't feel like I"m doing that much. If I was really doing as much as I think I am, surely I wouldn't be bored. Nor would I have a messy house, an unfinished book that I'm writing, three unfinished books that I'm reading, a Christmas gift I'm still knitting and a pile of receipts I need to organize for my taxes.

I feel completely exhausted and overworked, while feeling like I'm not doing a damn thing.

And my original notion is true: I'm bored because I'm boring. The most exciting thing I've done this week? Well, aside from the meatloaf? Hm. Actually, that was the most exciting thing I've done this week. Spending two hours at Starbucks and writing on Monday night is a distant second.

I know this is all temporary. Either temporary because it won't always be January, the most boring month of the year. Or temporary because my child won't always be possessed by Satan, ergo unfit for public exposure:


I suppose we could entertain ourselves by hanging out in cornfields and performing ritual sacrifices on adults, but there's the rub: I'd be the first to go. Besides, it seems a shame for someone with such a cute pink plaid purse to spend her time in a cornfield where the purse is likely to get splattered with blood.

At least I have my vivid imagination to keep me occupied.

That damn purse in the picture, along with the damn barista at Starbucks on Monday have me thinking about Memphis. One trip to Memphis in particular. You know which one I'm talking about. The one taken in October, 2002, with Kara, Kristina and various other secondary friends. I talked about it about a month ago, even. The trip where we celebrated my 30th birthday by drinking every bottle of Rolling Rock in stock at The Pig, busting out dancing and laughing in the middle of the tour at Sun Studio, getting devoured by a fold-out bed, and contemplating some sushi at a gas station. "You're probably gonna puke before the night's over anyway - might as well!" wasn't enough to convince anyone that gas station sushi was a dare worth taking. When Sarah got so drunk that she stared into her gumbo and uttered these infamous words: "Dude. I have no idea what I'm eating.", she perfectly surmised the entire weekend.

A few weeks ago I drug that pink plaid purse off the shelf to put it back into rotation. I never clean out my purses unless they've been out of rotation for awhile. I get a little kick out of pilfering through the old receipts and concert tickets, occasionally stumbling onto some forgotten cash. While digging through the pink plaid purse, I found the receipt from my admission to Sun that day. I had forgotten that the purse went to Memphis, but there it is, hanging out at Sun, preparing to bust a move:

There on the right, in my hand you'll notice the pink plaid purse. While this has nothing to do with the subject at hand, I'd like to note that Kara's holding a pink purse with blue trim behind her back. It was a one-of-a-kind artsy little thing that we both loved, so we each paid half and have joint custody of said purse. Co.De.Pen.Dent. But I digress.

So now, everytime I see the pink plaid purse, which is several times a day, I think about the Memphis trip.

At Starbucks on Monday, I overheard the barista talking about his plans to go to Memphis this weekend. I jumped into the conversation, asked him about his plans and we wound up talking for a bit. He's celebrating his 28th birthday down there, making all the music geek pilgrimages. It was all I could do to keep from throwing myself at his feet and screaming, "Take me with you! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease take me with you! I promise I won't obliterate the stock of any single brand of beer again! I promise I won't eat the gas station sushi! I promise I won't dry hump any Loverboy posters! I'll be good if you just take me with you!!!!"

The pink plaid purse. The barista. Repeated watchings of Food Network Challenge: Elvis Birthday Cake. These things are not doing me one bit of good. While they conjure up great memories, I wind up feeling like I'm no longer that person that I was just over three years ago. I've gotten old. Boring. I was the girl who cornered Monte Montgomery and informed him that he needed to meet my friend Mary now because she came all the way to Tennessee from Texas just to see him, all while dragging him to our table. I spend my days in yoga pants, jumping when my toddler hollers and desperately trying to find something fulfilling to do in the five minute breaks between those hollers, feeling like I'm turning into that middle-aged woman who had one really great weekend in her life and she can't quite get over it.

Again, I know this is temporary. It's January, and I always get like this in January. I'm not depressed. Not even sad. Just bored. There's plenty of stuff around the corner. Clara Jane's birthday. Asylum Street Spankers and Cowboy Mouth shows with good friends. Hell, there's even writing at the coffeehouse tomorrow, followed by knitting with more friends.

I just don't know how to deal with the mundane. The normal times. If anything, times like these make me realize that I have led an interesting life so far, a life that will continue to be interesting. The boredom doesn't mean I'm boring. It just means I'm recharging. Strengthing my system for when the opportunity for a bar's worth of beer and gas station sushi arises once again. And you know it will. I'll make sure it does, just as soon as I change out of my yoga pants.

While writing this, I listened to a mix I made shortly after that trip. It's a part of an overwrought mix collection I made called The Dorcas Collection, since I made all the covers with graphics culled from The Dorcus Collection. This is from volume #2: Running Free:

The Passenger - Iggy Pop
Cure for Pain - Morphine
No One Knows - Queens of the Stone Age
The Can-Can - Moulin Rouge soundtrack
The Whole World - Outkast
Calistan - Frank Black
A Little Respect - Erasure
Beer - Asylum Street Spankers
Brass in Pocket - the Pretenders
Rudy Can't Fail -the Clash
Jean Genie - David Bowie
Ruby Soho - Rancid
Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumpkins
Sheena is a Punk Rocker - the Ramones
Da Do Ron Ron - the Donnas
American Girl - Tom Petty
Box Full of Letters - Wilco
No Sleep Til Brooklyn - Beastie Boys
We Want Fun - Andrew WK
The Globe - Big Audio Dynamite

Sometimes I have problems recalling exactly what I did with my days before Clara Jane was born. Right now, I remember: I did stuff like this. Obviously, I wasn't nearly as interesting as I think I was.