Today I'm giving "working at home" a try, while various people come kill ants, measure for carpet, maintenance the furnace, and install a programmable thermostat. While this happens I plan to do some grading, and also blow the leaves out of the back yard. My yard is the width of a business-sized envelope, so hopefully this won't be too hard. I already did the front and it did not kill me.
It's strange being in my house alone. It's luxurious, and not luxurious, but mostly just creepy. Every minute of my home time is usually witnessed by at least one, if not both, of my kids. Right now I'm feeling very unsupervised. But I still need to get work done.
Without meaning to, I have entered into a phase of not writing. Perhaps it's an October thing. At any rate, there are no new poems to report. I was too tired Friday night, and so forth.
I know this is, like, twenty years too late, but I think I'm finally ready to stop trying to impress my parents. It's impossible. Even if I won the Nobel Prize my mom would still remind me that I'm not a brain surgeon. If I went back to school to become a brain surgeon she'd probably gripe about me not being the right kind of brain surgeon. It's just very disheartening when your own parents are incapable of being pleased with you.
Perhaps instead of working at home I'll go get a mohawk! That'll show 'em.