Ordinary

I've settled into a nice little routine these days. I go to work. I come home. If it's early enough I treat Lily with a trip to the dog park, make dinner, have a glass of wine (or two depending on the perceived annoyances of the day), read a little and head off to bed.

Rinse. Repeat.

Not terribly exciting. And that's why I've been in a bit of a slump when it comes to entries here. I just can't seem to find anything to write about. I figure if I'm not interested by my life, surely y'all won't be either.

Recently – and I'm talking the bus ride to work – I finished a book called, An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, and I realized that although I think it's mundane at times there is a certain happiness that can be found in being Ordinary. The book is essentially an encyclopedia of the author's ordinary life chronicled from A to Z – it reads much like a blog does. I'm drawn to books and authors like this, ones that can find humor and levity in things that happen all around us everyday, and who have the ability to put it into words that make you say, uh huh yep totally know what you're talking about. This is probably why I love reading Dooce, David Sedaris, Amalah.com and others.

When I started reading An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, I was in the middle of another book called Atonement. I had been limping through Atonement for about two weeks, (I finished An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life in about a day in a half) and it was really starting to make me feel dumb (it's 2004's book of the year, I'm supposed to flying through it, right?). Don't get me wrong the book is wonderfully written, I just couldn't sink my teeth into it. The book is filled flowery, triple-letter-score words that fly totally over my head (have you ever used the word febrile in your life? EVER?) and long drawn out character descriptions that left me going who in the hell is he talking about NOW, oh the same person, hmmm I thought he was talking about a dude, oh well.

So I came to the realization that I like to read (and write) about the ordinary. It's relatable. I can picture myself stubbing my toe, missing the bus and having lipstick on my teeth, no flowery language needed. I'm there. But early twentieth century Americana? Yeah, not so much. And running to the dictionary every ten minutes to figure out what your flowery language actually means isn't helping. (I know, God forbid I actually learn something – boo.)

Maybe I just don't like fiction. Maybe someday I'll grow up and enjoy sitting down with my glass of merlot soaking up every word of high and mighty encrusted prose. Who knows.

But as for now, I'll stick to the Ordinary.

The Ordinary is always there, waiting to be written about.

With a febrile pestilence, fuckers.

If you've ever wondered what writer's block looks like...

(crickets chirpping)

Look no further.

My brain is all sorts of mush, and is incapable of writing actual thoughts down.

Boo.