The bad thing about working as a freelance editor is that sometimes you find yourself between assignments (translation: unemployed). I'm just coming off of a two-week period without a day job, and I'll admit, it's been tough.
I started my two weeks off with big plans: I was going to repaint the bathroom, the hallway, and the spare room; organize the inventory from the bookstore, weed out the books that won't ever sell (read: Danielle Steel) and donate them to the local library; and blanch, pickle, jar, or otherwise freeze all of the vegetables from the garden.
I started my two weeks off with big plans: I was going to repaint the bathroom, the hallway, and the spare room; organize the inventory from the bookstore, weed out the books that won't ever sell (read: Danielle Steel) and donate them to the local library; and blanch, pickle, jar, or otherwise freeze all of the vegetables from the garden.
Before and After the paint-fume hallucinations. I decided to tackle the bathroom first. My estimations that it would take just one day and one coat of paint were laughably WAY off the mark. The yellow wall paint took (mercifully) only two coats, unlike the emerald green trim, which I had to paint three times, then go over again for spot corrections. THREE! It took me three days, during a heat wave, with little ventilation, to complete this project.
The surprising (to me, anyway) after-effect of this renovation project was that it left me motivated to do exactly nothing. I eyeballed the rest of the rooms in the house and decided that the chipped paint and smudges looked charming. Why ruin it all with a fresh coat of paint?
I spent two days recovering by watching eight seasons of Forensic Files on Netflix and eating ice cream to alleviate my paint-fume migraine. I would've stayed right there in bed if not for the garden. The cucumber vines had spread across the lawn, and the cukes were now knocking on the second-floor windows. They would not be ignored.
I picked about thirty cucumbers, and with an easy recipe for freezer pickles in hand, started chopping cucumbers and ladling out vinegar and sugar. I felt a bit smug and self-righteous after the first ten containers of pickles were done. I was getting a little bored and angry after the next set of ten. Four hours later, I was leaving cucumbers on my neighbors' front steps and running away. (Apparently not quickly enough, as I woke up the next day to twelve cucumbers on my front step that had found their way home.) I handed them out to everyone in my family. My sister stopped speaking to me after I filled her trunk with cukes after she foolishly left her car unattended.
I was done with vegetables. I was cranky and never wanted to see another cucumber again in my life, which doesn't bode well for my freezer full of pickles. I couldn't concentrate on any of my other projects because I kept thinking about pink cucumbers on parade. In short, I was bored and listless: a deadly combination.
I spent two days recovering by watching eight seasons of Forensic Files on Netflix and eating ice cream to alleviate my paint-fume migraine. I would've stayed right there in bed if not for the garden. The cucumber vines had spread across the lawn, and the cukes were now knocking on the second-floor windows. They would not be ignored.
I picked about thirty cucumbers, and with an easy recipe for freezer pickles in hand, started chopping cucumbers and ladling out vinegar and sugar. I felt a bit smug and self-righteous after the first ten containers of pickles were done. I was getting a little bored and angry after the next set of ten. Four hours later, I was leaving cucumbers on my neighbors' front steps and running away. (Apparently not quickly enough, as I woke up the next day to twelve cucumbers on my front step that had found their way home.) I handed them out to everyone in my family. My sister stopped speaking to me after I filled her trunk with cukes after she foolishly left her car unattended.
I was done with vegetables. I was cranky and never wanted to see another cucumber again in my life, which doesn't bode well for my freezer full of pickles. I couldn't concentrate on any of my other projects because I kept thinking about pink cucumbers on parade. In short, I was bored and listless: a deadly combination.
It was around this time that Jason mentioned we hadn't seen any baby turtles emerge from the hole the giant female snapping turtle planted in our flower bed this past spring. And here's the problem that arises from being unemployed and listless: this was, by far, the most intriguing thing I'd heard all week.
I don't have children, and have always suspected I wouldn't be a very good mother, what with my plans to abandon any babies I might have at my mother's house for her to raise. Indeed, when Jason first mentioned the turtle eggs, my first shameful thought was turtle egg-drop soup. But now, I had a purpose: what had happened to those eggs? Had they hatched and we just didn't see them? Or were they desperate for a little TLC from someone who had time on her hands and was going a little stir crazy, someone who may or may not have yet recovered from overexposure to paint fumes . . . someone like me? I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning again!
The eggs had not hatched. I gently dug them up and placed them lovingly in a bucket full of dirt. This picture shows all 43 of my little impending babies, nestled among the peat. We brought them inside and started incubating them in the spare room. I began bringing them out to the kitchen when cooking so that I'd have someone to talk to as I boiled pasta and defrosted pickles. I've already picked out names for all of them. Plus, the good news is, now we don't have to buy Halloween candy--the neighborhood kids will get a new pet in their candy bags when they stop by our house this year.
I wish I were making this up, but I'm typing this with a bucket of snapping turtle eggs next to me. The good news is, I start my next editing assignment next week. I'm hoping my sanity is as satisfying as I remember.
I don't have children, and have always suspected I wouldn't be a very good mother, what with my plans to abandon any babies I might have at my mother's house for her to raise. Indeed, when Jason first mentioned the turtle eggs, my first shameful thought was turtle egg-drop soup. But now, I had a purpose: what had happened to those eggs? Had they hatched and we just didn't see them? Or were they desperate for a little TLC from someone who had time on her hands and was going a little stir crazy, someone who may or may not have yet recovered from overexposure to paint fumes . . . someone like me? I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning again!
The eggs had not hatched. I gently dug them up and placed them lovingly in a bucket full of dirt. This picture shows all 43 of my little impending babies, nestled among the peat. We brought them inside and started incubating them in the spare room. I began bringing them out to the kitchen when cooking so that I'd have someone to talk to as I boiled pasta and defrosted pickles. I've already picked out names for all of them. Plus, the good news is, now we don't have to buy Halloween candy--the neighborhood kids will get a new pet in their candy bags when they stop by our house this year.
I wish I were making this up, but I'm typing this with a bucket of snapping turtle eggs next to me. The good news is, I start my next editing assignment next week. I'm hoping my sanity is as satisfying as I remember.
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