I only started blogging a few days ago, but already I'm having mild panic attacks whenever I think about having to write about something every day. I don't have any projects to blog about, my novel is on the back burner until I can get a decent laptop (I could digress very strongly here, but I'm saving that for another time), and my day-to-day life just isn't interesting enough to present in a diary form.
So far, my blogs have had no planning at all (which I'd probably say was fairly obvious *snort*). I literally sat down, thought of something random, then began typing. To be fair, that's what I normally do when I am writing anyway, so that's not overly worrying. But when I write I'm usually in the middle of a story, so I have something as a reference. Blogging is TOTALLY different.
Last night I was mildly hyperventilating as I started wondering what today's blog would be about. Now, I'm a stresser (is that a word? if not, it should be), and I worry over the smallest things on a daily basis. Larger problems usually send me into La-La land - seriously (lordy, I've been watching Grey's Anatomy far too much - seriously).
Where was I? Oh yes, I'm a stresser. And in these times of stress I reach for a cigarette. I know, I know, it's an awful habit, but there's no point trying to tell me this because the more you do, the more I'll dig my heels in and keep on doing it (actually, there's another blog in there, I have TONS of stuff I could digress about on the subject of smoking).
Anywho, as I pondered on today's blog, I puttered around the kitchen, putting things away and generally tidying up. It was 11.30pm (ish), the kids were both snoring and the hubby was out. Once I was done, I decided to have a ciggie.
Since hubby gave up smoking (yay, almost two years now, go hubby!), I am relegated to the kitchen for my filthy habit (well, I smoke outside when I can, but it's gotten a wee bit cold lately), and I usually keep my ciggies on the counter. But they weren't there.
I literally scratched my head and blinked. No, they definitely weren't there. Now, my lovely daughter often hides my ciggies from me, so I dutifully checked all of her hiding places. Nothing. Nary a sign. I wandered through the living room, the bathroom and the bedroom (even though I knew they would NEVER be in any of these places, but that's what you do when you've lost something, you search everywhere, no matter how unlikely). I checked my handbag and my coat. Then I went back to the kitchen and checked the counters and cupboards all over again.
By now, I am annoyed. Before it all started, I was only vaguely wanting a ciggie, but now I really wanted one (it's all in my head, I know - I only want one so badly because I can't find them). I checked on the kids one last time, but they were definitely sleeping, with not even a small giggle to suggest they were tricking me. Humph.
Not having any other option, I decide to substitute the ciggie with a packet of crisps (and this is why I dread giving up smoking. No smoking = extra weight that I seriously DON'T need). Back to the kitchen I went, and there, in plain view, where I ALWAYS put them, were my cigarettes. The hairs on my neck stood up, I kid you not. I even jumped just a little bit.
After this crazy ten minutes, I came to a disturbing conclusion: I was either a) going completely insane (which is definitely a strong possibility), or b) I was being haunted by an anti-smoking ghost. This was a very logical conclusion, because my ciggies definitely disappeared. Trouble is, I don't know what would be worse - KNOWING I was going loopy, or potentially being troubled by Casper the non-smoking ghost for the foreseeable future. And in the cold light of day, I'm still not sure which is the most disturbing.
Still at least I had something to blog about today, so all is not lost, eh?