Pretty Soon....

“Never put off until tomorrow, what you can do the day after tomorrow just as well”

---Mark Twain

It’s not something to brag about, but honestly, putting off unpleasant chores or boring errands is something I do really well. Actually, it doesn’t have to be something unpleasant or boring; I can stall anything.  Seriously, procrastination, for me, has hit expert level. My standard answer when someone asks me when I’m going to finish a task, or, more often than not, start one, the answer is invariably, “Pretty soon.” Pretty soon is vague enough that it satisfies the asker, and yet doesn’t actually require me to make a firm commitment to an actual deadline. Expert level indeed.

The problem is, there is always a deadline. A hard time and date for completion of a task, or delivery of work. This is a newspaper, and it runs on the concept of deadlines. No one at Gannett is going to holler, “Hold the front page, BKK isn’t done yet!” 

Never gonna happen

Deadline for me is high noon on Fridays. Right now, as I’m writing this, it’s 11:35AM Friday morning. No worries, right? I got plenty of time. The fact that I can procrastinate at this level and still never be late for appointments is just one of the quirks that make me who I am. Legit, in my world of time, five minutes early is on time, on time is late, and five minutes late is a felony. However, 20 minutes before I have to be somewhere that is 15 minutes away, you’d find me madly rushing about my kitchen, looking for my keys, my glasses, and my purse, while cursing the dog and wondering if I have time for one more cup of coffee. Common sense says that my purse, keys and glasses should have a spot where they are always kept, to avoid the last-minute dash, but “common” and “sensible” are not words that are ever used to describe me, and I’m good with that.

 

In a perfect world, we would all set aside specific times to work on specific tasks, being mindful of deadlines, expectations, and other responsibilities. It’s not a perfect world however, but it really doesn’t need to be, does it? Can’t most of us operate in less than ideal circumstances and still get our work done in a timely manner? Yes, of course we can, it’s simply that the pressure of an impending time or date is what pushes me. In college, in my senior thesis class, my assignment was a 25-30 page paper on Ernest Hemingway, his life, his work, and how his mental difficulties and environment influenced his writing. So, you know, not anything really complex. 

The class was structured so that the work could be allocated over the course of the semester. I read the syllabus, with the proposed breakdown of work all in neat segments each week. I’m fairly sure I snort-laughed and muttered, “yeah, that’s gonna happen” in class when the professor explained the workflow and how it was designed to keep the paper on point with minimal stress to the writer. My classmates all looked at me like I had three heads, but that was hardly the first time that happened.

That fall, at my beloved Saint Michael’s College campus in Vermont, I walked among the foliage, went to parties, sat up late at night with dorm neighbors eating popcorn and watching bad television, and spent entirely too much time with my boyfriend. Then, just like that, it was the day before the paper was due. Let’s remember for a minute that this was 1984, and despite Orwell’s predictions, I was still tapping away at a low-tech baby blue Smith Corona typewriter, that was electric, but temperamental and given to ribbon malfunctions and inky disasters. No internet, no word processor, no autocorrect.  Just me, a stack of Hemingway novels, a package of highlighters, and a ream of typing paper. Oh, and a really big pot of coffee. The journey of a thousand words begins with the first shove of the carriage return, right? My roommate wasn’t pleased, but she was one of those annoying planners, that never left work until the last minute, so what did she know?

There is a poem called “The Dark Night of the Soul” by Spanish mystic and poet St. John of the Cross, and while I’d read it, it wasn’t until I was dissecting old Papa Hemingway and his wild and crazy life of literature, women and booze, that it became clear. For the record, I finished the assignment as the sun was coming up over Mt. Mansfield. Throwing the pages together in a folder I dashed off to class, handed it in, sat down at a desk and pretended to listen to the lecture, while nodding off and drooling. A week later, it came back to me, with a few slashes of red pen, and a big fat “A” on the front cover. Take that, planner people.

Nearly 35 years later, I’m still a last-minute Lucy. I’m used to it, and my editors, employers, friends and family have all given up on changing that. Sure, it hasn’t always gone as well as my senior thesis class, but I’m still standing. Sometimes we just have to embrace procrastination as the motivator it can be. In the meantime, it’s 11:56AM so I better wrap it up. Thanks for reading!

A Local Tourist?

“Boston is an oasis in the desert, a place where the larger proportion of people are loving, rational and happy.”

---Julia Ward Howe

Boston is the center of the universe. Now, before you get your map of the solar system out, and start telling me that it’s not even a blip in the vastness of space, zip it. Writers, historians, statesmen, and just regular Massholes have been waxing poetic about Boston for centuries. Ben Franklin was born here. John F. Kennedy was born here and, my personal favorite Bostonian/Vulcan, Leonard Nimoy, was born and raised in Boston. Both of my parents were born in the city, one in Charlestown and one in Dorchester. Even if we didn’t have so many accomplished natives, the city is a true jewel; there simply isn’t another place like it anywhere.

First of all, sports. No, Tom Brady isn’t getting a ring this year, and the Red Sox are in the dog house currently with a shameful controversy that never should have happened, but the Bruins are in first place in the Atlantic Division. The Celtics? Well, they’re struggling, but you name a team after the Irish, and of course, they will know struggles. Even when we aren’t racking up the trophies, we are behind our teams, 100%. Except you, Cora. Tell your story walking, off you go, get along now, we don’t need the likes of you.

Last week, friends of mine were in Boston for a conference so we made time to have dinner in the city. There are about a gazillion good restaurants in the city, but we chose the North End because it’s got everything you could want. Colorful residents, charming shops, amazing food, (cannoli anyone?), and beautiful architecture. There’s an energy that defines each Boston neighborhood, but the North End, well, it’s just special. The small streets, quaint alleyways, and tiny grocery stores that carry 150 different kinds of cheese make it magical, for me at least. It’s January, so the night was freezing cold, with a wicked wind off the harbor, but so what?

Walking from my office, just as the sun was setting, gave the city that deep blue glow that only happens on crystal clear nights. The skyscrapers of downtown seem to stand watch over the North End’s brownstones, while the light from restaurant signs and tiny apartments spills out on to the sidewalk. Inside cafes and bars, it seemed everyone was raising a glass, breaking bread, and reveling in their community. Sure, many of them had trucked in from the suburbs because there was a Bruins home game at the Garden, just around the corner, but they were part of the city, for a night anyway.

My friends arrived and couldn’t wait to tell me about their week. They’d been here before, but this time got the chance to wander through some of the more local sights. I congratulated them on finding the best local bakery because while the tourists always head for that very famous pastry shop with the celebrity pictures, they managed to find the tiny corner place, with the good bread and the homemade ricotta pie. We toasted with prosecco and gorged on delicious pasta and seafood, snugged into a tiny place with a view out to the hustle and bustle of Hanover Street. 

Getting to show friends even a little bit of my city, and share a meal is quite something. I became a bit of a tourist myself if one can do that in their own city. On the way back to the train I was snapping photos of the red glow of the Pizzeria Regina sign, the streetlights over the Saint Leonard’s Peace Garden and the silhouette of Paul Revere on his horse. I grew up going to Boston all the time with my father when he’d go to work and I was bored at home. I’ve been by these spots, and so many others, thousands of times. Why is that when you live somewhere, you become so used to what’s around you, that you almost don’t even notice what a gift these places are? How does it happen that we can overlook such a phenomenal environment?

For me, I’m going to make it a point to spend more time exploring my own city and surroundings. Shop local is a real concept, and I do that whenever I can, but maybe we should also look local? Really look around, even when you’re somewhere you’ve been a hundred times before. Put some fresh eyes on the old haunts, and they become new again. Of course, some things never change. As I turned a corner, I heard a burst of car horns and a woman with a wicked Boston accent screeching at a driver, suggesting he perform an act I’m fairly sure is anatomically impossible. God, I love my city. Home is where the heart is, so while I don’t live inside the city limits? Oh, oh, Boston, you’re my home.

The Making of a Minimalist

“Being messy is not hereditary, nor is it related to lack of time.”

---Marie Kondo

Ok, so there’s what being messy isn’t, but what about what it is? I would argue that being messy is about a whole lot of issues, including but not limited to genetics, time, aptitude, motivation, comfort levels, and so much more. We would all be minimalists if it was easy to figure out why we aren’t. For that matter, we would all be geniuses if we only knew how to better reach people in education. We’d all be a perfect size six, toned and healthy if we truly understood food, fitness, and nutrition. 

And so on, and so on. For every problem we have to fix, the solutions are an individual as we are. If you do a search for books about organization and cleaning up, in about a nanosecond you get 20,000 results from Google and Amazon. Marie Kondo is the current darling of the home organization space, but she isn’t the only one talking about it.

I read her book. While it’s hard to argue with success, since she has helped so many people, for me, deciding what sparked joy and whether or not my jeans and socks are really happy in the cramped bottom drawer of my dresser left me too much in my head and not enough in the process. Someone told me once that his mother always said, “The best cleaning tool is a garbage bag” and honestly, she’s right. Sometimes you just have to haul butt and go at it, rather than picking up every last knick knack or pair of shoes, trying to decide how you feel about them.

That was the challenge recently at my house. My daughter decided to become a minimalist. You’d have to know her to know why that sent me into a fit of laughter so hard I nearly needed a new pair of pants. The girl owns 27 pairs of black leggings, all of which she swears are different, but I can’t tell a Lulu from a Nike Dri-Fit so what do I know? You want to talk socks? She could outfit a family of centipedes. Add in framed pictures of friends, cheer bows, Alex and Ani bracelets, hair scrunchies, and water bottles of every shape and size and you get the picture. I’m not sure one can be both a VSCO girl and a minimalist, but either way, her room was a disaster.

I turned to a dear friend, who has the ability to design spaces, to take input on what someone wants from a room and turn it into a real haven. She knew to ask my daughter questions like “Where do you think is the best place for your beauty gear and tools?” and “What spot works best for your pictures so you can see them easily?” The questions I was asking were more like, “Mother of God, Devin, how did this happen to your room, did a Viking horde stomp through here while I was out?

She started by getting rid of the old kiddy bed with its Dora the Explorer stickers, and putting in a new wrought iron daybed (thank you Buy Nothing Marblehead!) and from there it became about setting a scene. Sure, there was trash to be tossed, old clothes to be donated, and a major dusting and vacuuming effort, but having someone who can visualize efficiency and order is invaluable. I wouldn’t know efficiency and order if they jumped into my lap and called me Mommy.

 Within a matter of hours, the room was a calm oasis of neatly stored clothing, pictures of friends, and precious mementos. There was also a huge pile of garbage bags all ready for the trash or the donation box. There are still enough pairs of leggings for an entire yoga class, but they are stored neatly. They may or may not be experiencing joy; I forgot to actually ask or consider that, but it’s not even my room and I’m ecstatic. Watching this effort unfold, it struck me that it’s about more than just dust and clutter. It’s about how we want to live and, sorry Marie, for me at least, figuring that out is going to take more than your book of magic joy. Eventually I will get there. Maybe.

Still, it was a start. Now that I have a secret weapon of someone who knows the hot mess that I am (and will likely always be) perhaps there will be some forward progress in bringing order to at least a few parts of my life, like my desk or my kitchen. Of course, we are all happier when we operate in an orderly environment, that is hardly news. Getting there is different for us all though. I will be stocking up on garbage bags though, and I will try to make a dent in some of the disorder.