Blog Clog

Have you had that dream where you can't move your feet without a whole lot of effort? You're trying to walk normally but your feet are glued to the sidewalk, you're wading through cold molasses and you

just. can't. pick. up. your. feet!

When I have that kind of dream I'm REALLY happy to wake up. I'm like Zippity Do Dah the rest of the day.

Mornin' Br'er Cat! Howz y'all this fyyyne mornin'?

And, yes, I do talk like that the rest of the day. I might even skip or run across the parking lot (with scissors) just because I can. Feet don't fail me now!

Now, imagine having that dream, only your awake, but it's not your feet, it's your fingers. And all that nerve stuff that commands your fingers to do their little dance across the keyboard is all glued together. That's been me all week. I stare at the blank page and

nothing.

I try to write and it doesn't happen. Just argle bargle. I typed a whole page of j's because my finger fell asleep and my mind went numb at the same time. I roused from my reverie to find a page of j's. I probably should have posted it. Best thing I wrote all week.

So, this evening I said to myself, "Self? Enough is enough. Get those fingers moving, Mister, and crank out something even if it's dreck. Dreck the halls!"

It could be that I'm unsettled. Here I am home-alone with the cats, an infinite supply of Tater Tots, nobody to gripe at me for watching the Who's Line Is It Anyway? marathon, every day, and I should be cranking out blogs like nobody's business but I'm stuck in the mud-glue-molasses-whatever.

Too much of nothing to do, actually. Being home-alone I had to do a whole lot of chores that I'd become used to sharing. I guess that running the entire ship of house by myself was more tiring than I cared to admit. By the time I got around to punching out a witty story I was done in, pooped, fatigued, and just plain tired.

Also, I think I was suffering from post-Potter depression. I read it was going around. After spending a few days immersed in the wizarding world here I was back in the real world and I wasn't adjusting well. I decided what I needed was a house elf, more like Dobby and less like Kreacher.

How cool would that be to have a house elf?

I think it would be way cool. But, tricky, yes, very tricky.

You would have to be careful with a house elf and spell things out exactly. Like you do with a teenager.

A house elf would look for every loophole. Like a teenager.

You might assign your house elf a simple task, but the elf would get distracted doing many other things, thus allowing the task to over ripen; much like a teenager would.

A house elf wouldn't talk back to you directly, but you would hear them mumbling and grumbling and stomping around. Like a teenager.

When things went missing, especially food, it would probably be the house elf. Hmm, much like a teenager.

House elf. Teenager. House elf. Teenager.

Could it be?

The teenager has been absent this week and not a Tater has totted off. The half-gallon of milk I bought three weeks ago is still in the fridge. Laundry hasn't piled up in the living room. This has to be more than a coincidence. I'll report back next week after the elf, er, teenager returns to let you know.