I am in awe.

To move forward in correcting and overcoming our various financial issues, we need to know the account information.  The original account information has been sold to another agency, and now has new account information.  We were not informed of the transaction and don’t know who owns the debt, now.

To find out who owns the debt, we need a credit report, which will show who is owed what.

To order a credit report they need to confirm I am who I say I am.

To confirm who I am, they require me to give the account number — you guessed it — for one of the debts that is being held by an unknown agency.

That’s beautiful, in its way.

I believe there is another way to do this — there are always alternative ways to do things — but for the moment I think it best if I sit quietly with a cup of tea and not think of the wasted hour I’ve spent.

From a letter passing through the office today:

Portland Patrol, Inc. has been hired on a temporary basis for a pilot project aimed at reducing trespass camping and other crime in the inner southeast area.

Wow.  I … is camping on public land a crime?  If it is, then where are the homeless supposed to present themselves for internment to keep from becoming criminals?

I don’t know that I like the squatters’ camps with the piles of garbage they accumulate, but I’m pretty certain that a plurality of their denizens are pretty barren for other options.

Let me tell you about Writing 121.

Bonehead English.  The writing class that even the dimmest bulb can pass.

I failed Writing 121.

Seven times. (more…)

I was unable to get the Black Cat.  I had to accept that fate wished me to have a ladybug, instead.

Grab-and-twist interface, makes a noise at the end, portable.  Ladybugs are fine with me.

Goals are lovely things.  Short term, long term, those hard-to-grasp midterm goals, they’re useful and give you a sense of accomplishment when you’ve set them.

I’ve a few goals.  Write novels for publication, write short stories for publication, live in a house, have my finances clean enough that I don’t need to think about them any more, get our debts ordered (an odd thought; do they ever run short of debt and have to order more?), get enough sleep for as a habit instead of an anamoly….  I find that I’ve listed my goals in what I have come to consider Long term to Short term order.  The last goals listed are making such a ruckus in my life (or, in the case of sleep, such a drain of emotional energy and mental capability) that I can’t pursue the othes well.

Since the others are the ones that are important to me, that’s making me sort of fussy.  I spend my days fiddling around with the UNIMPORTANT goals, like getting enough sleep or getting out of collections, when there are LIFE CHANGING IMPORTANT goals out there to work toward, like writing a short story that will sell for a few dollars.

I used to think that, since the short term goals were immediate (and thereby more urgent),  the implication was that my long term goals were not important.  Not so, I now realize.  The short term goals are almost not goals at all.

My long term goals are Things To Achieve or Lifestyle To Live.  My short term goals … very much resemble a list of Obstacles To Overcome.

So…perhaps my fussiness comes from having my eye on goals of achievment and existance, but my daily life is centered on slaloming through life’s pot-holes, not attaining anything or existing in a perfect fashion at all.

No WONDER I’m fussy.

…

Today I will go buy me something classy, like this, and use it daily.  I’ll set it for 15 minutes (number picked from the air — they float all around me these days, like pollen or gnats, but quantifiable) each evening and write during that time as the cat spins ’round; emails, journal entries, notes of bathroom wall scribbling, short stories, novels — writing.  I don’t care what kind, at this point.  It will be a daily exercise, no matter the state of my brain-death, in Attaining instead of Dodging.

So.  A short term goal that is positive.  Good on me, I feel.

Gleaned today on the Max:

Every galosh is a glass slipper waiting to samba.

–Willa Schneberg