Sex and Suburbia, Blocks (not of the building variety)

Sex and Suburbia, Blocks (not of the building variety)
By Julie Stankowski

So, what is a writer to do when she has major “writer’s block?” Continuously trying to write seems a colossal waste of time. Everything that comes out of my mind and onto the computer is stupid and boring and senseless. I can spew it. I just can’t write it down. I’ve tried the chocolate solves all problems cure. Stuff thy face with M&Ms and thy head shall be cleared? Yeah right. Well, obviously, my writer’s block continues. And unfortunately, this block has spread like wildfire throughout my entire being.

I apparently am also suffering from “housecleaning block.” Never knew there was such a thing. But there is. I have it. Now I know. I put something away, two more things pop out. I go through the mail, but the next day, I get a pile of mail even bigger and the task is never-ending. My house is a disaster. Yet, I think I spend more time in my laundry room than in my bed. You know how they say you should get a really comfortable bed because you spend half your life sleeping? Well, then, by the same token, I think I should have a Gucci laundry machine that spits out diamonds every time I throw in a load and have a burly masseuse named Svetlana permanently camped out in my laundry room. Dirty clothes in my house seem to multiply like bunnies.

Is “organizer’s block” the same as “housecleaning block?” I think they’re separate and each deserves its own category. The organizing thing. Why can’t I get this down already? It’s like a disease for which there is no cure. Once disorganized, always disorganized. But why? My parents have always been so organized and I just don’t understand why that gene was not passed down to me. My level of mass disorganization is embarrassing. It’s a wonder I can find my own tooth brush in the morning. And it’s not like I don’t try to fix this problem. I do. I really do. I think about it all the time. I stare at the piles of stuff and think about how to fix it. But the hours spent staring and thinking does not an organized home make. The solution always seems so close, yet it remains so far away. And for some unbeknownst reason, I am in the midst of my 41st year in a row suffering from “organizer’s block.” Horrible.

Let’s see. I also have “dieter’s block,” “exerciser’s block” and “chef’s block.” I hope I don’t actually turn into a block. But I’m not really that worried about it because my body is currently too round to become a block any time in the near future.

What the hell isn’t blocked? My mouth, for sure isn’t blocked. I can eat and drink with no problem. Always. I never seem to get “mouth block,” even though I would welcome it. And I can nag and complain and whine just fine. In fact, I have chronic oral diarrhea; I just can’t seem to get my thoughts down on paper. Which is too bad for my husband because if I can’t write it, I say it, to him, constantly. My wallet isn’t blocked either. I wish it was. “Wallet block” would be so much healthier than the blocks I have. I wouldn’t have to worry about my husband having a coronary when the bills arrive. And there would be more money in my kids’ college funds. But I’m pretty sure I don’t have it; I was at the preschool boutique the other day and - - well, let’s just say the vendors were very happy to see me.

Okay, I’m tired of talking about blockages. At my age, you never know what will get blocked so it is probably best not to keep repeating the word ad nauseum. I will change the subject. But I have “writer’s block” and nothing else to talk about. Oops, I said it again. I think I’ll call the doctor tomorrow and do one of those high-colonic body cleansing things (is it gross? I’ve never done it) and maybe that will help clear the passageways and un-block all my blocks. If not, it will at least give me something cool to write about. Or, if the blockage remains, to talk about. A big, “I’m sorry” to my husband in advance if that is the way it goes down (so to speak).