Procrastination and Beer Commercial Pleasantries

I’m purchasing a house this year. This means only one thing; I have stacks of paperwork approximately as high as myself to fill out. Luckily most of my family deals in business and thus are overseeing the various processes for me which is a good thing for a number of reasons. First off, I just finished National Novel Writing Month, and yes I did write my fifty thousandth word at eleven forty five last Saturday night. This came at the cost of being a grown up and ironically posting on my blog with any sort of regularity. Happily my family has understood. When my Aunty Camelia, who is acting as my mortgage broker, would call me asking for important documents there was no judgment when I replied “Ummm, I’m kind of busy right now, I’ve got a whole lot of lemon berry frozen yoghurt to eat and Real Housewives to watch.”

My Dad has been handling the transfer of monies and whatnot. This too involves mass amounts of mail being sent to my house.  There were a lot of conversations like this during the past month

Dad “Did you receive the papers that my assistant William sent you?”

The Great Unwashed “Yes, they’re sitting right in front of me.”

Dad “Are you going to sign them?”

The Great Unwashed “Absolutely not”

My Dad has always dealt with all my financial affairs and up until recently everything in my life was good because of his secretary Cadence. Dad’s secretary and I had a great understanding. She would send me nice little notes written in her bubble letter print reminding me to sign things and when I forgot about them she would call me and ask in her sweet way for me to remember. It worked great.

And then she got pregnant and has been off spending time with her baby. I’m terribly happy for her and William, the man who has taken her place is extremely kind however he is all about protocol and not bubble letters or frequent voice mails telling me to file papers.

Finally this past weekend I ventured home and my Dad and I went through and signed all of the documents. On the top of the pile was one of William’s many introductory letters explaining what the pages he had sent me were. It was terribly professional with the company letter head and everything which was why I couldn’t sign the papers alone. Clearly if a letter was required this was serious business and it’s doubtful whether I should be trusted with something such as that. Fortunately I figured out a solution; along with a blank cheque that I still need to send to my father’s office, I’m going to include a note to his assistant.

Dear William,

Thanks so much for sending me everything. In the future it would be more helpful if you sent a note that looked like this, written on a coffee stained post it rather than intimidating business like letters.

 

Waaaaaaaazzzzup?

Ur Dad wants u to sine this.

Lates. William

 

My father’s assistant may argue that corresponding in this way isn’t professional however I am not professional, so it works.

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What Writing One Thousand Six Hundred and Sixty Seven Words a Day Is Like

At first it’s awful. Because you think you aren’t funny at all.

And then you accept not being funny. Which makes everything ok and somehow you manage to be funny again.

And then you skip a day. Which is fine, these things happen.

But then you skip another day. And you pretend that’s fine too. You can make it up on the weekend- in the words of the youth “Whatevs”.

And then the weekend arrives and you realize you have to write eight thousand words and you’re all

“This is the end of my life!”

And then you get bedsores from sitting in your kitchen chair, not moving and staring at a computer screen. So you vow never ever, ever to get behind again.

For a little while you don’t. And you even get used to writing THAT MUCH every single day, day in day out.

It becomes a thing that you do. Other people have fun lives in the evenings and you write.

But then something happens again and you miss a day. Which is ok, these things happen, it’s just sixteen hundred words, why you banged that out in under two hours last night, no biggie, break it up over a couple of days.

True to your word, you do makeup a little bit writing twenty one hundred words the next day. But then, oh that nasty life, it happens again. And suddenly you find yourself staring down the barrel of five thousand words for one weekend.

So like any good person you put it off. Until seven pm when Canada has become a cold, dark, horrible foreboding place that’s going to sit on your chest and feed you the monthly writing challenge until you cry and churn out the necessary words.

For such a polite country Canada can be a dick sometimes.

So you write words. And you don’t like them. So you write more words. And you like some of them. Then you email your friend who tells you to keep going. So you write about cupcakes because who doesn’t love cupcakes then you look at the screen and think “My God why am I writing about cupcakes?”

That’s what National Novel Writing Month is like. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get up and stretch because my butt is numb.

*I didn’t actually get bedsores. It just felt like I did. I’m fairly certain my butt has retained the shape of my wooden chairs though.