I hold out until the end of the day to write. I’m tired and uninspired, and the threat of my midnight deadline ticks pointedly at me from the clock in the corner of my laptop.
After listening to an episode of “Smartless” with Conan O’Brien as a guest, I’m inspired to start a video podcast with my friends Reid and Paul. Something about the show hosts’ intimacy, their inside jokes, and realness reminds me of the interactions the three of us had on our podcast. And from the first go-around’s mistakes, we know each other’s emotional safety needs.
Paul’s in. Now, all I need is Reid. I think we should start it up at the end of summer, let’s say September.
I’d like to add a segment of loud appliances in the background, even for a minute per show. The amount of giggles my friend Travis and I had on a video call when I made my espresso, and it was louder than an active construction site, means it’s a tested successful comedy bit.
The ideas and possibilities for the show are endless—the guests, the topics, and even how the guys and I could create fun backdrops.
Back to my ongoing conversation on moving stuff. Today, a cheerleader arrived in the form of my good friend Lindsay to push Dave and me. Even when I took a phone call outside the sliding glass door, I could see her working hard, sitting cross-legged on the cream tile floor, holding things up for Dave’s vote on.
After a whole trunk load to the dump and a couple of boxes packed for the move, I feel like a balloon filling with helium. Lighter and lighter.
Hopefully, my brother will make it over tomorrow to go through boxes of our mom and grandma’s hand-me-downs and other family heirlooms. I’m not attached to most of it, but what if my brother doesn’t want it? More Goodwill donations, I suppose.
Why am I not sentimental about physical items? Ok, it’s not that I’m not. It’s just, there’s a threshold. Like the more items there are, the less I care about things. So, my fondness for them is immense if I have ten to twenty. Twenty or more is a meh.
Long ago, I was gifted my mom’s diamond necklace. It meant a lot to me and, in some way, connected me to her even after she died. But I lost it. I thought it was under the seat in my 1996 green Ford Escort. But after repeatedly looking for weeks in every crevice, I had to give up and accept that it was gone—and that she was gone.
I’m twiddling my thumbs on what else to write about. I guess that’ll suffice for now. Take care.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 