Does everyone really get the same amount of time each day ... the same twenty-four hours? When I get to the end of each day, I am always disappointed at how little I seemed to have accomplished. I observe people whom I admire and, many times, they seem to possess the ability to get more done.
The type of person who really “gets my goat” (“gets my goat” ... from where did that come and what does it mean? Or, better yet, why did I use it?).
The internet is great ... just looked up that “gets my goat” expression and am now glad I used the expression all the more. Seems that race horses got anxious before races, so, to calm them down, the horse owners placed goats in front of each horse. Whatever works, I suppose. Anyway, in order to affect the race’s outcome, goats were stolen and horse owners were angered.
I am that race horse ... anxious to make it out of the gate ... overly competitive ... easily excited and wild. I want to go places, and I want to get there with great speed. Anything or one who gets in my way, including goat thieves, frustrate me. So, yeah, the type of person who really gets my goat is the one who seems to complete the list of tasks plus all the relational stuff and solitude.
Maybe I just read too many magazines. My ultimate phantom person is the woman living the artist’s lifestyle ... on a farm outside a major city with her husband, children, and photogenic dog. She has the time to cultivate an herb garden, gather fresh eggs from her prized chickens, and prune antique roses which don’t seem to have those black spot things all over them like mine do. She’s not Martha Stewart (I’m not into her). She’s more like Tasha Tudor the artist of my childhood book which I loved so much and which Mac ate one day for no reason.
Recently, I was reading about one such artist whose work I enjoy. Oh, and, their husbands always quit their jobs and get on board. Maybe, he’s the one getting the eggs, pruning, and such. (Pause for laughter as I close my eyes and think about my husband ... no ... that’s not a good thought ... more like a nightmare ... he can’t even keep the dogs for a weekend without me. The thought of him chasing down chickens and putting them in coops along with bloodied hands from roses popped into my head).
Anyway, this artist seemed to have it all. They always live outside of New York so they can drop by their flagship retail shop in SoHo at will. And they always go frequently to the French countryside for flea market excursions. Yet, there she is ... drinking coffee and sketching in her old- chicken- coop- turned- studio, dog at her feet. Who’s minding the cute kids? And who cooked that really good dinner on the following page?
Do we all really get the same twenty-four hours each day? I’m just wondering about this as I drink coffee with my really cute dog napping beside me, gazing out the back window of my 1920s Tudor-style house toward a huge rubbish pile from the basement cleaning and the three-quarters complete fire pit project that needs landscaping in order to be complete while contemplating my art table covered with dust.