Wait. Is impulsion a word? Blam. It is now.
Almost all the good things I've ever started began with an ignorant, unplanned impulse. Hooray for unthinking activity. So ... blondish of me.
And, conversely, all the bad things .... but never mind that.
Oh, all right. DO mind it. September 3 is a good example of why my impulses should be carefully controlled:
There we were, Sunday, coughing our way through a hot, smoke-filled Willamette Valley weekend, drinking a beer, or several (that part of the story is fuzzy). I was in the kitchen processing some garden goods -- let's say it was squash -- with the radio up full blast. Led Zeppelin comes on and I'm prancing around waving my knife, reliving my youth, and then I hear the god of blues, Curtis Salgado, who is going to be at the Lincoln City Chowder and Brewfest,chowderbrewfest.com. Wahoo, I run into the living room and snatch up my computer and buy tickets. I run into my husband's office, all proud. Get on your dancing shoes honey, let's go.
I hop in the shower. The water runs over my head. As always, visions pop in my head. My best ideas are in the shower ... aren't yours? But this vision, the clear image of the ticket I just printed was jolting. I thought I saw it clearly. The date on the ticket was Sept. 9, not September 3. Damn. The chowder fest was the following Saturday.
I dried off, ran to see the ticket, there it was. Sept. 9. Crap. That's the weekend we're camping in Florence.
Here's what impulses get me: a ton of wasted time trying to sell tickets that I can't use.
On the bright side, I sold them at a deep discount to a friend, so all is well.
But, note to self: a minute of research is worth an hour of backtracking. Or, was it the beer? Nahhh.
Almost all the good things I've ever started began with an ignorant, unplanned impulse. Hooray for unthinking activity. So ... blondish of me.
And, conversely, all the bad things .... but never mind that.
Oh, all right. DO mind it. September 3 is a good example of why my impulses should be carefully controlled:
There we were, Sunday, coughing our way through a hot, smoke-filled Willamette Valley weekend, drinking a beer, or several (that part of the story is fuzzy). I was in the kitchen processing some garden goods -- let's say it was squash -- with the radio up full blast. Led Zeppelin comes on and I'm prancing around waving my knife, reliving my youth, and then I hear the god of blues, Curtis Salgado, who is going to be at the Lincoln City Chowder and Brewfest,chowderbrewfest.com. Wahoo, I run into the living room and snatch up my computer and buy tickets. I run into my husband's office, all proud. Get on your dancing shoes honey, let's go.
I hop in the shower. The water runs over my head. As always, visions pop in my head. My best ideas are in the shower ... aren't yours? But this vision, the clear image of the ticket I just printed was jolting. I thought I saw it clearly. The date on the ticket was Sept. 9, not September 3. Damn. The chowder fest was the following Saturday.
I dried off, ran to see the ticket, there it was. Sept. 9. Crap. That's the weekend we're camping in Florence.
Here's what impulses get me: a ton of wasted time trying to sell tickets that I can't use.
On the bright side, I sold them at a deep discount to a friend, so all is well.
But, note to self: a minute of research is worth an hour of backtracking. Or, was it the beer? Nahhh.