I’m sure you won’t be surprised that someone who is immersed in historical research doesn’t know how to use the vacuum cleaner we have owned since moving back to the US.
I was repotting some seedling lemon trees early this morning. One slipped out of my hands and the potting soil went all over the kitchen floor. I didn’t want to leave a mess, so I scooped up what I could and pulled the Bissell out of the closet. Just finding the switch to turn it on took me five minutes.
My DH and I have an arrangement, a 50-50 split. One of his jobs is the floors, wet and dry cleaning. He doesn’t know how to use a washing machine and, for very good reason, I won’t let him. He, I’m sure, has his reasons for keeping me away from the dishwasher.
Similarly, I don’t mess with his music and he doesn’t mess with my writing. He’s macro and I’m micro. He’s order, I’m chaos. I leave my toys out, he puts all his away. He outlines, I am a pantser. I’ve tried working his way and failed. For certain, he could not work without a framework.
Despite all these differences, we have learned to laugh about our individual foibles and get on with our efforts. The floor is clean, the plants are back on the balcony, and all my toys are … right where I left them. After this moment of indulgence, I have other efforts to pursue.
One of those is taking a manuscript that flowed from my brain through my hand to lined paper with ink from a fountain pen and is now giving me the great pleasure of mapping the scenes in each chapter to construct the real story from all the words I’ve written.
That’s me. Make a mess and clean it up. I think they call it hands-on (kinetic) learning. Some of us are like that.
Mae’r “cwn Ebrill”* yn galw. (The “hounds of April” are calling.)