I think it’s my Gen X genes that make me think fondly of potpourri. It was a display staple made up of colourful, perfumed mixes of dried pinecones, twigs, flowers, and botanicals, displayed in various bowls and urns. Country kitchen design choices had a moment across most of North America during the nineteen-eighties, especially in urban areas.

In my opinion, we develop a lot of our beliefs, opinions, and habitual behaviours during our teen years, not only in socio-political arenas, but in areas of design and decor. I find that my teenaged imprinting can be hard to shake.

I’ve evolved from admiring the wall-to-wall carpeting that was so popular back then, and I never did like the wallpapered statement wall, but my placed decor often seems to echo the eighties, despite the complete absence of neon.

I even have the ubiquitous, decorative bowl sitting in the centre of my dining table, so popular back in the day, though I replaced the flower-and-leaf potpourri of old with a more modern stick-and-raffia version. I had to do something – I love that bowl.

I remain similarly fond of that decade’s affection for the popcorn ceiling – the subdued, rolled-on version, not the insane stalactite-style that had a moment. Smooth ceiling look lovely in magazines, but they also need regular dusting, and they don’t do nearly as good a job at dampening sound.

Though if someone wanted to gift me something in a coffered tin, I probably wouldn’t say “no.”

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I’ve not been very present in my blogging. In my defence, I’ve not been very present anywhere. I am struggling some with my depression of late, and my apathy level is high, which means I accomplish very little that isn’t lateral movement.

I’d prefer to wallow, but there are numerous pending personal demands that I’m unable to ignore or offload, so up by the bootstraps it is. Luckily, this isn’t my first rodeo. Step one is always the same: level my nervous system off, and try to get back to a functional baseline so I can respond in an appropriate manner when the shoes finally drop.

More from the bad news column is that I don’t need carpal tunnel surgery. It’s bad news because the serious pain and difficulty in functioning is coming from the arthritis in my right hand. There’s no surgical fix available. On the bright side, I also have arthritis in the left. I also managed to throw out my back while gardening. I’m starting to wonder if your fifties aren’t just careening from insult to injury for a decade.

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I’ve been watching Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle on a semi-regular basis. I find it very funny, and I tend to the already-watched and read when I’m struggling. It’s easier, and easy is necessary when one is trying to get back into the business of doing.

I grabbed my copy of Nora Roberts’ The Obsession yesterday, and started that as well. It’s one of my gateway books: I like it, and it gets me back into the reading habit in an easy way. Success breeds success: trying to free myself from depression’s enervating clutches isn’t going to happen if I’m slogging through Eliot or Dostoyevsky, though pride and arrogance sometimes have me attempting them or their like.

I have a bad habit of trying to run before I walk. It’s probably from those impatient, elephant in a china shop genes that so often prove an annoyance.

Patience is a virtue; it’s just not one of mine.

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