It feels like I need to catch up, to get doing stuff Right Now, to make my mark on the world as soon as possible, but it also feels like it might be too late already.

Sometimes I get this feeling when I’m working at a show where the exhibitors have creative or crafty items. I see all the things they’re selling, and I see how they’ve done it — they’ve taken the plunge and are making and selling their Stuff. They had enough confidence to actually go out on a limb and make it happen. And I see things that I could have done myself, and things I wish I could do, and things I can’t believe people pay money for. And it makes me sad, because I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to ever make that leap.

Sometimes this feeling comes when I’m surfing the web, reading blogs, browsing on Etsy, and it’s pretty much the same. People are actually out there making a living from their writing, or from their crafting. And even if they’re not making tons of money, they’re still doing it. They’re not making excuses, waiting for the time to be right, or dwelling on their own inner demons. They’re just doing it.

Along with the sadness that accompanies the fear that I’ll never do any of this is a sense of total overwhelmedness (if that’s not a word, it should be). There are too many options. Everyone says you have to find a niche, but how do you decide? How do you write about photography and exclude pet care and craft ideas and personal experiences and education and shopping and Shakespeare? How do you make jewelry out of soldered glass and just stay away from shrinky dinks and recycled items, and sewing and shadowboxes and calligraphy and the nine billion other things I want to make?

I am not made to be niched. If I were to have a ‘focused’ blog, that would mean I’d have to have a dozen blogs, or maybe more. One on every topic.

Short Attention Span Girl isn’t just a semi-clever title that happened to be available as a domain name. It’s me. My brain is a-swirl with possibilities and ideas and  regrets about how much of my life I’ve already wasted not doing the millions of things I want to do.

So I guess I’ll just have to do one thing at a time and try not to let it make me crazy.

A Short Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, “Will you marry me?”

The guy said “No” and the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a clean house, never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes and handbags, stayed skinny, and was never farted on.

The end.

(I have so many items to add to that list, starting with ‘never had to make mindless chatter with in-laws’ and ’spent her money on craft supplies and books instead of Xbox games and barbecue utensils,’ but that would go on for a very long time, so I’ll just leave it as it was originally sent to me (from my sister, by the way).)

(But maybe that will be a future post.)

Well, not really a big fear. And I’m not sure I totally overcame it. But I took a step, and I guess that’s good. And enough.

I ate alone in a restaurant with a folding menu.

I’m doing a show in Portland, so I’m eating on the expense account money. This is usually a problem, because I’m afraid to eat alone in a real restaurant that serves real food, so I end up getting fast food, which is bad. But I determined before this trip that I would bite the bullet and sit by myself at a table in a restaurant that had a folding menu instead of a light-up menu. A place that took your order at the table rather than at the counter.

And today I did it. Granted, it was Denny’s, but it still counts.

Next step will be to dine solo in a restaurant whose folding menu is not laminated. I’m toying with the idea of trying the hotel restaurant, but I’m not sure if I want to go overboard all in one day.

Plus, I’ve been annoyingly un-hungry lately. The thought of eating is vaguely repellant most of the time, but I know I have to eat or I’ll get a huge headache. Or even worse, I feel hungry but at the same time feel like I’ll hurl if I eat anything. Sure, this is better than the times when I’m famished every hour, at least better for my waistline, but it’s so frustrating.

Maybe I’m just un-hungry when it comes to the options I have available to me. If I had a personal chef to whip up exactly what I wanted, I’m sure I’d think of something I felt like eating. But when I imagine the kinds of foods I’ll likely find at various establishments within walking distance, blech.

Specifically, I want an Outback salad. And an Outback baked potato. And some Spaghetti Factory broccoli. And maybe some cream of mushroom soup, from a can.

But I digress. At some point this evening, I’ll have to decide on a place to eat, and I don’t wanna. But maybe I’ll have the courage to sit there by myself and eat rather than getting it to-go.

I’m going to eat that taco, and I’m going to live to tell about it.

But that’s not all.

Then I’m going to travel around, eating at all the taco buses I can find, and write a comparative study on the subject.

Then the world won’t be so afraid of taco buses. Maybe I’ll even get a government grant. I’ll write articles about it. Then books. Speak before the United Nations. And of course I’ll get tax-deductible trips to Mexico for research purposes.

Taco bus franchisees will line up around the block to thank me for causing their sales to skyrocket.

The smell of refried beans will spread to all corners of the earth and soar to the heavens. The juice of pico de gallo will fill the halls of justice and stain the ancient monoliths with its piquant glory.

I will be worshiped by connoisseurs of Mexican cuisine, and they will carve my initials in their bumpers and their chests. I will be known as the savior of taco buses everywhere, and the whole world will know of the good I have done.

Just you wait.

So I have an affinity for people whose parents have sent them out into the world with an oddly spelled name. It’s like we’re all part of a little club. The knowing glances, the sympathetic nods, the secret handshake.

Sometimes we relish the uniqueness of our names, projecting that onto a certain uniqueness of personality. Certainly, someone named Erynn or Jorja wouldn’t deign to go through life as a tax assessor or professor of comparative botany.

But then there are times when it’s just inconvenient to have such an unusually spelled name. It’s not the same as having a wholly unusual name, like Devinia or K’nesha. Names like that automatically come with a spelling query. There’s no ‘normal’ equivalent. But when your name sounds like a real name, it adds a level of frustration. Souvenir keychains and coffee mugs are almost right, but not quite.

Names written in restaurant hostess lists are almost right, but not quite. Written communications from passing acquaintances, and sometimes even family members, are almost right, but not quite. It’s a special kind of limbo for people whose parents got some creative ants in their pants around the time to sign the birth certificate.

Having a job that requires me to wear a nametag, besides being humiliating for someone with a master’s degree and actual professional skills, brings the weirdness of my name’s spelling into the forefront all the time. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say when someone comments, “That’s an unusual way to spell your name.” I usually just nod. If they’re friendly and seem interested, I tell them the story behind my name.

But really. Do they think I don’t realize how my name is spelled? Do they think I could have made it through 32 years of life without having noticed that my name isn’t spelled like other people’s names? I suppose they could just be making polite conversation, but it gets old.

Incidentally, my particular name anomaly is mentioned in an article about the evils of bestowing odd names on helpless children.

The author seems to think that weird names will make people grow up to be hermits or psychopaths or republicans. But I bet it’s just because her name is Susan or something. At least those of us with crazy names can find ourselves in the phone book.