Last weekend, bedridden with the beginnings of my pinched nerve (still struggling here), I nestled up with my left arm above my head shifting between an ice pack and a heating pad, and busied my right arm with books and two digital paintings inspired by scenes around Fairfield.

The one I showed the beginnings of in a recent post about patriotism, was of Firehouse Deli in Downtown Fairfield.

The other I created of a hometown hero, our resident sign spinner, Ryan of Candlewood Market.

What bores you?

writing prompt #1856

How could I ever get bored?! I learned how to paint in bed, like Frida Khalo before me.

Not a thing bores me. Bored is a word with implications of entitlement. When I hear that something bores you, I hear that you had expectations of being entertained that were not met. I have no such expectations.

I feel uninterested when people talk about certain topics, and I see myself out of the conversation. I’m not bored. When I slept too much the night before a lash appointment and I’m alone with my thoughts for an hour with my eyes closed, I consider those thoughts and my breathing and use the moment for meditation. Still not bored.

After I was already a mother myself, another TV parent adopted me: Betty Draper. She worded the sentiment best: