A Sign of Clip-Art To Come

So I was walking in my neighborhood this morning before work and...

Ok, ok, you can stop looking so shocked. Yes, I was walking. Yes, it was in the morning. And yes, it was before work. (And no, work does not start at noon!)

Ahem. When were you thinking you might pick your jaw up from the floor? Because I was thinking now would be a good time, so I can finish this story.

Thanks.

ANYWAY. As I was walking, I passed a telephone pole with an 8.5" x 11" piece of paper stapled to it. The sign was for pool and spa maintenance, and had the requisite phone numbers printed vertically along the bottom in little strips that had been scissored so you could tear them off easily. Above the strips was a black and white line drawing of a child in the air, looking terrified as he either jumped or fell (impossible to tell which) into the waiting arms of a man whose mouth was open in an apparent scream. Another man, who was also waist-deep in what I could only assume was the pool (but judging from their expressions, you'd have thought it was a vat of hot, flesh-melting lava), had a similar look of hellish torment on his undetailed face.

I had to read the headline again to remind myself it was pool service that was being offered and not, say, the ever-popular Vacation Getaway Package in Hades. I mean, who wouldn't want to call guys who use such persuasive images to promote their product? "Dying to get your pool fixed? We can help!"

So, my big question is, how much does Clip Art actually cost? Do these guys need to drum up some pool and spa maintenance business before they can afford any? Because if so, they might be in a little bit of trouble.

Excuses, Excuses!

After I posted my last entry, I had this revelatory thought: What am I waiting for, anyway??

So heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it looks like it's off to work I go! Yee-ha.

Until I resurface from the morass of busywork and errands that threatens to drown my beleaguered but unconquered spirit (how's that for being dramatic?), I wish you all an awesome weekend. And in the midst of all the stuff there is to be done, take some time to do a little bit of nothing. I'm quite convinced that it's good for the soul.

Take it from me--I'm an expert at doing nothing.

Hey, at least I know what I'm good at, yeah?

Oh yeah.

Undone and Waiting

Right now, there is a pile of clean laundry on my bed, waiting to be folded, and a pile of dirty laundry in a plastic basket, waiting to be taken down to the washing machine. There are piles of mail waiting to be sorted--one on the bed, one on top of a portable filing box, one scattered around on the floor next to the same filing box. There is a house waiting (probably in vain) to be cleaned. There is an envelope waiting to be taken to the post office.

There is a Beethoven sonata waiting to be practised. There is a piano composition by a woman whose name I can't remember, waiting to be started.

There are novels and stories and poems by other people waiting to be read. There are my stories, waiting to be written.

Ah, the day is slipping by so fast. I am leaving so much undone... and waiting.

Smile

So I was sitting in traffic on the way home from work, getting cranky because traffic puts me in a bad mood, when I looked up at an overpass and saw a man with a little boy on his shoulders. The little boy was waving to all the people locked away in their iron coffins below. Beside these two was a little girl with long brown hair, in a bright yellow dress. She kept jumping up and down like she couldn't imagine a more exciting view than the one she was looking at right then--miles of glinting metal cartops and flashing red brake lights as far as she could probably see.

In that moment, as I looked up at the cheerful little group on the overpass, I didn't mind that I was stuck in the inevitable Los Angeles gridlock. I didn't mind that I was exhausted, because of not getting enough sleep last night. I didn't mind that I have to wake up earlier than usual tomorrow because of a meeting at one of client's offices.*

I smiled up at the man, the boy, and the little girl as I passed beneath them, and I kept smiling as I left them behind.



*Of course, I mind that now.

Pensivity

It's nearly 1 a.m., and I can't sleep.

It's been a long couple of days. My mother had surgery on Tuesday, and is still in the hospital recovering. Everything went well, and she is doing fine. I'm not sure how I'm doing. Tired, I guess. Stressed.

I'm empty of things to say, but full of the desire to say something. The story of my life.

I'm so tired. Why won't sleep come?

Three More Weeks...

Well, the countdown is upon me. Only three more weeks until I hop on a plane to Kentucky, to do the first 10 days of my first semester in a graduate writing program.

I'm a little nervous for lots of reasons, not least of which is the fact that I apparently cannot pronounce the name of the city where I'll be staying—Louisville—correctly. I didn't even know I was saying it wrong, until I randomly met a sweet Southern lady at a friend's parents' going-away party, who kindly informed me that it isn't pronounced "Lou-ee-ville" as I thought but "Loovle" or something like that. (If I can't even WRITE it, how am I supposed to say it?! Gah.) Anyway, I dutifully repeated the word "Louisville" after her a few times, doing my best to train my barbaric say-all-the-syllables West Coast accent into something that sounded like I was swallowing my tongue. The sweet Southern lady finally said that I got it, but I think she was just being, well, sweet.

Aside from not speaking Southern, I am excited about all the attractions and activities that Louisville offers to the tourist. Not that I am going to have time for touristing, but anyplace that puts The American Printing House for the Blind at the top of their sightseeing page gets an appreciative round of applause from me. (Also the coveted Frogg Award for Excellence in Irony.)

This is going to be fun.

I Left My Heart In San Franisco!!!

If by "heart," you mean "favorite jeans EVER" and if by "San Francisco," you mean "the outer limits of the East Bay."

I cannot adequately describe my severe trauma upon unpacking my bags from the weekend trip and NOT seeing my favorite pair of jeans. Apparently I left them on the floor at becca's house. I have no idea what I am going to wear until I get them back. Oh. My. Gosh. WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?!?!

My "skinny" jeans, I guess. Thank God I still have those. Whatever would I do without them.

Besides breathe, that is.

I am so depressed.