This morning I was eating breakfast, trying to get ready for work, and I heard the sound of two vehicles colliding.  Then a car alarm.  Then, very soon, emergency vehicles, several of them in quick succession.  It sounded like the car accident I had two weeks ago.  Flashback time.  Not a good way to start the day, but then, neither was being really hung over, or crying in my boss’s office because I hate the “new exciting job thing” that they gave me.  I am having a really hard time staying organized and on top of an ever-changing nebulous job description- a moving target, if you will.

 

The consolation prize  for the job is that I get an office with a window and a different mix of coworkers. 

 

The consolation prize for the car accident is that I got my car back on Friday, sort of wrinkled, a permanent reminder that the accident was my own fault.

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Portentious of bad news received near the end of the day, I had a horrible time at work, all day.  I was just cranky for no particular reason.  Phones were ringing way too often and I was fighting hard to get organized and do some problem-solving, trying to get a new project started (not my choice, but something that was forced on handed to me and I am excited about- just not today).  Unfortunately, though, it has no buy-in from my co-workers that already hate work, and this change is disruptive to them as well.  Today was especially hard.  This new project pulls me out of the mix of our group work.

 

 We have a group of clients that meets monthly for a support group and I have been making the reminder calls.  Last month, one of the people on the list never answered the phone.  This month, his phone was disconnected.  (These things are not unexpected from our clients.)  I hoped he would remember…it’s always at the same bat time, same bat channel.

 

This particular person was not someone I knew well.  He- if I remember correctly-  collected cans on the street for money (can collectors and other people who keep the streets clean occupy a special place in my heart).  He may have been a little slow mentally, but was very insightful in certain ways; patient, kind.  He helped others- the group benefited from his presence.  He served as a mentor for children in his neighborhood- a sorely needed role model- an older man with a good heart.  I had had few interactions with him, but he had a certain special something that I can’t put into words.  Maybe like an aura.  What does make one person different from another, anyway?

 

I found out very near the end of the day that he had died.  I don’t know why I feel so incredibly, disproportionately sad at this news.  I don’t bond with people easily.   His corner – our corner- of the world had lost something dear and rare.

 

The person who told me this bad news said with a non-characteristic tenderness, “He was a gentle soul.”  That was the same thing I was thinking.   There was nothing else to say; I went back to my not-very-private work area and cried.  That’s all.  No words.  Only tears.

…key hygiene steps.

 

Today it was deodorant.

Jack avatar

Apparently he is not a sprite after all (note the lack of wings).  He is an elf.  I am glad that I have been alerted to this incompatibility.  Look how happy he is, though, smoking underneath the magic mushroom.  And when Jack is happy, I am happy.

 

I drew this picture years ago and just found it in a pile of old papers and craft supplies in the basement.  It does look kind of ancient and runic, no?  Like something found in a battered leather-bound tome?   OK, I’m just really disorganized and delusional.  But I wanted to share it.  I hope it brings a bit of delight to your day.

I’m honestly asking!

I’m kind of a hoarder and so many things just defy classification. You know…shoes go in the “shoe place”, cans of sardines go in the “cans of sardines place.” Hair doodads have their own (big) bag. But…man. This coconut bra has me stumped. I haven’t been invited to a luau for two years (although it’s a great vowel dump as a Scrabble play, so technically my rack (PUN!) has invited me to several since then. (Ever had a rack full of “U?” “I” follows me around too. I sense a bad Scrabble Club pickup line.)

 

History would seem to indicate that the way to get oneself invited to a luau (or anything else) is to get rid of the perfect outfit for it. That’s the real reason that Russ Feingold didn’t get elected president: because I still have the dress I planned to wear to his inauguration (it is a formal;  deep blue. Perfect.) Honestly, though, that is how it goes: whenever I have gotten rid of any of my hoardings, the opportunity and need for that item has soon arisen (although, I got rid of a box Sharpied “Bible Outfits” and still have yet to get cast as Mary from Jesus Christ Superstar).  So my entire theory  paranoia could be completely off-base.

Hoarding, I must say, has both advantages and disadvantages.  Sartorially, I am prepared for just about anything.  The bigger question is, will I be able to find the item in question?

So, help me out here: whither the coconut bra?