The circumstances of the week have required me to drive to work every day, so I can drive back at noon, let the dog out, and drive back to work. This really is a stupid human trick because I live 1.8 miles away from work. I can barely roll my windows down and I'm pulling into work.
This drive however has become my little bubble of bliss, my bastion of solitude, my no-think tank if you will. It is my chance to turn my music to my volume and just check out for 8 minutes at a time. I call it "8 minutes for Jim"; a time when I don't have to pick up any socks, stop the dog from tunnelling into the back of the couch, or try and remember who's turn it is to play first on the computer today. Grant me this one wish...please bury me in the Santa Fe with Casting Crowns rattling my dead old fillings. I'll need a double sized lot, but if necessary, you can compact me prior to burial. (Think Green) That truck is my favorite place on earth...at least this week it is.
So I pull up to a stoplight behind a cop today on my way back to work. The light changes and the cop doesn't move. "Should I honk?", I think to myself? My instinct almost made me. That would have made an interesting discussion I'm sure.
We had dinner at the Barretts' house tonight. Poppyseed chicken. Real Food. Mmmmm!!! When they weren't looking I stuffed some in my pockets for lunch tomorrow. A doggie pocket, so to speak. We had a great night just talking and watching the 3 crazy dogs assert their whatever for 2 hours. Lots of noise going on, but not a lot of brain neuron activity, thats for sure. Thanks to Patty and Brad for everything. It's good to have good friends to pull you through.
It was another absolute pristine day today. 73' and sunny. Good to be alive.
I cannot believe the amount of junk mail we accumulate in a week. I couldn't believe it before, when Donna just filtered my junk down to me. Near as I can tell, I have lots of money and everyone wants a take.
The most irrelevant piece of junk mail for the week was an automatic membership to the NRA, that came complete with a plastic card with my name on it. If any of you know me, you know how ludicrous this is. The instructor in my military class in high school said I needed to get my eyes checked when he saw my target from the rifle range.
Couple that with the fact that I sold my 12 guage and got golf clubs when I was 40 because I figured I could only hurt myself so much with golf clubs. (If you've seen me golf, you'd think I was swinging a 12 guage.) I've found that I've hurt myself far more with my clubs than I ever could with a stupid gun. Heck half of my trophy shots when hunting never happened because I had the saftey on. They pushed gun safety pretty hard in High School. I got an A in that part. So, needless to say the NRA will have to do without me. Sorry Charleton, you'll have to pry my sand wedge from my cold dead hands. (It's my most used club.)
I don't know where the time has gone this past week. Not enough hours in a day. There are certain items around the house that I have been meaning to pick up since Donna left. Because of my preoccupation with dogs, kids (and blogs, I'll admit), all I've had time to do is make a mental note. My thoughts are like this:
Note to self:
1. Red flip flop in corner in dining room.
2. Scoop kitty box that kids keep missing.
3. Either file away or throw away water heater brochures next to computer.
4. Give Toby a bath...he stinks.
5. How we doing on milk?
6. One of Ben's clean soccer socks is under his bed.
I could/should/will get to each of these items eventually, but am not quite sure of when at this point. Check back tomorrow. I think this is how people drive themselves insane. Petty little things like this drive out the neurons that people need to remember to get dressed before going to work, or to flush.
How is is that when I finally got to folding the laundry last night I come up with 4 odd white socks. All different, all orphans. I could almost understand 3, but 4 just seems like we have a sock issue, ya know? At least 2 of those should match, then I'd understand. I may have found a match earlier when I was sweeping up the cat litter that the dog had managed to spread between the washer and dryer. There was an orphans sock back there, but not knowing whether it was dirty or clean, I have to wash it again and as a result may never see it again. Or it will multiply itself assexually and morph into a new, 6th unmatchable style. The suspense is killing me, really.
So tonight I'm trying to get Ben to start getting ready to go to the Barretts, and he's chasing the dog around with a harmonica sending him into a terrier frenzy that is only curable through veterinary exorcism. I mean, I can't make this stuff up, man. This makes the Simpsons look well adjusted.
Well, I'd better get back to the killing some healthy neurons. Believe it or not this blog is almost therapeutic. If I could type it laying down on a couch, I'd be in business. (There's that money maker I've always wanted.)
So all, it looks like I'm going to make it to Sunday, though we do need milk...