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Monthly Archives: September 2011

Day #164: Bit by the Negativity Bug

The Story:

“God, they are everywhere!” Pete groaned as he slapped at his arm. “I’m going to look like I have the freaking chicken pox by the end of the night…grrrr,” he moaned loudly before going back to his work.

“Well, keep the door shut then, crazy,” Jo, Pete’s girlfriend yelled from the back of the house. Walking back to where Pete was working on his poster board presentation for tomorrow’s Management class, Jo went to the French doors left open behind him and closed them. There, now those pesky ’ol mosquitoes will leave your delicate skin alone,” Jo said in a playfully childlike tone, hoping to burst the negative bubble Pete had resided in for the past few days.

“Whatever. They’re already all over the house,” he replied sulkily. Sighing, Jo returned to folding laundry in the back of the house. Pete always seemed to get this way when he had a big project coming up, why should this time be any different? “Just gonna have to ride it out, I guess,” she thought to herself.

Finishing her laundry, Jo walked into the kitchen and began preparing dinner. The music from Pete’s computer was blaring something particularly annoying but she barely registered the offensive tune until,

“Ugh, what is this??? Must be your music,” Pete shouted from where he was bent over his poster.

“Don’t answer, just ignore him… he’s just stressed,” Jo mumbled to herself as she waited for a pot of water to boil. Remembering the old adage about watching water boil, Jo decided to check in with her beloved to see his progress and sprinkle some hopefully helpful positive remarks on his work. “Looks great, babe,” she said over Pete’s shoulder as she looked over the display.

“It’s all smudged, it looks terrible,” Pete said flatly. So much for her ‘positivity sprinkling’ attempt. Sighing for possibly the 8,509,006 time that day, Jo returned to her boiling water, which sadly, was much more receptive to her attentions than her boyfriend currently was.

Sitting down to Pete’s favorite meal of spaghetti and meatballs, Jo hoped that Pete would be able to relax long enough to enjoy a home-cooked meal before returning to his project (and foul mood). She more than hoped as Pete’s negativity was beginning to affect her and turn her usual sunny disposition murky and despondent.

“Bleck, this tastes like crud,” he complained between chews.

Shock was not the right word. Anger wasn’t right either. The emotion evoked in Jo as she stared at her typically loving and sweet boyfriend brooding over his spaghetti could only be described as shocknger.

“That’s it!” Jo screamed as she threw down her fork, splattering a fine mist of spaghetti sauce over the entire table. “I’m so sick of you bitching about every little thing! I get it- you’re stressed, but guess what? I don’t care! That’s right! I don’t care that everything seems to be getting on your last nerve or that nothing seems to be working out right. Your attitude is for the birds, its wearing me down and I’m sick of it. And then, to complain about food that I went to the trouble of cooking for you?!? Freaking unbelievable,” Jo finished in a huff.

Staring at his usually reserved and patient girlfriend, Pete was speechless for, perhaps, the first time in recent memory. Upon reflection, he guessed he had been complaining quite a bit more than usual. “Better apologize before she decides to dump the spaghetti on my head,” he thought. Just as Pete opened his mouth to apologize, a strange look suddenly altered his features and before Jo knew it, Pete had collapsed on the ground.

“Oh my God, Pete!” Jo screamed rushing from her side of the table to where Pete was sprawled on the floor. Unable to solicit a response, Jo grabbed her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Fluttering his eyes open, Pete looked around the room, attempting to comprehend where he was- which was especially difficult with the headache that felt like a small garden gnome was attempting to hollow out his skull to make it his new home. “Ugh, my head,” Pete’s voice sounded strange to his ears as his brought his hand up to cradle his head.

“Pete!” a voice from the far side of the room rang out.

“I know that voice,” Pete said with surging emotion, unsure exactly, why his girlfriend’s voice had elicited the strong reaction. “Where am I? What happened?” he managed to say while still trying to choke back tears.

“Oh babe, I’m so glad you are ok!” Jo was embracing him and shedding her own tears. Lifting a little off of Pete to look him in the eyes she continued. “When you collapsed on the floor like that, I thought… I thought I might have lost you,” she was hardly able to voice the last few words and collapsed in his arms again, slamming him back against the hospital bed with noticeable force. Pete’s arms felt weak, like the strength it took to embrace Jo was the equivalent of benching three times his weight. “How long have I been here?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Two weeks and three days,” Jo said with tears still in her voice. “The doctors didn’t know what was the cause of your deterioration at first, it took them several days before they discovered what you were suffering from. Turns out, those mosquitoes you were complaining about? Well, apparently some of them are a carrier for this mutated strain of malaria that is sweeping across the south. I had never heard of it, but when they asked me about your behavior leading up to your collapse they became convinced that you had been infected. They claimed the most indicative symptom is extreme agitation and expressions of negativity,” Jo finished carefully.

Pete thought about all he had just learned. New form of malaria? More than two weeks unconscious in a hospital bed? It almost too much for his thumping brain to handle. Finally, looking up at Jo with a smug grin and a glimmer in his eye, Pete said, “Sounds like I was bit by the negativity bug”.

Trying not to give Pete the satisfaction of a laugh, Jo bit her lip before replying, “Well, I should have known something was wrong. I mean come on, my spaghetti is freaking awesome”.

Jo liked to think the Flying Spaghetti Monster smiled each time she cooked that most sacred of meals...

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Someone in our house has been bit by the negativity bug (hint: it ain’t me). Poor Andy, he gets so stressed every time he works on a feature he swears he’ll never do it again… until the next one. Unfortunately (for me) when Andy gets stressed, he has the less-than appealing tendency to complain… a lot. Today is one of those days. Now I, by no means, am immune to this same affliction, truth be told, I can be worse than him, but today- good God man, put a cork in it! I love him, so I’m willing to tolerate this (for short bursts of time) and thankfully the man is smart enough not to complain about my cooking, (for surely flames would burst from my eye sockets and instantly incinerate him should he be so careless). He’s probably going to read this now and complain about me writing about his complaining… tough cookies, I’m willing to take the risk.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #163: Clean as a Smokestack

The Story:

“Whew!” Dorothy said as she collapsed on the couch. On the parallel couch, her husband, Rodger, looked up from his laptop as it was obvious his wife desired some kind of attention. He waited to see what the cause of her exclamation might be.

“I just scrubbed that dang bathroom from top to bottom, I’m beat!” she said, a little out of breath. A bead of sweat cascaded down her hairline and fell onto her collarbone.

“That’s great honey, I know you’ve been trying to get to it for a few days now,” Rodger smiled and, believing his husbandly duty done, returned his attention to the computer screen.

Allowing herself to sink further down on the couch and then tilting over to a horizontal position she believed better reflected her fatigue, Dorothy waited for her husband to notice her again. Finally, after almost five minutes of his ever-astounding obtuseness, Dorothy sat up and said, “Will you go look at it?”.

Rodger stifled an annoyed sigh and looked up from his computer. “You want me to go look at the bathroom?” he said with as much restraint as he could manage. Sometimes his wife completely baffled him.

Nodding, Dorothy shot him a look that reminded him of how his youngest sister, Connie, used to look at their father when she wanted something when they were children.  And, just like his father had with his sister, Rodger felt his reason dissipate as the stronger desire to please his wife took front and center. “Of course babe, I bet is a gleaming beacon of cleanliness and uh… and prettiness?” Rodger had never really been good with compliments… at least he was trying though. Dorothy had been the first female he had met that actually made him want to try at all that sensitivity hookity-muck.

Putting his laptop on the coffee table, Rodger stood up and, after pecking a quick kiss to the top of Dorothy’s head, disappeared down the hallway and into the master bathroom. Expecting him to take a quick inventory and reemerge a minute or two later, Dorothy grew curious after her husband failed to return after a good fifteen minutes. Wondering what on earth he could be doing back there, Dorothy scooted off the couch and as she walked towards the bathroom called, “Rodger dodger? Hellooooo… what are you doing back here?”.

Just as she rounded the corner, Rodger jumped out of the bathroom and blocked her way. “What is going on back here?” Dorothy asked suspiciously, trying to peek over his shoulder and into the bathroom.

“Ummm… nothing, what, uh… what do you mean?” Rodger replied unconvincingly as he tried to hide a soiled paper towel behind his back. Folding her arms and pegging him with a ‘yeah right’ stare, Dorothy skirted past him and stopped abruptly at the threshold of what had been her just-cleaned bathroom.

“What in the world happened in here?!?” Dorothy screamed. While a portion of the floor and sink had been recently wiped down, her husbands’ efforts no doubt, the rest of the master bathroom was covered with dirty smudges- the floor, the tub, even the mirror hanging about the sink had been sullied.

“Uh, well sweetie,” Rodger said from behind her left shoulder, “we must have left the bedroom window open and it looks like Smokestack had some fun in the mud from last nights’ rain and, well, I guess he decided to clean off in here” he said hesitantly. Smokestack, their ten-year-old cat, so named not only because of his sooty coloring and amber eyes, but also because of his habit of rolling in dirt, mud, sand- anything really, had really outdone himself this time. Looking closer, sure enough, Dorothy could make out little kitty paw prints among the grimy streaks.

“I don’t know, I kinda like it like this,” Rodger joked and gave his wife an affectionate nudge. “It’s got that whole, what’s the phrase, lived in feel, don’t you think?” He finished with a chuckle. Husband and wife shared a laugh at that and then, both grabbing a sponge, set to work erasing Smokestack’s handiwork.

Remember this? Now we're even. ~ Smokestack

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Finally! Something off of my To-Do list! My bathroom is now so sparkling, so shiny, so clean I almost wanted to take a few pictures of it… almost (I mean, it is a bathroom after all). After scrubbing and wiping and vacuuming and mopping and scrubbing some more (Soap scum is a bitch) my master bath is now clean. Not only that, I actually went the extra mile and organized it, ooooo, ahhhhh…. Well, just as I was finishing up the shower and returning the cleaning products, I returned to find my moments-ago spotless sink covered in some sort of brown residue. Upon closer inspection, I came face to face with the culprit- a moth. The poor little critter had somehow found his way inside and in swan dive of sorts came to his end in my sink… after much flapping around apparently since my sink was covered in brown smudges from his wings as he plinked off the sides of the porcelain. Normally, I would feel really bad for the doomed insect, but after spending hours scouring every inch of that bathroom, let’s just say Sam was not in a very sympathetic mood. The incident got me thinking, and thanking my stars that it wasn’t something bigger (or nastier) than a little brown moth. Easy enough to clean up at least. Next up on the list… laundry. Le sigh.

At least it wasn't this thing.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #162: It Was Eye Popping

The Story:

Peering closer to the monitor, Stella rested her chin in the crooked palm of her left hand as she scrolled through the finer details of the newest policy update. God, how she deplored the jargon of administrators- as if they had nothing better to do then push around their hollow words and concoct new crackpot ‘vision statements’ to further remind the plebeians they lorded over that they ‘cared’.

Pfffht… Stella wished she could just delete the document filling her computer screen but it had recently become her responsibility to read and then inform her department of such ‘updates’ handed down by corporate. At that moment Jack, one of the traveling salesmen who had been temporarily assigned to the office next door peeked in her office doorway. “Are your eyes ok?” he asked to the instant and obvious confusion of Stella to which he quickly continued, “It’s just that every time I walk by I see you staring at that screen. I don’t know how blood isn’t pouring from your sockets!” Jack began to chuckle a little at his attempt at humor. He quickly swallowed that inclination however, as he watched Stella’s face contort from its initial look of confusion to one of unmistakable wide-eyed terror.

Caught off gaurd by Stella’s dramatic reaction, Jack quickly mumbled a parting phrase and shuffled into his office. “Perhaps the imagery was a bit too gory for her…” he wondered to himself. Shrugging it off, he delved into his presentation for the upcoming sales exhibition- Jack was never one to linger on a subject he didn’t immediately understand. It made him feel stupid and Jack had no patience for stupidity, especially his own.

Relaxing a little in her chair now that Jack was safely in his own office, Stella immediately opened the top drawer of the desk and after a few seconds produced her small, pink hand mirror. Jumping up to flick on the fluorescents in her office (she never turned on the lights, preferring the dark to the harsh lighting produced by the buzzing tubes above) and after closing her office door brought the mirror to her face. Staring at her reflection, Stella looked for anything that may alert to something wrong with her appearance. Despite being a bit pale, everything looked as it should and Stella eventually put the hand mirror away after several more minutes’ inspection. Heaving a sigh of relief, Stella thought she had better take the rest of the day off just to be on the safe side. She doubted she could get very much more work done anyway in her current state of mind thanks to Jack’s comment.

Arriving home without further incident, Stella walked to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Eli’s Root Beer, using the hem of her shirt to twist off the cap. Taking a long pull from the bottle, she let out a satisfied belch, “that’s how you know it’s good” she said to the empty house- a phrase her younger and burping enthusiast brother had always announced after an especially large belch.

Taking her beverage with her to the bathroom, Stella set the bottle down on the sink counter with a delicate ‘clink’ and turned on the water. Waiting for it to heat up a bit, she splashed her face and scrubbed off the day’s makeup with a gentle facial scrub, breathing in its lovely citrus scent. Patting her face dry with a hand towel, Stella fetched her root beer and returned to the kitchen. She also grabbed a large bottle of saline from the hallway closet on her way.

Rummaging in the far cupboard, she pulled out a small Tupperware container and matching red lid. Setting it down on the countertop, Stella reached for the saline and filled the container three fourths of the way full. Then, as casual as you like, placing a bit of pressure just below the socket of her right eye with two fingers Stella popped out her eyeball as if it were a gumball and dropped it into the saline. She repeated the process with her left eyeball. Snapping the lid shut, Stella walked the container to the fridge and placed it on the second shelf, right next to the sour cream and Pillsbury pie crusts. Massaging her empty sockets, Stella sighed contentedly, “Ahh… much better”.

Binoculars, you're doing it wrong.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      I am a slave to the computer. From 8am to 5pm, Monday to Friday I can usually be found in my dark office (I abhor fluorescents and am not altogether unconvinced they are not the root of all evil) with my nose about four inches from the glow of my computer screen. Not to mention the 2+ hours I spend pecking away at my laptop each and every night gallantly forging on in my pledge to blog. So, it came as little surprise today when one of the faculty members, as he was walking by my office, made comment on my usual hunched position saying something to the effect of, “how are your eyes not bleeding?!?”. I kinda laughed and made some noncommittal reply like, “oh, I just pluck them out when I get home and give them a good soaking” (honestly, who says stuff like that??? Me… that’s who.). I’m slightly inclinded to believe my bizarre reply has something to do with how the faculty members I work with find it bizarre somehow (and they do) that I am always in front of my computer. Um… guys, it’s not by choice, I assure you… it’s sorta part of the job. Just saying.

TWO:    As a soda addict, unreformed, I was elated when Andy came home from the grocery recently with hands down the best dang root beer I’ve ever tasted (from a bottle anyway). Cap’t Eli’s Root Beer is something to be savored, something to be swooshed slowly around in the mouth before allowing your stomach contents the pleasure of marinating in its deliciousness.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #161: Too Tired to Think of a Title

The Story:

Four or five “We’ll need a few more minutes, sorry”.

One hastily ordered entrée, I’ll have the eh, uh… steak thingy… yeah that one (turned out to be pretty dang tasty).

Three glasses of pinot grigio sipped slowly- drained a good deal earlier than the conversation.

One waitress who performed an impressive disappearing act around hour two.

At least three “hold that thought, I gotta pee”.

Eight or more stories that began with “So what ever happened to…?”

An entire childhood, two in fact, to reminisce about.

12 years too long between chats.

      days until our next get together?

Dear Jess, please don't hate me for dusting these off... mkay thanks.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Sorry guys, but I’m gonna make this one short and sweet since the majority of my energy has been devoted to a long awaited reunion with a high school friend that I haven’t seen… well, since high school. Since the days we used to be inseparable, since the days we played in her parents game room, talked about boys till we couldn’t think of anything else to say, the days where we learned about Biggie Smalls being shot down and we went to my first concert (The Wallflowers, thank you very much). It was awesome catching up with her, I mean we basically lived at each other’s houses, and talking about all those people from the past that made up our world when we were 15 -18 years old. Needless to say, we had a lot to talk about and unfortunately, due to adult (gag me with a pitchfork) responsibilities had to cut short (after only three hours, can you believe it?!?). Anywho, I hope this is the first of many reunions, and Jess- see you soon?

Ah... such innocence, such youth...

Love & Squirrels.

Day #160: Colette in Crisis

The Story:

Cramped into the tiny space, Colette adjusted her aching knees, trying futilely to find a comfortable position. How long had she been in here? Time seemed to stretch out and away from her like ripples of heat rising off blacktop when viewed from a distance. She knew one thing though, if she didn’t get out of here and soon, she was going to lose it.

As if being imprisoned in this metal deathtrap wasn’t enough she was surrounded by thousands of people, going about their business of enjoying their freedom, completely ignorant to her plight. Colette had tried to call out to them, signal them somehow to solicit help but all her efforts were short-lived and complete failures. No one looked, no one saw. They just zoomed past, completely absorbed in whatever errand forced them on towards innumerable destinations. Colette tried to shut it all out, pretend that she was under the covers in her bed, safe and warm with cold feet being the worst of her troubles. She could almost feel the soft pile of her worn cotton sheets against her cheek before a back spasm catapulted her back to her desperate reality. At least she was able to maneuver her arm enough to rub the arch of her back and somewhat alleviate the pain- thank God for small miracles, and all that.

The metal box that was her prison was noticeably growing hotter with each passing minute- or hour; the two were interchangeable at this point. Having stripped down to just her cotton camisole, Colette leaned closer to the vent that allowed in a little air from the outside world. Swallowing the urge to spew at the stink of putrid air that greeted her nostrils, Colette steeled herself and after a few seconds was able to take in the cooler air, the smell of rot and wet city was almost pleasant now.

Suddenly, Colette was keenly aware that she was no longer alone. Had her captor returned? The thought sat on her brain like an olive skewered to the top of a muffuletta. If they had come back, would she be released or would her tortured be continued in some new unimaginable fashion? The possibilities instantly overloaded her already fatigued mind. A shadow by the door, the handle began to move… Colette could only wait.

“Hey honey, sorry that took so long. For some reason they didn’t have the order I phoned in, so I had to reorder everything, and of course there was a line…anyway, let’s get outta here so we can chow down on some barbeque, what do you say?” Colette’s mother smiled at her as she climbed into the driver’s seat after depositing their takeout in the backseat. After abandoning her in this Volvo-shaped tomb for at least 20 minutes, her mother’s ‘cheery’ demeanor paired with the drool-inducing smell of barbeque that now filled the car was obviously some kind of ploy to win the girl’s trust. Colette just shrugged- best to remain noncommittal in these delicate situations. No doubt her diabolical birth-giver intended to regain Colette’s trust only to dash it against the pavement later in another subversive fashion not slightly removed from outright torture. Cruel woman.

Driving out of the restaurant’s parking lot and into traffic, Colette’s mother whistled along to some vile tune being disgorged from the Volvo’s speakers allowing Colette time to reflect on what horrors might await her once they arrived home, green beans from the can? cleaning out Sniggles’ litter box? emptying the dishwasher?!? Colette shuddered at the possibilities.

Stop being so dramatic, you'll stunt your growth.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      A curse upon cars, the lot of them! After spending my entire evening inside one, trapped as it were- I can honestly say that if I were picked up in my sleep tonight and moved to a locale where there were no cars, or at least fewer of the dumb things I would hug my abductor and never leave such a wondrous place.  Ok, I’m being a little dramatic, but after riding/driving around on Orlando streets during a four-hour thunderstorm, surrounded by the soft-headed sock-puppets that are Orlando drivers I was so wound up by the time I got home I felt like I had just endured some kind of trauma. While I wasn’t trapped and actually elected to ride along/drive tonight, being stuck in a car from 5pm to 9pm and only going approximately 10 miles in any direction took its toll. The story is how I imagine a very dramatic pre-teen cataloging her ‘imprisonment’ in such a situation as her mother runs some errands about town.

That's a great idea... if you're suicidal (Orlando drivers can barely spell bicycle, let alone notice one as they careen down the road 20 miles over the speed limit... just sayin)

TWO:    One of our stops was at 4Rivers Smokehouse in Winter Park, have to keep mama happy while she’s riding shotgun- a bottle of Cheerwine and some fried pickles are definitely one way to do that. Nom… nom… nom… nom….burp!

Love & Squirrels.

Day #159: Shopping for Death

The Story:

“It has 126 store fronts, one major food court with 10 other food or coffee stands throughout the mall. We boast a ten screen movie theater, playing first-run films and we just celebrated the grand opening of a 16-lane bowling alley and arcade. Every Sunday and Monday night we play the major NFL game of the day on a giant projector screen in the food court, and of course let’s not forget the jewel of the entire mall- the small replica of the famous Eiffel Carousel that has been operating in this mall for the last thirty years,” Harrison said with obvious pride as he swept his right arm in front of the twinkling glow of hundreds of lights and the regimented parade of carousel ponies.

The group of seven Harrison was charged with escorting through the mall looked with appropriate appreciation at the whirling machine bedecked with pastel horses, pretty carriages, whimsically painted Parisian street scenes and half a dozen laughing riders. A few of the group snapped some photos, each from a different angle while two others began walking the perimeter of the ride, stopping every few feet to look at it from varying points of view.

Harrison stood at the front of the ride, casually chatting with the remainder of the group but he was holding his breath in anxious anticipation. Since the rise of online shopping and the decline of the economy, shopping malls had been hit hard. What once was a thriving hive of commerce, the pride of his father’s portfolio, New Bridge Shopping Mall was now barely limping along. Harrison shifted in his loafers and smiled at the head of the group. If he could convince this somber looking group to use New Bridge in their venture then his father might just be able to make this place profitable again.

“So, what do you think?” Harrison asked, hoping the confidence he was feigning didn’t sound as hollow to them as it did to his own ears. The group quieted, and in one movement looked to the leader of their outfit. Dressed in faded black jeans and a black t-shirt, Harrison couldn’t believe that this was the man that held his family’s finical security in his power. Putting his hand to his chin in a dramatic move of contemplation, the man looked around him, nodding slowly all the while before returning his attention to Harrison.

“I think it’s perfect. I’m very excited. This will be the perfect backdrop for what I have in mind,” he said with surprising enthusiasm.

One year later…

Harrison leaned back in the theater seat, almost giddy with anticipation. After enduring the obligatory Silence your cell phone message and the fifteen minutes of previews, Harrison leaned forward as the lights dropped and the film’s title spun onto the screen. And there it was- his mall (well, his father’s mall, but whatever) on the screen. Machine gunfire from the movie ripped through theater as hooligans stormed in through his food court. Shoppers (extras) were gunned down at every angle, blood was splattered on store fronts, pretzel carts and plastic food court food trays. The gore and senseless bloodshed went on for another 90 minutes until Harrison barely recognized his beloved mall. Then in the coup de grace, Harrison watched in horror as the hooligans approached the beautiful carousel and sprayed it with bullets.  If my father ever sees this, he is going to kill me, Harrison thought as he pictured his very conservative father’s face should he ever bear witness to the bloody mess the film had turned New Bridge into. On the upside, the mall had received quite a bit of attention thanks to its role in the film, in fact business what up for the first time in two years.

Following the release of Shopping for Death the New Bridge Shopping Mall received quite a bit of attention. In fact, due to the film’s unexpected cult-like following, it became a kind of mecca for the horror/bloodbath film enthusiast and every Halloween, the mall put on a viewing of the film drawing huge crowds. Harrison’s father did see the film, and despite his initial shock of seeing his mall shot to pieces he became one of the film’s biggest fans (turning a huge profit has a tendency to do that).

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      Putting off my To-Do list yet again, (whatever, it’s my life) I tagged along with Andy on a location scout for an upcoming feature he will be working on. While I haven’t read the entire script, I do know that it involves a cop that flips his ish and starts randomly killing people- including shoppers at a shopping mall. Securing an entire mall for a few days to shoot part of a movie is not easy, or cheap, but it pays to know someone- someone whose parents happen to own a mall. So a group of us, the director, art director, director of photography and a few others caravanned down to Lake Wales to check it out. Walking around, it was pretty neat to think about having the whole place to film (look at me talking like I have anything to do with it!). The mall had this wonderful carousel too, and I was dying to take a ride (for only 1 token!) but I restrained myself, not wanting to embarrass Andy as he was working. I couldn’t help wondering though, if the owners had any idea of what they were getting themselves and their mall into… guess they’ll find out.

Love & Squirrels.

Day #158: Pin Up List

The Story:

A wash full of intimates

A pedicure long overdue

A cheesecake unbaked

And a much needed phone call or two

*

A pile of mending that must be sorted through

A bathroom in desperate need of scrubbing

A growing stack of “need-to-read”

And a desktop ready for reorganizing

*

A room full of half-finished projects

A guest room with nothing but bare walls

A fresh batch of brewed ice tea- not yet made

And a puppy who needs a good washing down to his paws

*

A day with no obligations- perfect for chores

A list of things I had every intention of doing

A surprise attack from a nap unexpected

And another day gone leaving my tasks still accruing.

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The Not So Fantastic Reality:

The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:

ONE:      What is that phrase, The path to hell is paved with good intentions? Well, my path would also be strewn with half-painted canvases and bookshelves, secondhand furniture in need of refurbishing, blank walls, piles of laundry, never-opened books, stacks of never-tried recipes and lots and lots of housework. Every weekend I promise myself I will spend at least one day catching up on some of the things I’ve been meaning to do but am too exhausted to see to during the work week. I even have a chalkboard in my living room that I catalog some of the ‘bigger’ items in an effort to get my butt moving on them… it has had mixed results. So here it is, Saturday. A day with a million possibilities, a day that can be molded into anything I want it to be, a day that is open and ready to be put to work. So what do I do? Well, after a morning/afternoon of running around with Andy, I can home and almost immediately- fall asleep. Sigh… oh well. I’ll try not to be too tough on myself, after all I did accomplish a few things, I was introduced to a new favorite used bookstore (and they were introduced to my Visa card), I finished spray-painting a little stool for the kitchen, I did a load of laundry, played a few rounds of Dr. Mario (naturally), I cooked a scrumptious dinner… I, ah…hmm… what else did I do today? Well, as they say, tomorrow’s another day! See you then, Sunday!

THE To-Do List... that never gets done

Love & Squirrels.