Wednesday, February 23, 2005

The Great Banana Mystery

Often, when we walk downtown, we take a route that leads us past this pile of banana peels. It is constantly evolving, with new daily additions, and shrinkage due to decay. We always try to guess who the banana eater is. The peels are left in the very corner of a vacant lot, next to the giant rock wall of a place known to locals as Greystone Manor. We have seen fresh peels on morning walks, so the person must work mornings downtown. We see new specimens on weekends, so chances are they don't work in an office. Probably retail, maybe a restaurant?

Our son would like to go on a stake-out across the street from the peel pile. Not a bad idea. But, then, where's the fun in a mystery solved?

Clouds have lifted. Return of the muse.

I fired a client the other day. Well, kind of. I told him I wouldn't do his newsletters anymore. I'll still do other things for him. I still really like him. He's still my friend. He's a really nice guy, but I was spinning my wheels. He wouldn't get me the content on time, kept changing his mind about things, and on and on. I'd block out time to work on it based on his promises to get me the content, and it wouldn't arrive. He was always changing meeting times, which in turn meant I'd have to keep changing my plans for childcare, since he could never meet during my normal working hours. I felt really bad making childcare arrangements and having to change them. Made me look flakey. It wasn't good. It was really bringing me down. So I made the call.

And suddenly, the clouds have lifted. Literally and figuratively. This morning I woke up and it wasn't raining anymore. A beautiful day awaited me. I felt like using my camera again after letting it gather dust for weeks. I felt like playing. I saw beauty in things I walked past. I laughed at a snail. I was me. And all it cost to get my life back was one phone call. (I'm trying not to think about the money. All it cost is one phone call. Stop thinking about the money.)

It's so worth it.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Love Birds

Yesterday we went to see The Wild Parrots Of Telegraph Hill. It's a beautiful documentary about a rather bohemian guy who befriends and tends to a flock of wild parrots in San Francisco. Oh, what a story! Our son enjoyed every minute of it, as did we. We had to pause in the lobby of the theater when it was over for a family hug. Our little man was crying because he was so touched by the film. What a sweet and precious moment to share with him. I will never forget it.

I e-mailed the man in the film to tell him how much we enjoyed it and he e-mailed me right back. He had good news, but I won't share it because doing so would reveal part of the movie.

(Ah, crud, on re-reading, I realized I used the phrase "precious moment." Eek. I didn't mean to pay homage to those freaky little kids from the figurines and cards and old lady sweatshirts and crap.)

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Thought o' the day

Being a good communicator isn't about how you put the things you want to say, it's about how you put the things you don't want to say.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Ramble on, mama.

Tire easily when having to actually walk to your destination from the parking lot? The answer could be as
close as your trunk!

If you think my entries are too middle-America and could use some spicing up, try it this way!

In other news...
I'm thinking about love. Valentine's Day is near. Ahhhh. My dear husband isn't really into it. He calls it "The Day of Corporate Devotion." But that's okay, I'm in love with him.

I have two main men in my life. One is big and one is small. The big one is loving and silly and wonderful. The small one is loving and silly and wonderful. In fact, the little one is the sweetest little thing ever. I can't even tell you more without getting all choked up. I am in L-O-V-E love.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Tip o' the day...

Never do laundry without checking all your husband's pockets.

Unless you LIKE having chocolate dryer-baked into all your good clothes. One would think I would have learned this lesson by now, what with all the gum, Chapstick, and miscellaneous weirdness I've encountered in the dryer in the last 17 years. But, alas, silly me. I hang onto the dim hope that he will actually start listening to my pleas to empty pockets prior to putting clothes in the laundry, saving me the tantalizing experience of reaching into the pockets of moist skate shorts that have been worn until they reach a certain level of offensiveness, then tossed in a sweaty ball among the stinky socks in the laundry pile.

So, umm, if my pants are stained, please know that it's chocolate, not the grossness it resembles.