This prevents my normal routine of rolling back over and sleeping for another hour. Instead, I get up, fire up the laptop and knock off a third of my freelance work for the day before either me or the coffee turns bitter and cold.
Attending Thing 2's first "publishing party," in which he read the "How To" stories he wrote in class.
He wrote three -- "How to Draw a House," "How to Make a Macaroni Necklace" and "How to Read a Book" -- the most of anyone in his class.
Note to self: Given the recent chimp attack in town, writing may be a good alternative to his monkey training aspirations.
Second note to self: Start assessing female classmates for potential ambitious, corporate executive wife-types.
* * *
On our walk through the neighborhood, Murphy starts digging through a rotting pile of leaves by the curb. He starts to crunch a large black object between his teeth.
"Droooooop it," I say.
He does. To the asphalt falls a garage door opener.
And … it's not mine.
On the stroll home, it fails to open any of my neighbor's garages.
* * *
I finish tweaking the layout of my blog, actually re-writing some of the HTML coding on my own, without causing it or my computer to crash.
Need to suppress my inner geek before I try reprogramming the microwave for time travel, thus reconfirming my semi-idiot status when it comes to technology.
Urgent note to self: Quick! Try to contact Kari from "MythBusters" before power fa …, dang! Too late. Someday, you red-haired scientific beauty, you will be mine. Oh, you WILL be mine.
As long as My Love is cool with it, of course.
Finally think of and write a decent piece (maybe, possibly) for a long-in-coming project.
"Mary Tyler Moore" theme plays mentally in my head.
My manhood takes another blow. Stupid brain!
* * *
While walking down the supermarket aisle, Thing 1 says, "Hey, Dad! They're playing our song."
On the ceiling speakers, wafting through the shelves of soup and tomato paste, I hear:
I got it! (I got it!) I got it!
I had that song on CD we were listening to on a car trip three or four years ago. From the backseat, the Things kept yelling for miles, "Play that number song again!"
Tommy TuTone sure beats that Lindsay Lohan CD she was into one summer.
I start a fire.
In the fireplace.
Without any Duraflame assistance.
Note to self: Stop eyeballin' that freakin' microwave!
Thing 2 appears in the living room, giggling, tripping, my pajama bottoms hiked up to his chest as the dog nips at the ankle cuffs.
"Can I sleep in these, Dad?"
"As long as I can take a picture first."