It’s one of those things. I want to bitch about not having time to write. But I don’t have time to write it. Chicken or Egg? Nevermind, we’ll stick with bacon. Work’s been just getting worse and worse. Well, that makes it sound like work is bad and that’s not true; I have a good […]
It’s one of those things.
I want to bitch about not having time to write.
But I don’t have time to write it.
Chicken or Egg?
Nevermind, we’ll stick with bacon.
Work’s been just getting worse and worse. Well, that makes it sound like work is bad and that’s not true; I have a good job for a great boss working for a cool and generally fair company. I like where I work (that fruit-flavored computer company), I like who I work for, I like who I work with. But – well, when they say you have to do more with less, in our case they’re saying the work of ten men with two. It’ll get better in a while, but what’s unknown is, for what value of “a while”.
But the upshot is, writing takes a hit. I’ve gone from barely time to write to no time to write. And it is, frankly, pissin’ me off. Because I am still an idea factory, with stuff I wanna blog about, stuff I wanna work on stories about, and that pile of stories started and not completed. That “met her at a funeral” story is calling me, as is the Wanton followup.
Grumble. Grumble? And did I say, Grumble!
But I should talk about “Guy!”
This is a cute little kid story. Stop here if you’re not down with that.
There’s this Orkut deal. It’s stupid, it’s fun, everyone’s doing it, other than those of you who aren’t.
But my orkut profile has this picture.
Now, my friend (we’ll call her) Laura, who’s also a member of Orkut (and suddenly I’m hearing betty boop, from a cartoon called “Bimbo’s Initiation”- “wanna be a member, wanna be a member!”. Ok, you had to be there, nevermind), and her little girl, who’s like 18 months, has become completely obsessed with my picture. She points, and demands. She wants mom to go back to the picture. “Guy!” she says. “Guy! Guy! Guy!”.
It was becoming a problem. Mom could not even read her email without the girl climbing onto her lap; “Guy! Guy! Guy!”. I finally had to send her the original of the photo, and she printed it. So now she gives the little girl my picture to hold while Mom checks her email. The little girl carries it around mumbling “guy… guy… guy…”
Wait, there are some punchlines.
The dad, Paul, stepped out of the shower the other day, and the little girl had left the picture on the bathroom floor. So there’s my maniacally grinning face looking up at him.
We met them the other night. The little girl had never seen me in person before. She was shy, hiding, pointing; “guy? guy? Guy!”. Paul observed I’m some sort of rock star now, for the toddler set.
So then, sort of to pay me back for all the hilarity I have generated in his house, Paul made me this. Which I feel captures the true, inner me.
Ok, so that’s enough cute kid story.
I need a fucking vacation. I need to be deep, deep underwater somewhere, narced out of my skull, or on a rocking boat watching pretty girls get out of skin-tight wetsuits. I need to be where the beaches are sandy and the water is warm and – the girls are in skin tight wetsuits, or nothing at all.
Rum? Rum. Rum!
Wait, I feel the pirate voice about to come back.
Ok. It’s past. I can go on.
I know just the island. And it’s calling to me. Baby, here I come.