I could never be a criminal. I possess a guilty-conscious of robust proportions. To give you a clue…
Tonight is the last night of Photovoltaic training. In the slight chance you may not be aware – I’m writing an installation manual for my dad. This “little” project has been going on approximately forever. The first draft was printed and distributed to this first class. I then attended the first few weeks of the class to see what information the guys were most interested in, take notes, learn where we were lacking, etc. – I have since been working on edits. And there are a lot of them.
This is normal mind you. Most books go through several revisions. I’m on number two. As it is, my dad insists the content is better than most. Most of my edits are small, formatting issues. Still, I can’t take it. I’m wracked with guilt!
So I did what any rational, business-minded woman would do – I whipped up a fresh batch of brownies and sent them with my dad. So, your version of the manual sucks … hmmm… brownie?!
I was perusing the ads – not because I have money to spare, mind you; but simply because I feel intense pleasure from looking – from deciding what I would buy, if I did, indeed, have the money to buy it. So, perusing ads … I come across a bra that boasts 62-different ways to wear it. Sixty-two, my friends. Now, admittedly, I do not get out much – but still, sixty-two ways to wear a bra?! Normal, racerback, halter, strapless, one shoulder, the other, front crisscross, back crisscross, backless, plugging neckline … hat? Earmuffs? I’m at a loss! Even if you do know the plethora of options, you probably need a detailed user’s guide to get ‘er done. Like getting ready in the morning isn’t hard enough? Obviously, I’ll be sticking with the less-advanced options – money, or no. The other is just too … scary.
I was the very definition of productivity this weekend. Here are a few random thoughts on the subject…
Firsts of the season. This weekend saw many firsts of the season – first glimpse of a butterfly, first ice cream cone, first time in shorts. The shorts – you’ll be glad to know – were relegated to my backyard. Had I actually gone out in public in such attire, my legs would have blinded anyone within a ten mile radius.
Lazy americans. The moniker “lazy american” has whole new meaning thanks to a trip to the recyle. A lady pulls in behind my car, throws her plastic in the bin, gets back in her car and begins to drive around me and several others. We, of course, had to plaster ourselves and our individual armload of recyclables against our vehicles to avoid being hit. We didn’t mind; after all, it would be one less person – because she was obviously leaving, right? Oh contraire. She was merely driving to the next bin. There was no handicap sticker; she was not have issues breathing; her legs seemed to work splendidly. Still, she drove. And we’re not talking an empty parking lot. She had to do some strategic maneuvering to get around people – who were actually WALKING from bin to bin – and myriad cars. But by george she was determined; she would run over a pedestrian if she had to, but she was not going to walk those extra five steps!
Sounds of the season. Saturday afternoon, the only sounds to be heard were that of lawn mowers and electric trimmers. One would die out, another would pick up. Sometimes they played a duet. I visualized synchronized trimming; a man kicking his heels while mowing his lawn. Yes, it was work. But it was work in the guise of a fresh start. Where once was frigid temps, there is warmth; where once was grey skies, there is blue; where once stark, brown branches, there is a blossom. So while such labor may turn to drudgery come fall, in the spring it is a symphony.