One of the nice things about keeping a little online journal that only your friends and your mom reads is that you think about stuff you want to write about all the time, thinking what a good entry that would make and how funny it would be and so on and so forth. But the days, they just slip on by, and all of a sudden it’s Friday night and you haven’t updated for over a week and you’re sure that your loyal readership has deserted you.
So, just to let you know what you all are sort of missing by not being me and not living in my head, let me tell you some of the funny entries I had planned for you this week:
The continuation of my week in Orlando Well, I saw my mom, went to the freakin’ Downtown Disney quite enough, thanks for asking, swam in the hotel pool, went to Cique du Soleil (which was super good and which I enjoyed wholeheartedly in spite of myself), went to a way over-rated Gospel Brunch at the House of Blues that made me cranky, said a tearful goodbye to my mom in a parking lot in front of a Virgin Megastore, went to Tom and Ashley’s house, made My Company Dish, hung out, talked, laughed. Got schooled on capital-R Relationships by Ashley and Tom…their anniversary is coming up in a month so I’ll save my devotion to them for then, but still. It was cool and I learned a lot from them and just by being around them. Want to know what going to Disney was like for me? Read this.
I get laid off next week Yup. Week from today. Just imagine how useful and productive I was today. Boggles the mind, yes? I have been making myself feel better by imagining all the fun things I’m going to do when I’m not working…besides shilling for a job, I mean. Ugh. I hate this SO much. You realize that this year’s MSW class is about to graduate, which means I have been looking for a full time job for almost a YEAR, ragazzi. I know. I hate me too. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I fully plan to redesign this site during my Lady of Leisure time. Um, if anyone knows how I should go about doing that, let me know, okay? And if I don’t hear from all yall engineers and software folks who are allegedly my friends, then you are in deep trouble with me.
I was a good therapist yesterday I was! I had seven clients in six hours (two of them were a couple) and I didn’t have dinner but I just charged right through and got into it and I felt strangely exhilarated by the whole thing. It’s not like that all the time, of course…but usual disclaimers aside, it was a good run last night and I felt pretty proud of myself.
There was a fire drill today Okay, I’m going to get this story out of the way right here and now because every time a Key Girl or two gets together…and I do mean every time…this story gets brought out. All Significant Others of Key Girls are heartily sick of it and hate it. So, um, if you are one, don’t read this, okay? Look away! Don’t read!
When I was in fourth grade, as I’ve mentioned before, I was in a secret club with two of the other three Key Girls (hi Ash! hi Marah!). It was modeled heavily after the one in Are Your There, God? It’s Me, Margaret and took place in a lovely tree house at Marah’s Nana’s house on Key Biscayne. It was called Paradise Fun Club (uh, yeah, I don’t know) and we met every Monday for a whole year. We had secret names and everything…mine was White Tiger, for those of you frothing at the mouth to know that about me. Anyway, Paradise Fun Club, fourth grade, which would put it somewhere around 1985. All of the PFC (see, that was the nickname of Paradise Fun Club) went to Gifted, which meant that on Mondays and Thursdays we didn’t have to go to mean old Miami Vice peach-and-turquoise Key Biscayne Elementary, but instead went over the big drawbridge into South Miami to another school ,where we were all gifted and everything and wrote in journals and had interactive classrooms and were in Future Problem Solvers and did Contributions of Worth and had learning goals and all that. And one fateful Monday, it seems, we had a fire drill at Gifted.
Now, the ladies of PFC were nothing if not conscientious, as my previous mention of the presents we bought for the lunch ladies with our dues money will indicate. Being thoughtful little girls, we were in our treehouse in Marah’s Nana’s grapetree in the front yard, discussing the possibility (gasp!) of there being a fire in the treehouse. How this would happen is unclear, as we didn’t smoke or otherwise ignite things up there. Nonetheless, clearly a Safety Plan was in order, and a safety plan we made, one that involved laboriously opening the trapdoor and hopping out onto one of the big armchair-y grapetree branches and swinging on one of the vines and getting to the ground and then, presumably, running through the house and jumping into the ocean, which the house fronted, in order to escape the ravening flames. Well, now, seriously, yall, is that really what one does when one is confronted with flames in one’s tree house? With the combination lock on the trapdoor and everything? No. One simply hops up onto the railing, and jumps over the side.
That’s it. That’s the story. I landed in the bushes unhurt, and three little heads popped over the side of the treehouse to laugh at me. I was fine. I jumped out of the treehouse. And now that story never has to be told again, does it?