It’s been a day.

Not a very productive one, I’m afraid. Still…

I have my resume out there, and am getting nibbles.  So far, they have all been with insurance companies looking for salespeople.  It makes me hopeful, though.

Starbucks has brought Salted Carmel Mochas back, which makes for a happy Pat. On the coffee front, at least.

The Thousand Oaks Cobra has been caught.  I would retweet the funniest lines from the three accounts it “opened,” but all the accounts have been swamped by news of the capture, and the albino snake’s disappointment at being in captivity again.  My favorite tweet from this morning: “Where does a snake get its coffee in the morning? From a barissssta.”  After the Thousand Oaks Cobra complained about seeing snakeskin boots in Nordstrom’s (“Not cool, Nordstrom.  Not cool.”) @Nordstrom tweeted back that they were sorry that the snake had had a bad experience at the store, and promising to pass along its concerns to the customer service team.  Perfect.  I can’t decide if I would find it funnier if it was an actual person answering, or if it was an automated response.

I did take the Red-Headed Menace to the running shoe store to get more shoes.  He has not been running because he exhausted his last pair of shoes.  Running is not as cheap a sport as one might imagine.

I feel suspended in time: as if I were over a river of the present with it slipping away underneath me. Life is too short to keep going on this way.

I have struggled with writing lately.  Yes, I know I am whining, and breaking one of the cardinal rules of blogging (“don’t whine about blogging”), but it has been a real roadblock for me.  I do not blog on the news in a timely fashion, and I keep feeling that by the time I write about anything, someone else has written about it better. James Thurber, my favorite writer of the 20th century, once observed that one of the fears of a writer of light comic pieces was the nagging suspicion that the piece that he has been working on for two days was written better and more quickly by Robert Benchley in 1924.  I know the feeling.

When I write about my family, that is new.  But one can’t write about family all the time. So I try to write about my reaction to the world, and keep running up against the feeling that I’m not that special, that my reactions are pretty much the same as most liberal-progressive feminists. (There are a couple of areas that I would love to blog about but can’t, because of confidentiality agreements.)

So, I will keep on keeping on.  Not much else to do, really.

 

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