I walk outside and discover a ping pong paddle, our purple hippopotamus stool, three forks, one spoon, a plastic pet lizard, two large buckets (which I had no idea we owned), an over-sized rock, a wagon, and sand, an enormous amount of sand. I find these items scattered about our yard very Clampit-like, but not at all troublesome. In fact, the view is quite normal, and I don't even consider picking any of it up.
I wear a skirt I've owned since '98 and deem it stylish.
I consider approaching the manager of my favorite grocery store because if I have to listen to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" one more time while I shop, it is going to be a total eclipse of my sanity.
Our house has been hit with a second round of what the schools are calling the norovirus, and what I am calling over a month of washing, bleeching, and disinfecting every surface in my house.
Oh and I talked about couponing at lunch.
So, yeah, there's that.
It is apparent I am in a funk.
The kind of funk that even signs like this can't cure.
In other news, I skyped with this fab lady, and she agreed to help me with book release related happenings, and this makes me clasp my hands, jump up and down excited because people, September is not that far away, and although the book is written and the publisher says edits are complete, there is still much to do.
And now for a quick, and totally unrelated story:
A few weeks ago, on the way to work, I saw a fire, a real fire, a fire which engulfed an entire house. Watching it made me understand the saying "swallowed by a fire". The bright flames reached their long arms around both sides of the tiny home and threatened to crush it. Then, as I pulled up behind a long line of cars, I saw several men jump out of their cars and run towards the house.
At first I thought the men lived in the house, but as I watched them trudge up a muddy hill in dress clothes, I understood they thought someone needed help.
There's something about the kindness of strangers that gets me every time, even when I am in a funk.