On a good day:

I’m in alignment.

I’m open to all possibilities.

I send out requests for what I want and find pleasant surprises around every corner.

I am a wheel in motion, capturing and reflecting light.

 On a bad day:

Light beams toward me, sinks into the darkness.

I know the way but I am lost.

The wheel turns, inching forward. I crouch to avoid its moving blades.


Props to the artist


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So funny I forgot to laugh

Photo by Pat Hawks via Creative Commons

Tuesday was the worst day ever.

Relatively speaking.

No one died — that I know. No one lost a limb or drove a Segway off a cliff. Wait …

OK. Tuesday was a series of unfortunate events.

Let’s make a list, shall we?

1. Call comes in from client that Wednesday deadline is now Monday deadline, if I don’t mind.

2. I consume a pot of coffee and take the world’s fastest shower. Girl from the East watches a record amount of DVDs while I sweat and hyperventilate to meet deadline. People, do you know what kind of dreams you have after a 12-hour caffeine bender? Let’s just say I had one involving small children, countless bowls of lumpy oatmeal, and the deep woods. There may have been a hungry bear, or maybe it was a wolf, in a supporting role.

3. Realize it’s too late to line up child care so Girl from the East has to tag along on client meeting. Awesome. At client meeting, she manages to launch a rolling desk chair into low orbit.

4. Afterward, I find an out-of-the-way coffee shop. After spending money on food and yes, more coffee, I pull out the company laptop with the measly battery life, only to discover the one electrical outlet available to customers is — on the freakin’ ceiling! You know how the rest of it goes.

5. Heavy rain begins to fall. Next discovery: We’ve left without rain jackets and have one smallish umbrella for all three of us. A little drenched and chilled, I pull  in to the designated pickup spot and call Girl from the West on my phone. Long wait ensues. I grab a book and a blanket and settle in. Suddenly I’m eye-to-eye with a winking red tail light whose attached bumper punches my quarter panel. I sound the horn. Twice. I roll down the window, shout and wave my arms. The driver speeds away.

6. I call the police to report a hit and run. Police show up one hour later. In the meantime, the guilty party, who identifies himself with one of those ’70s hippie names like Moonbeam, returns from what appears to be a cigarette run. He sits on his porch, smoking and staring. Finally, I approach him, ask if he, by any chance, realizes that he hit my car. He is shocked, I tell you, shocked that he hit my car. He cannot believe he didn’t FEEL it. In fact, he didn’t HEAR my car horn. He had no idea at all that I was parked behind him. It’s quite possible he was unaware he was in a car.

Meanwhile, Girl from the West tells me SHE heard my car horn and ignored it, thinking I was being dramatic.

But Moonbeam’s girlfriend is mad at him, too. He hit my car with HER CAR! Now it’s a big deal, you see.

After the police officer, who had all the patience and understanding of an executioner, leaves, Moonbeam begs me to tell him what I’m going to do. He needs to know, you see, because he’s leaving for California immediately.

He called me again today. He gave me his e-mail address and his phone number. He wants me to call him when I know what I’m going to do.

If you live in California, watch out for a guy who calls himself Moonbeam.