Prosaic

There's this road near my house that's called Dairyland because, natch, there's this terrific dairy on it. (Be careful of the mooing.) I think it's kind of a charming name for a road, though it causes me troubles each time I come here to write some more drivel from my head; invariably, I type in dairyland and end up nowhere I want to be.

I was thinking about that dairy and their really terrific almond ice cream and it led me to think about my little vanity project today, thinking for sure I should find something to say about something, since it's been awhile, and, frankly, that last entry was pretty boring. There's not much mileage one can get out of boring discussion of a hideously boring project. But I find that I'm distressed when the things in my head I consider writing about have no logical connection: Diet Coke, crying, the war, cold sores, Alzheimer's, flies, weddings, acne, a nice person allegedly getting back together with her not-nice spouse, whom she wisely left 5 months ago. So much of my life lately has been consumed by the business of getting things done, that I don't have time to put those strings together.

The busyness, it turns out, has also turned me into a nightmare co-worker and friend, as I learned this morning. Murch told me today, Friday, that it was the first day I had even been tolerable to be around, an accusation which, though true, made me bawl a little in my office this morning. He said he and Clark decided I need somebody who will "nurture and take care of me," a notion I scoffed at, but . . . well, there's some truth. If said mythical person existed, maybe I'd be sitting here at 3:13 on a Friday afternoon learning how to use Illustrator instead of wishing I hadn't gotten out of bed this morning and faced these men and their construction problems.

Then again, maybe thinking about flies and dairies isn't even poignant in the least, though they are, at least, connected.