Dogastrophe!

Wow, the dogs got their snouts into a bag of flour last night. This turned out to be a 3-tiered mess. The first tier involved a fine layer of wheat dust spread over every square inch of our things, even gumming up the computers. The second tier was the the slobbery paper mache mess they made all over the apartment. Basically, they invented a dog slobber and flour glue. They had little dumplings in their hair, flour caked on their toes, and every once in a while they'd regurgitate a little biscuit. We didn't realize that there was a third tier of foulness and disorder until the middle of the night when the "end" result materialized. OMG, you have never seen so much, ahem, end product. Our house reeked, and I spent most of today scrubbing, mopping, airing out, and just plain throwing away things. If I ever worried about Scott's and my ability to handle a little rugrat, I now know. We certainly can survive one day of it. But, could we handle two?

I bought a latch for the pantry door.

[Image from: http://my.opera.com/gennafaith/albums/show.dml?id=39756]

S.A.S.E.

As mail burst forth from my rickety mailbox, bloated from the postal holiday accruement, I spied the thin edge of familiar stationary. Only two millimeters of ochre parchment needed peak from the hectic stack of ponderous bills and neon fliers shouting about 0%. I’d been rejected.

When you send a self addressed stamped envelope, it’s like writing yourself bad news. Disappointing news. Day-wrecking, confidence-cracking, why-didn’t-I-include-a-kleenex news. You know you’ll never see that envelope if they accept you. You can always hope it’s at the bottom of some tall stack on a very busy editor’s desk…until the day you get that hopeless envelope. Enveloping hopelessness, it’s mocking and tautological return address, the recipient’s name correctly spelled in an intimately familiar handwriting, the cheery stamp chosen by someone with taste—all were engineered unwittingly by yourself.

I thought that by using some of my nicest stationary (and hear me right, my collection is exquisite), it might take the edge off any impending rejection-inspired dejection. Surely only lovely things are born from heavy rag, I thought. And, wouldn’t a bit of that lovely brush off onto a loveless brush-off? Sadly, no.

[Image from: http://esart.com/projects/food/rejectioncheese.php]

Perched

Personally and professionally, I’m sitting on a bunch of opportunities that just won’t hatch without patience—a virtue I have never developed. It’s simultaneously excruciating and exhilarating. I’ve got a query letter out for a story that just gets more and more brilliant with each passing day. I’ve got a job offer/rejection pending that could really solidify my new career. I’ve got a personal project percolating that could change my life. In a couple of weeks, they could all turn out to be duds, and my life would be no different than it has been for a while now. Or, they could all bloom into full on successes and I’ll be tearing my hair out with the stress of having to juggle them all at once or just choose one. And then there are the many permutations of some working out and others not. It is agonizing to wait.

[Image from: http://www.allposters.com/-sp/A-Great-Horned-Owl-Perched-on-a-Galvanized-Tub-Posters_i1023903_.htm]