A good day. Got a lot done. Then again, any day is a good day when you don't get laid off. Had lunch with three people at the company who have been laid off at a locally renowned ribs place up on Telegraph next to an equally famous four thousand calories if you just look through the window bakery. I don't eat ribs anymore in an attempt to reach the age of sixty, but now and then you need to remind yourself and do the tour with hot sauce, potato salad and sliced bread. White bread is traditional. Good potato salad (like Mommy used to make!). A good day, as I said.
I shouldn't harp too much on this "Oh God I'm going to be laid off" routine. If it happens, it happens, and, if it doesn't happen by the end of next week, it's not going to happen until spring, and spring, sitting here with winter approaching, may never come, as is the wont of spring when you're standing in the dark at five in the afternoon in the cold, waiting for a bus after Thanksgiving, but before Christmas, winter in the wings, a-ding-dings. And, you know, it gets boring, this "laid off" thing. (Is that true? Is stressing out about unemployment boring? Or does it just wear you down with the tapping fingers and the fretting? Or has this gotten altogether out of hand, time to change topic?)
Tomorrow I was looking forward to the sun. They advertised sun on one of the news programs last Wednesday and I believed them. Now it's showers. Saturday showers. Sunday showers. We'll see. I don't mind cloudy, you get better (less) contrast with cloudy and showers are, of course, cloudy, but they're also wet and wet is no good for the cameras. Or the photographer. Maybe I'm going to have to stay in here and unpack more boxes, which leads to the crux of this monologue, how to get out of the apartment and leave the boxes for another day, a day when I'm unemployed and have lots of time on my hands and, although I still won't want to unpack any stinking boxes, I will have to because of the time on my hands, you understand. Do you get the impression I've had my beer for the evening and I'm stumbling through this half fuddled? Muddled?
We won't talk about Wuss tonight because Wuss threw up on the rug after putting a puddle on the desk in front of my keyboard. Didn't mess with the bedspread, though. That's something.