What I Did On My Spring Vacation

My goal in life is to not look creepy for Easter, and at the moment, it seems kind of possible. No traces of pink eye left, but I'm kind of afraid to put makeup on just yet because last time I thought that would be a good idea, I ended up back at Square One. And when you've been so far as Square Three, backtracking really sucks.

I have no idea what I'm talking about most of the time, just FYI, but anyway, here's hoping my pink eye posts are at an end.

I've been working full time lately while one of our secretaries is out on spring break. Someone asked why I didn't take spring break off with my children, which made me laugh. I have my reasons, people:

1. Deb in Reception (not to be confused with Deb in Sales) is married to a teacher. I'm married to a planner.
2. I can't remember our little family EVER taking spring break off.
3. What's the point? It's still cold and crappy out there. Give me summer!
4. Also, two receptionists cannot be off at the same time or chaos results. I guess. That's what they tell me, anyway.
5. ...Um, I'm okay with picking up extra hours and letting the girls spend quality time* with their grandparents.
6. *That sounds much better than saying, "You want me to listen to fighting ALL DAY LONG? No thanks."

And it's actually been pretty fun this week. It's been busy. I've gotten some extra writing assignments (always a plus) and the phones have been ringing off the hook. There's been a lot of coffee going on too, which, now that I think about it, might be most of the reason.

Except yesterday this old guy comes in and he's just kind of... well, he's old, and he's lonely, and he thinks I like him. So he's telling me some story that I wasn't really following for about fifteen minutes (about help that Eric rendered him two years ago. He has a little crush on Eric), then hands me a letter to the editor with a smile because I'm really going to enjoy reading it. Um, probably not, but I smile and thank him and promise to pass it on. We are so far apart on the political fence that we can't even see each other, except he doesn't know that, and since his letters are always political in nature, and always written longhand, it's kind of more than I can take, transcribing them.

OH. But then he's telling me that he's not a natural writer, but a "real writer" gave him a list of all her best tips, to which he's added: Keep a pencil and pad by the bed and in the bathroom. "Because that's where I get most of my gems," he adds.

You don't have to tell me everything, people. Also: I need to hook him up with my fossilized dinosaur poop friend. They'd get along just fine.

Well, anyway, that's what I've been doing. The end, I guess.