A litany of woe kept me from writing today. Litany is a great word. But I shouldn’t really complain. As bad as my day was, I’m not dead. Poor Pope. I regret what I said about the Vatican not being open with info about the his death. Do we really need to see close-ups of his ashen corpse on the cover of the morning papers??
One day in the early ’80s, back when John Paul was comprehensible, I found a book of B.C. comics on the floor of my stepfather’s apartment. I remember wondering what was so funny about the page that showed two cavemen talking. One of them asked, “Litany good farts lately?”
Today included the stressful anticipation of three client meetings that threatened to converge like the perfect storm. Then there was the flat tire. I was proud of myself for changing it alone, but when hobbled to the garage the mechanic told me to “tell the person who changed the flat to put the nuts on the right way the next time.” A little more hobbling and the wheel would have wobbled off.
Work was fine. The meetings went well. At 37, I think I’m finally figuring out how cope with client stress: Head on. People don’t know what to say when you just tell them the truth. It’s like they just expect you to lie, and are amazed when you don’t. Truth just short of ass-kissing or pontificating is an art.
Distraction is also a good tool. During meeting three, just as we reached page 29 of line-by-line analysis of a 120-page course calendar layout, my nose broke down in boredom and bled down my chin. Quite dramatic. I had my escape. The work went on without me; it’s so great to be part of a team!
When I got back to the office, Diana the proofreader agreed to grab a coffee at Tim’s. Medium decaf with two milk. I bought a double-double for the designer who covered for me during the bleed-out meeting. Wicked. Diana was also glad to escape the “highfalutin” client work she was buried in. Highfalutin. We both laughed gaily. I got decaf too.
Tonight Jasper is wired because he spent the day at the caban à sucre with his French class. “I could have eaten all the syrop d’érable myself, Dad.” My big plan for the evening is to spend some time meditating while staring at the african violet that just bloomed in the livingroom. It’s so fabulously violet. You could get lost in there, it’s so rich. I mentioned this to Suzy while in bed last night. She set down her New Yorker and said, “Well, that is why they call it violet.”
Isn’t life grand?
