Last night, as I was driving Alvie home from day care, we had the following conversation:
Alvie: “Mommy, I see a zebra!”
Me: “Oh wow!”
Alvie: “Don’t worry. It’s dead.”
Me: “Oh. Wow.”
Alvie: “It’s working on a computer. Because it’s a zebra. And it’s dead.”
He has been telling the strangest stories lately and ends most of them with, “Is that a good story, mommy? Was it?”
Tiny story teller already seeking accolades. Love it.
I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, mostly due to stress, and last night that devolved into the weirdest dream that I’ve had in a while. When I first woke up, just shy of 5:30 this morning, I thought, “that would be a great plot for a book.” Upon further reflection, it would not, in fact, be great for anything. There was, however, a zebracorn in my 50’s era typing pool that I managed out of my ranch-home (with hardword floors and a full-on basement grotto).
I woke this morning with renewed determination – not, as you might have guessed – to find the elusive zebracorn and hire him or her as a PA. Rather to just go forward with positivity and do my best to avoid the poo flinging monkeys following me about.
If I can’t get rich quick (although I’m not opposed to it, just skeptical that this is the one thing to hang my hopes on) so that I can retire and lead a life of
writing and editing until I go mad luxury, then what other choice do I have?
Besides, all I can do is the best I can, and if I’m doing less than that, I’d better have a damn good reason for it, right?
And if all else fails, there’s still gin.
So, no more whining. The tiny violin concert is over.
Suck it up, buttercup and get yourself a zebracorn.