Wow, I only wrote on thirteen out of the twenty-one normally-writeable-on days this month. That’s likely my worst blogging ratio on a month in quite some time. Vacation and family in town’ll do that to a blogger, though, I suppose. I ask no forgiveness. That’s just what I do. Deal.
Last night I decided to randomly make some banana bread after cleaning up the kitchen post-dinner (I love baking, for some reason), and then decided not to write at all. That’s just what I do. Deal.
Now I’m sitting here thinking about work, and how I don’t want to go there tomorrow.
I do that often, actually (if I may write a sentence or two off-topic): I think about work a lot. Actually, I think about everything a lot – I pretty much over-think nearly everything I think about. Not like some sort of paranoid obsessive thinking, just thinking things through from multiple angles. In the case of my over-thinking approach to work, I’m convinced this is part of the reason I’m successful at the sawmill. It may sound conceited, but I feel like my morning-shower, on-the-john, driving-to-work, drifting-off-to-sleep mind-wandering about all things career helps me turn over rocks I otherwise would miss. Yeah, OK, let’s get it on.
Lately, Keaton’s got this new thing she does which kinda unnerves me. We’ll be playing around on the floor: me propped up against the little half-wall in our living room and her climbing all over me like I’m a jungle gym. She looks me in the eye, cocks her head a bit and move in closer – her gaze fixed on my nose. As she moves in closer still, I can see her eyes locked onto my nostrils as she raises her hand to point. Slowly, as if she’s doing something with terrible gravity, she stretches her finger to my face, touching my nostril and saying “Uhhhh-gooooo” with such a pained look of concern on her her face it makes me wonder if there aren’t worms crawling out of my nose. Her little face looks like she saying, “Oh Lord, dad… there is… really something wrong with your nose.” Can make a guy self conscious, y’know?
This past weekend Sharaun and I attended a wedding. I’m a total homo for weddings, a complete pussy for ’em. It’s hard for me not to get all choked up when I see fathers’ “giving away” their daughters (I felt that way long before Keaton) or sweet little flower girls doubtfully poking their way down the aisle. But the clincher is always the public proclamation of raw human emotion (or, at least, the proffering of such). I get drawn in by all the sincerity and weight of the whole affair, and almost always find myself having to redirect my wandering mind to somewhere else so I don’t end up in tears. But, I like weddings.