This early in the day, it's not quite so oppresive in the office. This has become my typing time, though not today because today is an actual "work day." Not to imply, not for a second, that I don't work on the other days of the week. I, in fact, feel as though I am working all the time lately. My weekends and weekdays have become one and the same, save for Tuesdays, when I dress up like a grownup and go off to the world of getting paid for what I do. My job the rest of the week is rewarding in its own right--I get paid in sticky hugs and joyful cries of "Mama!" when I walk into a room and the uncanny ability to be the only one who knows what someone else wants. I wouldn't trade that for a million dollar paycheck.
Despite needing to prepare my house for a Pampered Chef party last night, I sat glued to the television for an hour and watched the Michael Jackson verdict. I'm not sure why I felt the need to learn his fate right along with him, but I couldn't look away. I remember the 13-year-old me packing for Stefani Myers' sleepover. In the car went my sleeping bag and pillow, my travel toothbrush in its sparkly case, snacks to share with the crowd, and my copy of Thriller, just in case there wasn't one there. Twelve girls in the basement eating raw cookie dough out of it's pillsbury sleeve. Twelve copies of Thriller lined up against the wall. "Wanna Be Starting Something" playing in the background. Much discussion on the beauty of Ola Ray in the foreground.
I can't believe I remember Ola Ray's name.
And now, it appears, I am making myself late for Tuesday. Stay cool, all.
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