Measured Extravagance

08 January 2003 - 11:16 a.m.

Allison Hazen keeps a journal I think some of you regulars might enjoy. Me, I'm predisposed towards anyone who shares my dismay at the dilution of superlatives:

When my significant other says that I am the “purdiest (although, in the redneck South we spell that with a 't') thing he ever did see,” I can only wonder whether that same sentiment has also likely been expressed to his mother, his online friends, a Camel at the Luxor, a girl on the corner, his favorite underwear, some well-cooked pasta, and possibly John Lee Malvo.

Yesterday's mail brought one solicitation from a charity, another from a PAC, a letter from a law firm addressed to the former residents of the house, a landscaping catalog addressed to a resident predating them, photographs of a baby cousin, and another "almost but not quite" rejection notice. The "not quite" is vexing, of course, but "try us again" is heartening.

Trying, I am: five submissions sent out this week, plus a follow-up letter (there's a set from October 2001 that I'm guessing never reached the editor), and there's a sixth set of poems on the front burner. I didn't plan for this to be a writing-centric week, but that's how it's unfolded so far.

That, and tackling stuff on the lower rungs of the to-do list. I didn't sleep too well over the weekend (the BYM was away), which meant I've been in the state of out-of-sortedness perfect for dealing with stuff like lost pants (time to find a new dry-cleaner, I think), cell phone tech issues (according to the customer service rep, it isn't possible to decrease the number of rings required for voicemail to kick in. Which makes me want to give the manufacturer what-for: I seldom wait through seven rings to leave a message - why should my clients? Grrr!), and other tedia.

I also cleaned behind and under the fridge, which netted two small Kong toys, one CD, assorted recycling handouts, at least four rawhide strips, and the usual herd of dust buffaloes. Nope, I just don't feel much like working on layouts this week. I should, though, and so I shall. (And the BYM is back, which heralds the return of sleeping well and sortedness.) G'day, y'all.

Two years ago, a quote from Zen Guitar: "Those who put in the time, training, and effort will find their belt getting so soiled that eventually it turns black of its own accord."

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