The Time: Wednesday Morning. 11 am.
The Place: Office of slavitude
The Crime: Boredom in the first degree
Nobody is posting today. Everybody in the world either has office parties, or days off, or anything better to do than to write and entertain me. Even Uber-Auntie Tuna is having a more exciting day than I am -- and she just made corn. I'm going to pout and eat worms. Except I can't. Because the worms have wisely gone underground. It sucks to be an early bird. Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out of bed.
I have an office full of things to do, and I don't want to do a single one of them. New scores? Bleah. New CDs? Bleah. Old problems? Not on your life. Shifting? Nope. Shelving? NopeNope. Straightening? NopeNopeNope. What's a Tuna to do?
I feel like the little kid who whines "I'm bored" and then declines the next forty-six suggestions of something to do. I'm suffering from adult-onset ennui, coupled with acute motivational depletion and general holiday fatigue. I whine that I want to go home, but honestly, if I went home I'd either rock in my coma-chair and flip through channels or lay down and snooze for a bit.
TinyTuna and I managed to get our tree a week ago, but didn't put anything on it until last night. As a reward for mathematical excellence on her multiplication test (She aced it baby! 100 questions in 3 minutes) I promised her we would decorate the tree. It took everything I had to get the lights on, and once that was done, I let her go to town. She did most of it by herself, and I did the ornaments up high. Because she is chock-full of the holiday ho-ho-ho's, her tree decorating was accompanied non-stop by her own special spontaneous poetry
Oh look, it is a lovely star,
That we can see from near and far,
I shall put it on the tree
and it will shine for you and me....
Keep in mind, this is normal for her. She sings to herself and recites poetry to herself all the time. The horrible, too-tired, grinchy adult wanted the anvil of shut-up to stun her temporarily. However, the mom in me took over, and I let her entertain herself in her own holly jolly kind of way. After all, who am I to crush her inner Ralph Waldo Emerson? And who knows. Maybe some of that enthusiasm will rub off.
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