Friday Morning

Friday morning.

Monday and Tuesday mornings are normally pretty good--the house is still clean, laundry is all tidy and put away, etc. Wednesdays are worse, and by Thursday morning, piles of laundry have mysteriously appeared, trash is piling up, the kitchen's sanitation level is questionable at best, my plants are crying out reproachfully for water, the dog is annoying, Jelly Roll tries to pee in the litter pan while I'm scooping it, etc. Two work days are left, and Thursday evenings I have to work at the gallery. The dread, the bitter dread of the gallery. Thursday mornings have little going for them, except maybe for the anticipation of a new episdoe of The Office.

Friday mornings are a bazillion times better, for various reasons:

1. It's Friday.

2. It's casual day.

3. I get out of work 30 minutes early on Fridays.

4. Frequently, attendance at a happy hour occurs.

This morning I showered and dressed quickly (and didn't even have my usual mournful thought that getting out of the shower is the saddest moment of the day) so I'd have time to do some cleaning up. Then things took a slightly non-Friday turn. As I was cheerfully covering every surface in the kitchen with a thick layer of 409, I heard growling and thumping on the deck. I looked out to see our IDIOT of a dog ferociously and blissfully destroying the grill cover. (For the second time, with the second grill cover.)

I opened the door and ordered him to "GET IN HERE." He stared at me for several long seconds, then shot through the door like a flash of red doggie lightening. I had to chase him down to the basement, where he was leaping around and wriggling like it was the Best Most Awesomely Fun Playtime Ever! and he was completely nonplussed by my cries of "BAD DOG. BAD DOG!" I dragged his joyful squirming 71 pound body up to his kennel where he gleefully started spinning in circles. Suddenly, he stopped, looked up at my scowling face, and he dropped his head and his tail went between his legs.

This from the same dog who will fake-shiver when it is 60 degrees outside, just so you'll let him in.

Ignoring his deceitful tragic eyes, I finished the kitchen.

Next Friday task: taking out the trash, because it's trash day. I put the bag of kitchen trash by the front door, and went down to get the den's trash--usually a savory mixture of beer bottles, water bottles, soda cans, and peanut shells. Of course, of course, the bag broke and deposited a sticky and not-very aromatic mess of bottles, old beer and/or soda, and shells on the floor. PERFECT.

And then, my car's burning smell is getting worse, and now in addition to the shaking and nearly dying constantly, I've got an extremely high-pitched whistling noise going on. My car is terrible. Justin's Jeep is also terrible. Two cantankerous 1995 vehicles with nearly 157,000 miles on them? Pending disaster.

Anyway, made it to work, where I was immediately cheered up by posters the elementary school kids made to warn the high schoolers about the dangers of drugs. They're on sheets of typing paper, laminated, and are fairly hilarious. (I'm a terrible person and had first thought the high schoolers made them, and kept thinking, "Surely their handwriting is better than THAT. Surely they can color in the lines better than THAT.")

These anti-drug posters are magnificent works, making use of marker, poorly-erased pencil lines, and crayon. Many feature lizards, dubious threats, alternative options to smoking/"sniffing"/drinking, and several make references to "Tar Wars."

My favorites are two that spout these wise phrases scrawled across the page painstakingly:

1. "Don't smoke it can make you have cancer."

2. "It doesn't kill not to be dead."

Have a stupidly good weekend,

black sheeped