So another Retrospect day for ya. (Don't be bummed; I am actually having to type the thing in.)
Stacks of old stuff. So here's Thursday, May 18, 2006
Sitting here with a bowl of sour cream and a side of microwaved burrito, I decided to say hello. I wasn't going to write today. Actually, I haven't felt like writing in a while, but I got a sign.
There was a man standing on the side of the road with an empty milk jug, turned sideways, on his head. I didn't know if I was seeing correctly, because sometimes, I don't. But most definitely, a milk jug, bent into a little milk jug hat.
"This must mean it's time to write my friends," because when I see a man on the side of the road with a milk jug on his head, I'm compelled to tell someone. So I go into Food Lion, and the old man that usually bags my groceries is in the meat department.
"Good Morning," he says.
"There's a guy with a milk jug on his head out by the road," I tell him.
"Does he have a long white beard?"
"Yeah, that guy comes in the store sometimes. He seems pretty normal when he speaks, you know. One day he came in and was telling me how to plant my turnip greens."
"He may just need some medicine," he says.
"I bet that's it," and I push my cart to the dyed red cherries.
A thought popped into my mind that perhaps I'm as screwed up as the milk jug guy if I have to talk about him. I'm feeling guilty for gossiping; guilty for thinking I may be in some way superior. Perhaps God is testing me. I think when we talk of others downfalls, we do it out of insecurity...'I'm not so great, maybe I can talk about how screwed up this person is and take the spotlight off of myself.'
You know, you can never take the spotlight off of yourself. You know that, right? The brightest spotlight you will ever see will always be your own. So here I am, writing to you about Milk Jug Hat guy, but revealing that we are all just milk jug hat guy, we just ain't all wearing the same hat. I didn't know when I began this that I would come to this conclusion. You see what rambling does to me?
The young grocery store manager smiles at me and says Hi when I'm leaving. I've had a cold and feel raggedy and tired. I wish I had dressed for the store. Why is it, when a handsome guy smiles at us, we wish we looked better? Even if you're married or have a buggy full of screaming rugrats, or you're 150,000 years old, the young store manager smiles, and you want to look better. What for? I want to get over that. I guess it's the spotlight thing again. I want to be able to smile back, knowing I have spinach in my teeth, and laugh about it.
That's what I want.
So I haven't been writing in the book either. After asking my mother and Steven if they would read the first 80 pages, they said they would when they had time. Months later, they still haven't found a time slot, and discouraged, I wonder if maybe I should take it back before they find the time. I don't know if I ever fully make sense.
The other day, I was driving over a little bridge, over a little creek, and saw something out of the corner of my eye. My first instinctive thought was that it was a tiny beached killer whale (like Orca, just wee tiny). My second thought was to tell myself that I'm completely out of my gourd. More likely it was a white plastic bag. Why on Earth was my first instinct to think there was a killer whale in that tiny creek? Strangely, I saw a man walking down to that creek with a fishing pole the other day, and I laughed to myself.
"He's going to try to catch that killer whale." God help me. Now you are probably wondering if the guy really had a milk jug on his head. I'm telling you, he did. But I am less and less sure of the fact that I make any sense; I can only ramble and write what I know, and hope that you can pick out something that you can relate to.
I gotta run, Shan is having an ice cream picnic & I'm in charge of Reddiwhip and cherries!
Much love to you always~ your truly