three little thoughts

Whenever I open my checkbook to balance it, whenever I set out to update my perpetual stash of dreaded paperwork, whenever my eye wanders carelessly over to that pile of unsorted newsletters and bank statements on my over-loaded dresser ... something funny temporarily takes over my worldview. The only good thing I can think of to say about it is that it most certainly expands my capacity for enjoyment in life. Faced with any (or, occasionally, all) of the above-mentioned tasks, I am suddenly struck by the hitherto-unnoticed allure of almost innumerable other activities. Very nearly all other activities, as a matter of fact.


Shall we hike barefoot across Siberia? You're on!

So I'm invited to a tea party with Obama on a bed of nails! Why not?

You're offering surfing lessons in a shark tank? It's a date!

Ever thought of taking up permanent residence in a Himalayan convent? Sounds phenomenal.

As you can see, the simple act of signing in to my online banking account unwittingly triggers an instantaneous and exponential increase in my ability-to-have-fun-no-matter-what (AthFnmW) levels. [The "no-matter-what" part of that title, of course, excludes by definition anything to do with checkbooks, paperwork, junk mail, or money.]

But it's a good thing, right? I mean, the more things you can do and still be having fun, the more often you'll probably end up ... having ... fun. Even if your checkbook never does get balanced, and you don't even realize you're broke until you find yourself living in a refrigerator box somewhere in New Hampshire, gnawing on a soup bone for nourishment.

But maybe that's on your list of Fun Things, too, so even that doesn't matter. The main point is that there's got to be a better solution than just buckling down and doing the checkbook thing. Or the paperwork thing. Or whatever.

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Also, if you've been out of state for a week, and come back, and ask your mom what's new since you've been away (like I did), and she says something like, "Well, nothing really, that I can think of," don't believe her. Everything, in fact, has changed.
*A new bedspread will have been purchased and laid out, to great effect.
*Your sister will be baking a slightly inexplicable, but undeniably delicious, chocolate cake. 
*Of the three barn kittens you didn't know existed, one will have been killed by the evil family dog, and the two that survive will be shockingly adorable.
*The electric keyboard will have been moved from the old music room (now Dad's home office) to ... drum roll ... the kitchen.
*Mulch and plants will surround one of the front trees in an unprecedented manner.
*The old TV, previously sporting nothing but a capability to play movies, will suddenly be equipped with a million and three channels, thanks to the installation of cable.
*Thanks to the above-mentioned operation, most of the living room furniture will still be out in the middle of the room.
*Boris the rabbit, family pet, will have been having a gunky eye and a slightly listless disposition; the day after you return home, he will die.
*The younger brother's baseball season will have begun in earnest.
*The one and only lilac bush on the farm will have bloomed, flourished, and withered before you got a chance to return and smell more than its last, perishing scent.
*You'll have been mailed at least one thank-you note, and an invitation to a baby shower taking place somewhat far away, and really rather soon.
*A gargantuan plastic tub of off-brand cheetos will be on the floor next to the food shelves. You'll probably eat most of what's left inside.
*Et cetera.
Never believe it when people say nothing is new. Everything is new.

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Not that it matters, or has anything to do with anything, but if my blogger stats speak the truth, it seems that more people from across the globe randomly stumble upon my blog when I don't write, than when I do. Curiouser and curiouser.

Not that I blame them. Not that I blame you. Whoever you are.