A bouquet of corndogs

This past week has been a pinball machine of potpourri. One day I’m eating pizza with a widowed land baroness friend, another I’m fretting over a client’s potentially-broken weed whacker. On a different occasion, I’m sitting in a bar with a friend in town from hippie country California discussing train-hopping. The next day, I drive her to the actual train station, arriving in that tiny window of time that could teeter-totter in either direction of catching or missing a 16 hour ride home. (She caught it). I spent time pulling blue bells in the rain, digging up sod in the sun, listening to radio R&B a little too loudly on my way to the suburbs. I drank too much wine in a classy restaurant, prepared mac n’ cheese from a box, listened to a kindergartner tell me everything he knows about the game Minecraft. I scoped out my neighbor’s stenciled pizza box art, dumped an ongoing lawn maintenance gig, made fun of Stephanie’s dad’s flamboyant recipe descriptions, got the lowdown on an indoor house painting job, did some yoga, went hiking in the mud, watched Ms. Swan sketches on YouTube and the Pioneer Woman make ham salad on The Food Network. I helped fix a TV, made too many trips to Fred Meyer, played dodgeball with stuffed animals, inhaled the delightful aroma of viburnum flowers, texted with a friend experiencing insomnia in Bangladesh. And finally, after a morning of messy watercolors and Barbie doll hair artistry, helped kids make stuff with Legos in a library while being observed by a possible future supervisor.

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