Taking some time to do some interpretative bastardized headline haiku where I opine on/process current events.
Here are my first two:
Doomed from Conception
Bathtub in the sky.
Whitney. Bobbi Kristina.
Overdue Merit Badge: Commonsense
Big, bad, scary gays.
You don’t get to lead the boys.
Suck it, homophobes.
Just start, with whatever it is you want to do. You can’t finish something you haven’t started.
So…I’m on vacation…relaxing…reading 10% Happier and learning a thing or two about not being a dick. I was told I didn’t need to read the book because I’m already happy. But why not aim for happier? Or more relaxed? Or something better? Why not aspire?
Great book. Great vacation. And today involved a message to work about whether something needed to wait until I’m back. When I replied that the end goal mattered, and not my participation in every play I new I got it.
Dear St. Anthony, please come ’round…St. Francis’ head is lost and must be found.
Yup. You read that right. My St. Francis garden statue has gone headless. I knew all along that his neck was compromised. The statue was a hand me down from my aunt and uncle when they sold their house, and Frannie was sold as is, with a surgically repaired neck resulting from a run in with my cousin.
For almost 15 years he stood watch over my yard, and I never thought to check in on him during or after the vicious winter. I have a lawn tractor in need of on-site repair and as such I’ve outsourced my grass cutting twice this season, to two different services as I audition landscaping people.
Fourth of July cookout was about 15 minutes in when Joe asked what happened to Francis’ head. I didn’t know anything had happened. But sure enough, the benevolent saint was headless. I went over to retrieve the head, figuring a few hours and a Google search would fix everything. Only the head was nowhere to be found.
Flash forward a day, to me with a rake. Searching for the head. It was bowed forward so it should have rolled forward. If either of the lawn guys clipped it, I would have expected to see concrete chips. Nothing. No head, no evidence, no nothing.
An omen? Of what? A sign? Of what?
I’m perplexed. Flummoxed. Stumped. Stymied. And hoping. Upon hope that St. Anthony helps out a brother and finds Frannie’s head.
I’ll mull it over as I watch the women’s World Cup final. Up 2-0 early. USA.