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Yeah, so I didn’t really offer much in the way of summing up the many months since my last entry in that ‘Perspective’ throw-off last night, and since the wife has fallen quietly asleep in the next room without the benefit of her goodnight kiss, I suppose I should use this time to try and put the intervening chronology in some sort of order.

The road has been rocky and full of holes between here and there, friends. As should be obvious by my use of the qualifier ‘wife,’ my sweet babboo and I did indeed tie the proverbial knot at last. It was a beautiful service, just fifteen or so of us standing down by the river, with my father joining our hands and helping us gently with our lines. Sadly, inexplicably, we lost the baby we were expecting, but I have to believe that it simply wasn’t time yet for Little Blindspot to burst onto the scene and save the world from certain destruction. The lady of the house lost her job, too, and has yet to find a replacement, which has left me to work two of my own on a seven-days-a-week schedule. Such is the life of two struggling college dropouts living under Murphy’s Martial Law.

Or, rather, was. Only this past Wednesday, sitting at a long conference room table in front of a window through which the light of grace shone, I got a new job. A GOOD new job, with a real live salary and benefits and everything. You’d almost think I was some kind of adult or something, huh? It doesn’t start for two more weeks, but if I can manage not to ruin it, this will be the gig that’ll carry us through my planned return to the hallowed halls of academia and our planned return to the endless waterslide of parenthood. Even the cats are happy.

Now if I could just start writing again. Something more than a few hasty paragraphs in this poor neglected diary, please. I’m not asking — I’m praying.

perspective

For the past several months, I've been working as a facilities manager at a church. This is a fancy way of saying I'm a janitor. It isn't quite that simple, but it's close enough. Most of my time is spent ridding the floors in the preschool building of their typical childlike droppings — cookie crumbs, Kool-aid splashes, soggy Crunchberries, crushed corn chips, and what must cumulatively have been eighty pounds of glitter by now, having missed its gluey mark and sifted down into the carpet like pixy dust. Funny how it seems the sweeter the mess, the easier it is to clean up. Damn, but they really should be teaching these kids how to flush the toilet.

Anyhow, one of my favorite fringe benefits of the gig has been snooping the stuff that appears on the walls of this same education building. Its upper level houses the church's Sunday school classrooms, and recently a white sheet of posterboard appeared in the fifth grade room which I feel casts an interesting perspective on the recent worldly madness. It reads:

THAT'S NOT FAIR!

— An old lady in Atlanta was digging through the garbage for food.

— I don't think the President has been treated fairly about Iraq.

— When people get more goldfish than me.