Data Entry Data Entry Zzzz...
7:01.
Whine, whine, whine went the alarm.
I had a seriously difficult time remembering which day it was.
Sunday was my first thought.
Back on the ranch, that dead tree was slowly coming down, limb by crackly limb, scattered in skeleton stacks in an artist’s interpretation of the valley of dry bones.
I was told that, upon waking early, the chump had washed himself an apple and gotten busy chomping it up, occasionally walking over to Carrie to inspect her level of asleep-ness. After pounding back and forth through the house for awhile, he decided to let out the cats.
“Mew.”
“Pumpkin! You’re gonna wake up the whole HOUSE!”
Carrie had some time to crash between number crunching, so she established a kissing booth for Puck in the living room. Saran wrap tubes, chair cushion, kitchen bench, and metallic tape.
Twenty-five cents a pop.
Business was lucrative.
Even the cats and bunnies paid their way.
Of course, chocolate cents were also accepted.
“I think Sun just wants so much kisses,” Puck shrugged with a grin.
He was one happy, wealthy five year-old.
The afternoon yawned past lunch with a bowlful of watermelon and data entry with Carrie. Some days are so fast and busy and yet completely slow.
Meanwhile, Puck – Mr. Pink Teeth – was busy trimming “the weeds from all of your strawberries, Grandma!” as he plucked all the stems and tossed them into the trash. Then he confessed with an enthusiastic smile, “But I’m mostly eating them.”
Since I agreed to catalog the library at church, I hitched a ride with Mom up there for the evening while she got the scoop on things at another meeting… that ran twenty minutes late, by the way.
Data entry.
If it’s for a decent purpose, I don’t mind it. So my boys spent the last moments of their evening at home together, while I slugged through stacks of books I’m pretty certain at least 73% will never be read, and of that 73% only 39% of the congregation will even get past the front cover.
Optimism at its best.
I’m sure they are all amazingly pleased that they hired my volunteerism.
Mom, Puck, and I caught sandwiches and burgers on the way out.
So I hadn’t really gotten a good look-about in the old library yet in the 85 degrees that was the thermostat register.
I maybe should have spared my eyes. I wasn’t kidding when I spouted off back in February or something about all Christian fiction bleeding Amish-Western romance.
Blegh.
Frankly, I was rather embarrassed. It sort of makes my skin crawl and my stomach turn sour in a weirdly 1983-but-not-1983 paperback covers of horror.. I’m afraid. About the time I arrived at “Louisiana Brides” somewhere right after “Missouri Brides” and “Maryland Brides”… I was waiting for Hawai’i, but it never showed up.
I need a disclaimer sign on my desk – “I have nothing to do with the contents of this library”.