So in the past few days, I’ve been told that I’m not competent to run a cash register because of the color of my hair, my microwave died, and the driver’s side window on my car is apparently going through a rebellious phase and refuses to go up half the time. I spent all day yesterday pounding the pavement (literally; I was pissed off and stomping up the sidewalk) looking for jobs, and I got two offers: one from an old drunk who offered me 20 bucks to go to the drum circle that had been held the night before, and one from a guy who wants to dress me up and take my picture. (That one seems legit, and I might go for it.)
Now I have “The Boxer” in my head. I don’t think there’s a Seventh Avenue here, though.
Anyway. I’m in a funk. A big, sucky, stinky, fuck-the-world-and-everything-in-it funk.
And then driving home today, I’m talking to beloved about the photo shoot thing, and he tells me he doesn’t care for the shots I did a few years ago, because I don’t look like me in them. [In my mind, that’s a good thing. I’m not the least photogenic, and the only way I like being in front of the camera is if I don’t look like myself. And these were for a zombie calendar, so it’s probably good that I don’t always look bloody and half-eaten.] And then a minute later, out of the blue, I catch him looking at me (and not the road-it’s a good thing he drives like a little old man) and he says, “You’re pretty. I like looking at you.”
And then I remembered that I was on the way home to our little house, and my babies would be home soon, and that every day I get to wake up next to the nicest man in the world, with the knowledge that I created the most amazing kids in the world, and the funk didn’t leave but I got a little of my fuck-off attitude back and I decided not to let it take away all my happiness.
So I came home and fed the dog, and looked at my little world through happier eyes, and captured a bit of it on film. I needed a bit of pretty today. Here is what I found.