There are certain things, some would call them signs. Omens portending of the fate of a day, or even an action. Not as dramatic or life altering as a burning bush or raining frogs, but still something that could easily be interpreted as God telling you something that you should heed. This morning I had my own little "Beware the Ides of March", my own Oracle telling me that I was destined to kill my father and marry my mother and my life story would be used by some Austrian guy with cigar fetish and his own mother issues (I don't actually have any mother OR father issues. My court ordered therapy at age 14 after being busted for petty shoplifting - I tried to steal the "Batdance" cassette single on a dare, which just being caught with that in your possession should have been punishment enough in my humble opinion - proved that I was not Oedipal, nor was I gay. Those were the focal points of Mindy's (how the hell do I still remember her name?) psychoanalysis. That and that I was repressing anger. And at age 14 I could have told her all of that and saved my parents some money and myself some time lying on a couch talking to a pregnant woman about my life as a zygote during the regression therapy).
Yes, a sign from the heavens came down and rained upon me during the nascent beginnings of my morning commute today. Literally. A bird shit on my sleeve. Right on the edge of it, just barely missing my arm. And as I reached for the last napkin in the car to wipe it off as best as I could (Wifey burned through the rest blowing her nose. She has been stuffed up since what seems like when Bush had a positive approval rating, but she went to the doctor yesterday and hopefully things will be getting better), I couldn't help but think that God (or if He was too busy, one of his gophers. I like to think that God delegates minor tasks to his boys, and saves his concentration for big things that require attention, like helping keep the peace during the cease fire and stuff) was telling me that maybe the best place for me today would be home. Or at least I should stay indoors. If it had actually gotten on my skin, I would be home right now, getting out of the shower and making a fresh pot of coffee and calling my boss (and also the OM for the office I am assigned to) and telling them that I simply cannot come in, no reason, using one of my personal "Use'em or Lose'em" days and I will speak to them in the morning.
But I am here, and the trauma that I have gone through (not to mention it is a "JJ" Day, another reason I thought long and hard about not being in THIS particular zip code) has caused me to feel like posting any random thing that makes me giggle or otherwise distracts me. Like the Saget video you just watched (you didn't watch it yet? SHAME ON YOU! Watch it now and then come back) and so on. The Joey Lawrence thing is just a continuation from yesterday, but I am glad I got it to work. In the grand scheme of things, the Mario Lopez and Jerry Springer pics are superfluous now. But Jerry does look good all tarted up. He should think of keeping the puffy shirt look.