a song of sixpence

welcome to wax-on weekend!

yes, much as you dreamed, this, finally, is the weekend where you get to clean the entire house and hang a bunch of pictures! oh wait. i meant me. this is the weekend where i get to do those things.

and although it is slightly disturbing how overjoyed my wife is by such cleanliness and orderliness, i must admit:

things look better.

for example, you can see light through the back windows now! there are no happy trails of last month's syrup down the cupboard fronts! all the glass jars of foodproduct have been re-labelled incorrectly for maximum confusion!

my favourite is the coffee. the jar does not say coffee any more. now it reads, "grandpa."

this is how we will foil the roving gang of grocery thieves that plague the neighbourhood.

this weekend i have been also struggling with the sad fact that i'm just not making enough money. it's not for a lack of WANTING, because surely i want money. it might be for lack of earning, but tests are still inconclusive.

truth is, if we are ever going to be able to afford to fly back to san francisco and eat burritos i must convince the sultan of brunei that my sock drawer would be a fine place to hide some mad money. does anyone know the sultan?

alternately, i might have to get a temp job or something. that would be cool. i look good with a zombie pallor. i have a dress shirt somewhere.

i do believe that my whole freelance copywriting plan will work, it's just not quite working yet. i am optimistic and realistic and spastic.

i'll try one more big push, including trying to convince people in the states to hire me from afar, and then i will get a job slinging slushies at Big Nate's Weiner Shed. there is only so much not-earning a man can take.

anyone need anything written? i can distribute writs good.

to prove this, i have finally (almost) finished my article about ethiopia. i like it again, except for the ending.

it is entitled Vampires from Venus.

i will leave you with this cheery little song:

Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds, Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing;

Was not that a dainty dish, To set before the King?

The king was in his counting-house, Counting out his money;

The queen was in the parlour, Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden, Hanging out the clothes,

There came a little blackbird And snapped off her nose.

wink wink.