The newspaper

Aron brought home the newspaper yesterday, and it reminded me that there's a world out there. I fell asleep last night thinking about taco shells, or maybe I was thinking about my old job, where I both sold tacos and fried taco shells. When someone ordered a taco I'd have to ask, "Would you like your taco hard or soft?" Surprisingly often a customer would respond, "I don't care," to which I'd say, "Me either. But a soft taco costs thirty cents more than a hard one." It was an awful but interesting job—interesting to experience, not to talk about, so I shouldn't talk about it. But I fell asleep vividly recalling the sensations of taking customers' orders, which I did for two years, starting shortly after moving to Athens and ending when I was seven months pregnant, when my hormones were at such a rolling boil that I told a customer who asked the most popular menu item that I was a cashier, not a statistician.

Graham and I listen to The Economist radio program most mornings, another piece of evidence in support of the notion that things exist outside this house. We also often sit on the porch.

In the newspaper I saw an ad listed for a part-time position for something called a "program director." It's eighteen hours a week at ten dollars at hour. I can email writing samples and a résumé to the company. I could squeeze eighteen hours out of a week. It would look like the occasional pieces of spaghetti that poke through the colander holes. But my eighteen hours are at awkward times:  late night, early morning. And I have no idea what a writing sample is. "Upon an island hard to reach, the east beast sits upon his beach. Upon the west beach sits the west beast. Each beach beast thinks his beach is best." That's a writing sample:  it's a sample of Dr. Seuss' writing. The only reason I was drawn to the "program director" listing is because I doubt that it's serious but am confident that it sounds serious. Maybe on my résumé I can write that for two years I was the program director of taco shells.

The newspaper also had an ad imploring me to adopt a cat, which I have been wanting to do for as long as I've been alive. When I was pregnant, we were too afraid to get a cat. When Graham was a newborn, we were too afraid to get a cat. But I think we are all now prepared to invite Minga, who is "fine with kids," into our home. Aron is never going to bring me the paper again.

I realize that this post was about nothing. But it's my 50th post.