If, perhaps, you'd been watching from above a little coastal town in Victoria, you would have seen a girl leave a house this morning with a wave to the owners, who were standing in the driveway. She's walking carefully, which you notice is due to a white mug of something warm. She's trying her best not to spill, taking sips approximately every 17 paces. Once, she stops to drink and blows on the mug, fogging up her sun glasses. This she does several times, wondering what it would be like to see the world in a fog. As she begins her descent down the hill into the small coastal town in Victoria, you notice her pause and look down, puzzled. A moment, and then she finds the spot she's sloshed coffee onto without realizing. It won't damage the dark blue skinny jeans, and they were cheap anyway.
The wind tosses her hair around her face, with a charcoal colored headband as her only defense. She checks her watch repeatedly. A few more minutes and she's walking in the door of the local Mexican restaurant. It's the staff meeting she almost forgot to go to. After almost an hour of listening to her boss rail at her and her fellow waitresses, wondering if the criticism is directed at her or others, she interjects.
Look, boss, if you really want to help us, do this. We love working for you, and we love working here. Sometimes we get lazy because it's easy to work here. We hate that you're mad. Why don't we just take a few weeks and you can check in on us. If we improve on the things you say, praise us. If we don't, can us.
The boss stops her and asks her to repeat the last sentence, just to hear her say "can" in an American accent.
She continues. I know you're nice, but really, us getting away with being lazy isn't helping you, or the business, or us, really.
He nods his head in agreement.
A few minutes later, she walks out the door and takes a left. Past the people walking their dogs, past the people sitting on the bench eating ice cream. Another left, and she's at the library. She stops at the returns counter to turn in the second book in the Hunger Games. At this rate, it'll be April before the third one is available. She slumps comfortably into a stack of bean bags and endeavors to finish A Communist Manifesto, grimacing when Marx suggests that having women in common is a step toward progress.
A wander through the shelves and she's collected Cannery Row, A Novel in a Year, The Last Battle, and Penguin's Poems by Heart. Not that she's going to write a novel, you understand. She couldn't write a novel. Besides, not writing a novel would be better than writing one to sit on a shelf growing dusty and neglected. Well, perhaps she is throwing the idea around, except that she has no idea what she would even put in a novel. She debates all these things as she makes her exit.
Wending her way down serpentine sidewalks, she raps on the door of a friend's house. Finding them not at home, she leaves a note on the clothes drying rack, secured with a clothespin. Readjusting the coffee mug she drained during the remainder of the work meeting and attached to her backpack with a carabiner, she wends her way back through the neighborhood.
Back up the hill, devising schemes for a free Saturday afternoon, she leans into the hill, willing herself not to stop. She unlocks the back door and sets about finding lunch. Carrot cake in the fridge that needs to be eaten. That's a start. Dessert first, that's OK because she's 22 and can make mature decisions. Then comes a salad of avocado, tomato and sauteed onions. She's smitten with avocado because she's convinced it will make her hair softer. Pouring a wine glass off iced coffee, she sits at the piano and pulls out the hymnal, wanting to make it through a few old lovelies without too many missteps.
Downing the last drop from the glass, she sets it next to the sink and sits down to browse through Pinterest. While she's here, she decides she ought to do some blogging. So she does.
Love,
Little Miss Sunshine
The wind tosses her hair around her face, with a charcoal colored headband as her only defense. She checks her watch repeatedly. A few more minutes and she's walking in the door of the local Mexican restaurant. It's the staff meeting she almost forgot to go to. After almost an hour of listening to her boss rail at her and her fellow waitresses, wondering if the criticism is directed at her or others, she interjects.
Look, boss, if you really want to help us, do this. We love working for you, and we love working here. Sometimes we get lazy because it's easy to work here. We hate that you're mad. Why don't we just take a few weeks and you can check in on us. If we improve on the things you say, praise us. If we don't, can us.
The boss stops her and asks her to repeat the last sentence, just to hear her say "can" in an American accent.
She continues. I know you're nice, but really, us getting away with being lazy isn't helping you, or the business, or us, really.
He nods his head in agreement.
A few minutes later, she walks out the door and takes a left. Past the people walking their dogs, past the people sitting on the bench eating ice cream. Another left, and she's at the library. She stops at the returns counter to turn in the second book in the Hunger Games. At this rate, it'll be April before the third one is available. She slumps comfortably into a stack of bean bags and endeavors to finish A Communist Manifesto, grimacing when Marx suggests that having women in common is a step toward progress.
A wander through the shelves and she's collected Cannery Row, A Novel in a Year, The Last Battle, and Penguin's Poems by Heart. Not that she's going to write a novel, you understand. She couldn't write a novel. Besides, not writing a novel would be better than writing one to sit on a shelf growing dusty and neglected. Well, perhaps she is throwing the idea around, except that she has no idea what she would even put in a novel. She debates all these things as she makes her exit.
Wending her way down serpentine sidewalks, she raps on the door of a friend's house. Finding them not at home, she leaves a note on the clothes drying rack, secured with a clothespin. Readjusting the coffee mug she drained during the remainder of the work meeting and attached to her backpack with a carabiner, she wends her way back through the neighborhood.
Back up the hill, devising schemes for a free Saturday afternoon, she leans into the hill, willing herself not to stop. She unlocks the back door and sets about finding lunch. Carrot cake in the fridge that needs to be eaten. That's a start. Dessert first, that's OK because she's 22 and can make mature decisions. Then comes a salad of avocado, tomato and sauteed onions. She's smitten with avocado because she's convinced it will make her hair softer. Pouring a wine glass off iced coffee, she sits at the piano and pulls out the hymnal, wanting to make it through a few old lovelies without too many missteps.
Downing the last drop from the glass, she sets it next to the sink and sits down to browse through Pinterest. While she's here, she decides she ought to do some blogging. So she does.
Love,
Little Miss Sunshine
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