While I’ve got the time,

I’m looking out the window that someone at my salary level has no right having. I’m looking at the sun peaking out from between the clouds, and it’s like being smacked in the face with a metaphor. This morning, unlike the mornings of the last three weeks, was a ’50s sitcom morning. The only missing image was me in a suit and tie. The only mismatched image was Cheryl’s Amazing Inflatable Womb. (Pregnant women suggest sexual intercourse, and the last thing the ’50s needed was a bunch of pregnant women running around corrupting the minds of America’s youths; that’s what the ’60s were for.)

It was like someone plugged Beth into my hot-sync cradle and synchronized her with Miss Manners (my sincere apologies go out to the Miss Manners family). No one lost their temper (we recently found them under Beth’s bed next to the missing T.V. remote control). No one needed to be reminded of what had to be done (I remembered to take out the trash the night before). No one spilled anything that required the intervention of a noxious cleaning solution (I just knew that straight jacket would come in handy). No one needed to lay an offering of sacrifice at the altar of the ‘one God’ (sorry, wrong entry).

Ah, John, don’t look now but the clouds are back.

Maybe if I close my eyes I’ll be immune.