Okay, enough about the holes. ENOUGH! They're filled, already. I know I've been whining about work a lot lately. I admit it. (Now I know where my 3-year-old gets it.) But, man, I am sore. Seems to be my lot in life. I just can't get these jobs finished. They're dragging on like daytime soaps. (As The Concrete Trailer Turns, The Guiding Shovel, or, my favorite, General Contractor.) Enough!

At least the lampreys have migrated on. You know you've been working a lot lately when you come home and the kids' vocabulary has doubled. Also, they start asking bigger, smarter questions. Probing questions that cut to the heart of matters. Just the other day, the Little Ditchman asked "Where does money come from?" to which I had a million-and-a-half snappy, sarcastic retorts. Mommy fielded the question, though I didn't catch what she went with. I guess I would have just bit my tongue and said "work", but I have a feeling that wouldn't satisfy the toddler sensibility. A kid sees their parents go off to work and just thinks, Sheez. Won't play with me. How selfish.

Just for fun, I'm gonna go ask her right now where she thinks money comes from...

Back. She said, "When you go to work and you build them a patio, they give you money." Hmm. Impressive. Then she hastened to add, "Also, I can give you money from my piggy bank." Let it be known that today I prefer the latter.

So, she must be well-coached. I wonder what she thinks all the other parents do for money, more patios? Anyway, I can't help but wish she had described some other passionate or artistic endeavor of mine, but alas, that's life. Art is worthless. If you're getting money for making it, it's a commodity whose integrity is influenced by that burning need for cash. (That's not necessarily a bad thing, although I think the preferred term for art is "priceless".)

Gotta go out and get some money. What do you think I do? Sit around and blog all day for free?

Enough!

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