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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

More in Julie's Poetic Prattlings & Creative mishaps

Journal
Another attempt at online journaling


Let's see how long before this one dies.

on June 7 2007

...and that is why I'll never be rich

My only hope lies in winning the lottery or the passing of a long lost uber-wealthy uncle.

I had been approached by a close friend's mother to design some invitations for a personal event.  She insisted when giving me the job that she wanted me to charge her regular price.  I told her "no" from the start.  My reason being that she was like family, and I wouldn't charge my sister, mother, or aunt full price, so she'd get a break too.  Still, she insisted.

So, the other night she came by to pick up the cards and asked for the total.  I hesitated, but gave her a solid, honest quote that was under my "commercial rates" but that still paid for my time.  I quickly added, "but, really, pay me what you're comfortable with."  I noticed her flinch.  It was more than she was counting on.  But she didn't say anything, she just asked if that covered materials and printing.  I assured her it did.  And she left me with a check.  

I was conflicted.  To be fair, I hadn't given her a quote up front.  I wasn't planning on charging her, let alone full price.  But she insisted.  I slept on it, and after a poor night's sleep, I returned the check the next day.

I seriously could have used the money.  I could have made that check stretch nicely, and we're not talking thousands of dollars here, but about a full-day's pay.

Now I'm waiting to see if she just pays me for the materials (since I returned that too, as it was included in the check), or what.  I hope I didn't offend her, but, really, our little boy calls her "Grandma" -- I couldn't take that money she wasn't planning on paying. 

And that, my friends, is why I'll never be rich. 



on May 29 2007

To the tune of "Happy Birthday"

It's another Tuesday.
that feels like Monday.
I'm another year older
but I feel the same way.

on May 25 2007

Really, not all that much of a surprise...

I've still got yankee in me...



Your Linguistic Profile:



75% General American English



10% Yankee



5% Dixie



5% Midwestern



0% Upper Midwestern

on May 22 2007

A Married Woman's Crushes

Somewhere inside, lives the teeny-bopper I never was.


Rolling Stone Cover - June 2007
Rolling Stone Cover - June 2007

To start, I have always been a late bloomer.  I mean, despite the fact that I had a "boyfriend" in preschool (Georgie was a red-head...), and "dated" the same guy from 6th grade through sometime my senior year (because we looked cute together), I really didn't have a honest-to-goodness irrational-infatuational crush until almost two months after I was married. 

Scratch that.  Of course, I had a crush on my husband before I married him, ... and before that I had a crush on that other guy... and that guy who dumped me in college... and the guy I had to break up with to date my now-husband...

 What I meant to say was "crush on a celebrity."

I didn't care about the New Kids on the Block, or... I don't know who else girls had crushes on then. Oh, yeah, didn't gush for David Ducovony either, unlike one of my best friends, an X-File head.

I didn't care.

They were distant beings from another world.  They still are.  There was no reason to lust after them, not even in the pink-bubblegum-teeny-b way.

Enter "Pirates of the Caribbean" and Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

Now, at nearly 27, I'm one with the masses of 12-year-olds. 

I bring this up because Mr. Depp is on the cover of June's Rolling Stone... and... well... really, he's hot.

That and my husband suggested going to see Pirates 3 at the opening midnight showing this Thursday night, which I'd jump at except that... it seems wrong. 

Thursday is our anniversary.

 

 

on May 19 2007

Another attempt at online journaling


Let's see how long before this one dies.

 

I'm lousy at keeping up with journals. I always have been. So don't expect this to be any different. I won't.

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