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Without even having to take a poll, it seems that at least half of Word Shadows readers feel a dog is just the thing I need to scarf up left-over pizza crusts.  Sounds good!  I’m almost persuaded except for that one teeny tiny problem with this unofficial non-taken poll - 50% readership means Katy and Daisy.  I would have a hard time breaking my newly signed lease agreement (I moved only last month) because two women I don’t know thought it was a good idea.  For crying out loud, one loves pink and the other tortures her husband, although in a loving and caring fashion.  And always with the best of intentions.

But I’ve made bigger decisions in life based on shakier grounds.  Once I bought a new truck even though I didn’t have a job.  It seemed like such a good way to get rid of three junker cars.  Such a deal!  I thought I was coming out on top, which, of course, I wasn’t.  One is seldom on top in a car dealership.  Young and naive, my will power weakened by the highly waxed shine and new-car smell, I hadn’t yet figured out that salesmen bend boys like me over their desks several times a day.  I signed my name and walked away smiling.  Sure I was sore, but I just thought the problem was with the seats.  They just need to be broken in I thought.

This morning I am like a little boy at the dinner table, staring down at a plate of untouched food.  Nothing looks good.  I poke it with my fork, hoping time will somehow come to my rescue.  Everything has grown cold, except for my parents, who only eat faster and grow more angry by the minute.  The air over the table is tense and electric.  Something is about to give if I don’t get down to business.  Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I know that the lightning is not far behind.  I have never won this fight.  I know this.  But I sit there still, not looking up.

This morning I sit at my desk, once again afraid to move.  No, not afraid.  Just not wanting to.  Wanting anything except the meal that’s been placed in front of me.

My plate is my life.  Work is my meal.  Writing my desert.

What’s so scary about this?  The trick to a two month old pile of work and mail is to search through your closet for a magician’s hat and cape.  The whole thing is nothing more then a magic trick.  If it’s the clothes that make the man, then this calls for the proper hat!

A Simple Magic Trick

With two hands, pick up your deck of mail carefully.
The order may very well be important for the trick to work successfully.
Split the pile into two stacks - personal on the right, business on the left.
Any jokers remaining in the deck should be discarded at this time.
Jokers include all credit card applications, advertisements, magazines, and coupons.
Old, unopened Christmas cards should be placed in a separate pile.
These will be opened next year, when it feels “Christmasy” again.
Make your checkbook appear with a flourish of exotic hand movements.
Note:  a cape will only get in the way if you keep your checkbook in your back pocket.
Write checks for all credit card statements.
Pay only the oldest utility and telephone bills.
Don’t worry:  they need you more then you need them.
Say, “Are they crazy?” as you look over a threatening non-compliance letter from the Census Bureau.
Place it on the bottom of the stack, being careful to remember it’s location, so that you are fined not more than $5,000 or imprisoned not more then five years, or both.
Pay any insurance bills if you or anyone in your family recently totaled a vehicle.
Now, you should have three piles: one personal, one unopened business, and one outgoing with checks written.
Return the first two piles to the inbox.
Mail the third pile, saying (and here’s the important part) “abracadabra”.  This must be said the exact moment the mail disappears from sight.  Don’t worry if you don’t have enough money in the bank.  That’s why you say the magic words.
Return to writing.

Remember, money management is just simple magic.  Keep in mind that the entertainment lies solely in the illusion.  Even the poorest fool can trick himself if he shows enough confidence.

I’m almost to the point where I should finally go and make that About Me page, where the idea is to capture the essence of your life in a tidy little list.  I have a hard time thinking of anything fitting into a list.  The plots always seem too big and unknowable.

But I’ll begin working on it, so that everyone with better other things to do but no desire to do them can feel like they’ve laid their ear against my head and listened to the memories of my life click by like the sound from an old movie projector.

But I would encourage patience on your part.  The list is fragile and worn.  The film of my life, like all of yours, has been spliced and patched many times.  Memory is the tape that holds it all together, and like old scotch tape, my memories are also faded, brittle, yellowed things. 

But I’ll make the list, and it’ll seem like a new film of an old thing.  Everyone can pull out their screens and we’ll watch the movie together.  If we’re lucky, it’ll make sense.  If we’re really lucky, it won’t be a three blanket movie.  And if we’re really, really lucky, no one will fall asleep the moment the lights dim.