Child's Play

I'm back where I started. Or at least it feels that way. It just seems that lately, whenever I establish some forward motion, there's something that stops the chugga-chugga. And then there I am chasing my tail again. I've got to read "The Little Engine That Could" again, cause damn I could use some "I-think-I-can" mumbo-jumbo now. Geez, what do I have to do to pull over this seemingly insurmountable mountain? The woman I respected and admired a little while ago has turned out to be a lout, at least at the moment - she's out of commission. What happens in the interim of people liking me and potentially employing me, and then, these same people falling into the chasm of oblivion, one by one. It's like they're in line. They took a number. "I'll have the tenderloin, and I'll ignore Clover some more. Let's see if she can stand it, or more precisely, stand it out." Chugga-chugga - that's what I've got to keep telling myself. And that's what I had to tell myself the other night when I was sleeping at my parent's house, babysitting my furry sister - the dog, Billie, while my parents are out of town. There I was, next to pitter-patter. Oh, that Billie, she really has some amazing nails that make an amazing noise when she walks on the parkay floor. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, my heart. Is that my heart? Or is that Billie's nails? Here I am, feeling like a child in my parent's home - unemployed, surveying my childhood at arm's length. There are my books, my Barbies, my Archie's (remember Archie and the gang?) Am I still that child unable to break loose? God no. I've always had good jobs. What the hell happened? What continues to happen? Chugga-chugga! Oh, that's right. Break the negative thought process right away, before it sprouts more negativo. Negativo to the Nth degree. No, no it will be fine. I will break out of this. Chugga-chugga! At some point, the kids will be tired of taking numbers, or the numbers will run out, and there will be no more reason to hang my tenderloin on the tender-hooks. Chugga-chugga...Chugga-chugga. Chugga-chugga! Chugga! Chugga! Oh wait pitter-patter, I think-I-can, I-think-I-can, I-think-I-can. I'm going up the mountain again. And if it weren't for my parents going away, and little pitter-patter, I wouldn't have found my dusty "The Little Engine That Could" buried under "The Story Of O," and "Ramona Quimby, Age 8." What does that say about the way my mind has been conditioned to work? No comment. Just a little chugga-chugga. I'll take a number now. And, oh look, it's number one.