That's who God watches out for, according to my grandpa.
Rather, that's what my mom says my grandpa used to say all the time. I wouldn't know, as I never had a lucid conversation which I can remember with my grandpa. He had a great cowboy hat, though. I do remember that.
I fit both categories on the drive out here. "Gormless" and "inattentive" would be better words, but whatever.
Despite malfunctioning tail lights, body lights, fuses and wires, and faltering confidence and stamina, I arrived, in the midst of a PNW-worthy downpour, at my editor's home at 1:30 in the a.m. Good grief.
The first week on the job was fantastic, if you cut out some really fantastic goof-ups by yours truly.
Those include:
Day 2 On the Job: I locked myself out of the building because I left my key card in my desk.
Day 4 On the Job (this is really good): At 4 p.m., when I was supposed to be in an editorial meeting, I was in the wrong state, because I had missed a turn and wound up on a bridge that took me not to my parking lot, but to Oregon. OREGON. The phone call to explain why I wasn't there was every bit as pathetic as you can imagine.
I spent part of my first weekend here in search of a beach where I could walk in the rain, coast-starved Wyomingite-style. When I pulled in at an oyster farm to ask directions, I instead wound up sharing a dinner of steamed oysters and clams and a bottle of wine with Dan, the owner. And then we went to the beach at twilight, in the midst of mist and fog. For what started out as just an aimless attempt to see some sea, it turned out to be a pretty fantastic afternoon.
Pictures will eventually be posted, but in the meantime, I remain convinced that I made the right decision - the BEST decision.
