I smiled until my face hurt.

It didn't take long, either. This morning, on the way to work, the strangest notion popped into my consciousness. I decided to smile all morning, or at least for as long as possible. Not sure why, but I did. My face started hurting within minutes. Now, some could say that the root cause of this is the fatigue of muscles that are not used enough to keep them flexible enough to maintain the required tension. Or something like that. My mom would have said that I frowned too much and my face froze that way, so smiling was an unnatural act. Yeah, whatever. I did give it an effort, though.

I did smile when I finished the cart this afternoon, repainting everything down to the bolt heads, with exception of the wooden castors. I'll smile even more when I put it all back together and the Mrs. is smiling because the dishes are off the dining room table. You never know, my face might not hurt too much when that happens.

Maybe I like colored snot.

Not the standard colors, either. I mean the kind you get after spray-painting old furniture to make it all newish looking, or least not as ugly as it was prior to the paint job. Give the nose a blow in a trusty old tissue and the result almost puts Pollock to shame.

Now, I've known this disgusting bit of art trivia for some time, but today (and yesterday), I was creating marvelous nose art as I was renewing the old cart we used to hold up the dishrack. For those of limited life experience, a dishrack holds dishes, generally hand-washed dishes, until the are hand-dried or air-dried. Quite the concept, I'm sure, but for the moment I will avoid that literary tangent. This particular old cart has been with us a long time, so long I can't remember when we came about it, but I do know that it was owned by the Mrs.' parents before us. Wooden castor wheels give a clue to the true age of this cart, and it has just been sitting next to the sink, bearing the burden of a strange orange paint job over it's original ivory ceramic as it bore the weight of dishes, as well as pots and pans stored on the lower shelves.

Did I mention that it was an strange orange color? As in pumpkiny orange of the kind you find on the road the day after Halloween. Don't try to imagine it without something of pleasant color to imagine, or at least imaginary whip cream.

So, scraped and primed and repainted, the cart will go back to its under-appreciated but functional use, and the nose will issue forth the standard colors, and my attention will shift to other mini projects in the drive toward progress with the bigger project.

So I fart on elevators.

Granted, it is usually when I'm the only one on it, but it's really fun when a death cloud gets released just before a new arrival. I'm amazed how many people avoid eye contact in such situations. Hehheh.

Back to the subject at hand. When I started this project, many moons and meds ago, I found a name for it that was unique, and snagged the .net domain name for it, mostly because the .com was parked, and I didn't have fundage for the half dozen other variants. Now I discover that there are many, MANY domain variants, most of the common of which are claimed, and some of which are very similar in theme. Funny, there is even some Inc. out there that uses my project's name. I'm impressed. I did think about offering my .net for sale and finding a new name that better reflects the reality of the project's status (like, omghowlongdoesittaketofinish.xxx or justthrowthestuffoutalready.yyy or ifthewifewasletlooseonitthingswouldbedonebynow.zzz), but I've grown kind of fond of the old name.

Thus, and therefore, I walked about the place noting what has and hasn't changed, and determined that a great deal has changed, while much has remained the same. Yeah, chew on that one psychobabble types. Shame I couldn't get more original. Oh, well. Still, enough has changed to give me hope that someday I can bring this to a conclusion (and maybe start up another blog on some obscure topic, or better yet, some disgusting topic like farting), and enough is still cluttered to drive me to recharge the cleaning bots and make literary note of the efforts and results.

Now, I must go before I...too late.

Yeah? Well...

So, I receive this “notice” in the mail that looks like a bill but really isn’t a bill, and it gets me to thinking that I have long ignored some element of my existence, and that I really need to revisit this project (or life endeavor as it would appear) before it becomes yet another example of “you are such a loser”-ness, and blah blah blah.

I’m back.

With a vengeance.

And some good medication.