Into Each Life Some Sweat Must Fall

Small stuff is not worthy of perspiration, per the old adage.  Therefore, I have steeled myself against the disappointment of the covers of my Princess Power Packs.  They are not usable, so I am a few bucks out, and discouraged because I hoped to ship them tomorrow.

I took a deep breath, made a firm decision not to freak out, and began to consider options.  My first thought was to send my originals to my brother's childhood friend George Goetzman, a second-generation professional photographer in my home town.  I know George won't touch a camera that cost less than a late model foreign car. (By "foreign," I mean Italian or German, and by "camera,"I mean something other than "Sony Cybershot.")

George could photograph my cute little funky colored-pencil drawings in his studio, where he has perfect light and an exactly flat angle and that sort of thing.  I ruminated on the Goetzman Solution while I ate my veggie artisan sandwich at Starbucks and struggled to get a grip.  (Note:  I think a "grip" is actually a guy who carries the camera for a film crew--a happy coincidence of alternative definitions in this case.) 

Then I remembered my daughter in law recently bought a new camera for her web design work.  It's probably a slightly less evolved creature than George's, but again, how much technology does it take to photograph a drawing that will print in a reasonably high resolution?  What do they use for "O Magazine?" One of those things the size of a Coleman stove with 40 or 50 gears, levers, dials, buttons and other troublesome members?  I'm just a simple senior administrative assistant.  I can barely work my Sony Cybershot.  Is Kat Green Store doomed?

The Starbucks was noisy, so I nipped down the block to Safeway and bought a Pepsi, still mustering the courage to butt heads with my latest set-back.  I weighed the daughter in law option until I got too cold.  I suspect they keep it chilly in the cafeteria area of Safeway to discourage bums like myself.  Feeling adrift, unloved and unresolved I hunched my shoulders and strode into the rain to my car, cranked up the heater and forged ahead to my favorite hideaway, Bellevue's eclectic and non-snooty Crossroads Mall where all squatters are equally welcome to stay till closing if they feel like it. 

By then I had reconciled myself to the option of bundling up the project and shipping it to Corine.  I know she will come up with something exponentially better than my attempt, and very possibly at least as good as George's.  I finished Snowflower and the Secret Fan, but found a P.G. Wodehouse book in the second hand store that I had not read.

I don't need to tell my readers (if any) that my mood is now healed thanks to Bertie Wooster, and the covers of my Princess Power Packs are ready to ship to Arizona for plastic surgery.

It's a minor set-back.  An annoyance.  Drat.