Today I decided to bring my camera to work in order to take some photos of the amazing flowering trees, and then maybe break-up the monotony of inputting information into my computer all day by going out on my breaks to see if I could capture some other arresting images.
Well, holy shit. I done hit the jack pot. That's right. I went out on my three o'clock break, and what did I see just sitting out there on the Pentacrest in front of god and everybody, but a real live mime. Not only that, but he was trying to propagate his species by training some other poor soul to join his speechless minions.
Now, before you start freaking out about how I'm being all prejudiced and feel like you need to call the ACLU on me, just let me reveal a little secret to you: I married a mime. (that should be the name of my new sitcom) My ex-husband actually studied with Marcel Marceau in the seventies. For real. Yes, I was young and impressionable, but sometimes those mistakes follow you around for life, because that also means my girls are half mime.
I was a little worried when Coadster was born with a strawberry colored birthmark on the back of her head that it might be some kind of "band of the invisible box making hand" sign. But now I can breathe a big sigh of relief, because both the girls have come out of puberty and I've never once caught them alone in their rooms trying to pull an imaginary rope. Whew. I think we might be in the clear.