Relatively content is fucking with my mojo big time. I’m still struggling with how to get these shitty ass posts back to something interesting, instead of something so sweet I want to suck a salt shaker dry just to recover from my own prose.

But, what can an old girl do when her muse starts sounding like “I learned everything I need for my chicken soup soul in kindergarten where I didn’t sweat the small stuff.” Pick your favorite up-lift marketing tool, self-help book and I’m living the lie, but genuinely and for real.

Today’s lesson is the little things. I’ve decided it’s the little things that matter. F’rinstance, take today. I shuffled into the den of the new employer, where I’m still poking through different doors and staircases trying to master the labyrinthian floor plan. I amble on by the mailboxes, where surprisingly there was one with my name on day one. More surprisingly, there’s something there for me. A box of real-live, grown-up business cards and some personalized notepads.

I mention the grown-up bit about business cards, because in my last gig I had the kind of title and responsibility where business cards might have come in handy. Like when I had to meet with people oustside who would need to get in touch with me, or someone came into our office and asked me for one, or maybe when I embarked on managing a multi-site, gargantuan beast of a budget and a little reminder of my contact info in a portable size might have been handy.

I inquired about getting some, since in the grand scheme they were not that expensive, given that there were standard designs, and, I dunno, I thought maybe my own sense of responsibility warranted a little professional polish on the gig. The reply was, instead of the anticipated sign off on the official order form, a suggestion I go talk to the guy who was pretty good at doing that kind of thing on his printer.

Thing is, for once I didn’t want the hand-me-down, home-made, make-do version. I wanted the real deal, and I never understood why I didn’t merit it. So I went without and continued providing my number on a yellow post-it note if asked.

Now, today, I have a job where I’m not sure if I will need to hand out cards. My level of responsibility is clearly a support role and quite possibly cards may only be requested of the folks I support.

Nonetheless, this time around, I got the little boost of someone thinking I might need them, and I didn’t have to ask. For a buck or two, I’m a happy camper with something to pin on my shirt should my brain lose some functionality and I need a reminder.

The little things are also what I realized is keeping my personal life relatively happy. I hadn’t anticipated the kind of life where I mention gas in a post-work caravan and two minutes later I’m being led to a gas station. And, upon arrival M. hops out of his car to wash my windshield.

Little but sweet.

Shit, I think I’m going to need insulin if I keep up this tone.