So it rained again yesterday. ALLLL day, yesterday. Day and night, yesterday. A real downer! (Pun points, anyone?) Actually, the rain did make it hard for me to concentrate. Impossible to achieve any brain function higher than comprehension (see this list of skills I lost). Seriously: We had take-out pizza for dinner, because I couldn't think of anything else with all that noise above my head.
I also had to buy larger jeans last night. I needed them because I'm pretty sure I'm gaining the Freshman 15, 17 years late. (No, the Fresh 15 is a joke. I just read about this! A recent study of collegiate weight gain says it's more like the freshman 5 to 8, followed by the sophomore 3 to 5, etc, etc. Really. You should Google News it!) But all this is an elaborate aside....
What I'm really saying is: I have determined I am NOT a strong candidate for life anywhere there is a dearth of sunshine. In a week or less, I would get the SAD, real bad! (it's a real term, the seasonal affective disorder -- even when they fit perfectly and rhyme, I don't make these things up!)
While I truly do like rain in the abstract -- in songs about Noah, in kid art, when I'm inside movie theaters -- and while I can heartily enjoy the first 20-30 minutes of a downpour -- I just don't cope well with darkness.
This probably explains a lot more than I meant to say, but let's let it lie, shall we? For now, let's just take my assertion that I am well-positioned in this geography and go with that. Anyone else hear The Beatles about now?
Hmm, hmm, um, huuh... Hum, hum, uh "long cold lonely winter.
Little darling, it feels like years since it has been here
Here comes the sun..."
Oh, yeah. It's all right! Until global warming changes my climate, I've got sun, sun, sun... here it comes!
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
10.26.2006
10.24.2006
So... How you make Kool-Aid is...
...That you open the little bottle, and you give the packet to Mrs. Lisa... And she opens it and gives it back, and you REAL carefully pour it into the water which turns red ...but, actually, you have to put the cap back on first and swish it around first [insert arm motion for "swish, swish"], because it doesn't just get red right away. Some parts are just clear until you mix it all together. I guess it's because it's so sour. Dontcha know!? Some parts of the Kool-Aid are sweet and some parts of it are sour, so what you do is put it all together and mix it around and around, so the sweet parts will SLOWLY melt, and eat the sour parts. And then it's good to drink! Dontcha know?
Weclome to the Four-year-old Zone! You have just been treated to a carefully reconstructed car monologue in which Miles relays the most enjoyable part of eating a Lunchable at his school. (I didn't get any introduction or transitional phrases, either, so don't blame me. It's just accuracy in reporting.)
In fact, Miles is very big on the "dontcha know" phrase lately. He regularly drops the words as an introduction to a bit of arcane knowledge, a pint-sized decree or a cheerful recitation of TV marketing: "Dontcha know fingernails can get Play-Doh out of the little jars when it gets stuck;" "dontcha know Darth Vader is the best StarWars costume;" "dontcha know you can buy the can with the scrubbing bubbles and no human will have to touch the tub to get it clean!"
Not long after he gave me the Treatise on Kool-Aid Mixing, the boy and I shared two more exchanges -- one you may need to know and one you probably "dontcha," but perhaps they will amuse and entertain both casual and familial observers.
M: "Dontcha know, I know who the first people to celebrate Thanksgiving were!"
Me: "Oh, really? Who?"
M, proudly: "Indians and Pilgrims."
(We talk for a few seconds and then...)
M: "And, I know what Indians ate and what Pilgrims ate."
Me: "Well, what?"
M: "Indians liked bears and buffaloes, and Pilgrims liked deer and turkeys. But everybody ate corn."
A few hours later.... in front of the TV.
M: "Excuse me."
Me: "OK... thanks for saying it."
M: "Well, I wouldn't have if I were alone. But it's best not to say funny things about your farts if other people are around. Right?"
Me: "Umm... Yes, hon. That's what we tell you."
M: "But if I were alone... I would just probably say... 'That was a good one!' "
Weclome to the Four-year-old Zone! You have just been treated to a carefully reconstructed car monologue in which Miles relays the most enjoyable part of eating a Lunchable at his school. (I didn't get any introduction or transitional phrases, either, so don't blame me. It's just accuracy in reporting.)
In fact, Miles is very big on the "dontcha know" phrase lately. He regularly drops the words as an introduction to a bit of arcane knowledge, a pint-sized decree or a cheerful recitation of TV marketing: "Dontcha know fingernails can get Play-Doh out of the little jars when it gets stuck;" "dontcha know Darth Vader is the best StarWars costume;" "dontcha know you can buy the can with the scrubbing bubbles and no human will have to touch the tub to get it clean!"
Not long after he gave me the Treatise on Kool-Aid Mixing, the boy and I shared two more exchanges -- one you may need to know and one you probably "dontcha," but perhaps they will amuse and entertain both casual and familial observers.
M: "Dontcha know, I know who the first people to celebrate Thanksgiving were!"
Me: "Oh, really? Who?"
M, proudly: "Indians and Pilgrims."
(We talk for a few seconds and then...)
M: "And, I know what Indians ate and what Pilgrims ate."
Me: "Well, what?"
M: "Indians liked bears and buffaloes, and Pilgrims liked deer and turkeys. But everybody ate corn."
A few hours later.... in front of the TV.
M: "Excuse me."
Me: "OK... thanks for saying it."
M: "Well, I wouldn't have if I were alone. But it's best not to say funny things about your farts if other people are around. Right?"
Me: "Umm... Yes, hon. That's what we tell you."
M: "But if I were alone... I would just probably say... 'That was a good one!' "
10.23.2006
Canton Connections
So, an all-natural, no-wheat graham cracker is a pretty awful thing -- just in case you were wondering. It tastes like thick, dry wallpaper paste with a little cinnamon afterwhif.
This observation comes to you all courtesy my most recent visit to the shopping sprawl that is Canton, Texas (actual explanation here). My friend, Susie, wrote a pretty great exposition of what this venue of commerce means to her -- with an example from the trip of which I speak! -- so I really should have linked you to her instead of to the official, Travel Bureau-type sites. Here's Suse's insider post.
(Pause while you all go read up. It's good stuff. No, really... Head on over. I'll wait. Oh, and if you quit while she was still on the State Fair... keep reading! It all relates.)
So, back to the cracker of death. It is a product from a new, Dallas-based company called Doctor Kracker. (That should have been my first clue! I mean, really... is this an appropriate business name?) A seemingly very nice and mild-mannered Doctor Kracker representative (pressed, tucked tropical shirt; well-groomed hands; vaguely Eastern European accent to distinguish him from the other barkers hawking homemade cookies and fried oreos) was sampling his wares at the last Canton market. We stopped, and I really liked the cheddar pumpkin seed crackers -- made from spelt and sunshine and not much else, according to Herr Docktor. They were a GOOD kind of dry-and-crunchy. Worth the inflated health-food price. I had no qualms throwin' down 3 bucks for a package of about 1.6 ounces. Susie also decided to buy a little somethin' somethin' for a snack, so we compiled a total purchase of $6. I handed the guy a 10 and a awaited the normal course of business.
...But no change was forthcoming. The accent suddenly thickened and Herr Docktor became confused. "Vhat? Vhat you need? Oh! OH! I ... I ... I have no vuns. Please. Can I geeve you des instead? $4 value! And... and take deese also. Please." Please?! GEEZ! Talk about your assumptive upselling! That was some darn pushy showmanship from the suddenly sleazy Docktor. But that is exactly how I came to own two packages of cinnamon grahams and two travel size pumpkin cheese bags along with my only intended purchase.
I ate the cheesy snack bounty, over the course of the next two weeks, with only mild distaste every time I thought of the financial wheeling & dealing that secured them. I held off on the cinnamon grahams because even I -- your basic optimist and believer in many a bald-faced marketing claim -- had a bad feeling about them. This weekend, I finally got desperate enough to crack a graham, spread some Nutella and tuck in.
Gag! Choke. Sputter. Cough. They were BAAAD, people. Not good. I mean... Baaaad.
I would have to downgrade the whole trip to "not quite successful" if it weren't for my only other Canton purchase of the month. With it I am quite pleased!
(Hmmm. Uh... Ummmh. Actually, I'm not even sure I can use a name or description, as Susie's mom is getting this thing as a gift but I don't know WHEN the gift-giving occasion commences. To be safe, I better follow the Super-Top-Secret protocol and refer to this only as "the next new thing.") I can say that it --like ET and jelly shoes and cut-out sweatshirts before it -- is oddly cool. Not stunningly attractive, I might say, but unique and new.
Now, just to tip my hat to the real niftyness of our find, I can share this: My flea-market purchase from East Texas was trend-spotted by a shopkeeper when I used it on my recent trip to Chicago. Yessiree, Bob: a real life, big city dweller recognized my cool item and swaped brand and product names with me -- me! a lowly, easy mark, push-me-around-and-give-me-cardboard-crackers-in-return kind of consumer. Just remembering this does wonders for my constitution.
I may not be a healthy eater or a bold defender of my own pocketbook, but I know a clever, soon-to-be-coveted item when I see one! I have been to the big city, my friends, and I was still cool. ;)
...Now, if only this Canton purchase can avoid becoming the next Crocs, I will keep that cool. Until the next Trade Days.
This observation comes to you all courtesy my most recent visit to the shopping sprawl that is Canton, Texas (actual explanation here). My friend, Susie, wrote a pretty great exposition of what this venue of commerce means to her -- with an example from the trip of which I speak! -- so I really should have linked you to her instead of to the official, Travel Bureau-type sites. Here's Suse's insider post.
(Pause while you all go read up. It's good stuff. No, really... Head on over. I'll wait. Oh, and if you quit while she was still on the State Fair... keep reading! It all relates.)
So, back to the cracker of death. It is a product from a new, Dallas-based company called Doctor Kracker. (That should have been my first clue! I mean, really... is this an appropriate business name?) A seemingly very nice and mild-mannered Doctor Kracker representative (pressed, tucked tropical shirt; well-groomed hands; vaguely Eastern European accent to distinguish him from the other barkers hawking homemade cookies and fried oreos) was sampling his wares at the last Canton market. We stopped, and I really liked the cheddar pumpkin seed crackers -- made from spelt and sunshine and not much else, according to Herr Docktor. They were a GOOD kind of dry-and-crunchy. Worth the inflated health-food price. I had no qualms throwin' down 3 bucks for a package of about 1.6 ounces. Susie also decided to buy a little somethin' somethin' for a snack, so we compiled a total purchase of $6. I handed the guy a 10 and a awaited the normal course of business.
...But no change was forthcoming. The accent suddenly thickened and Herr Docktor became confused. "Vhat? Vhat you need? Oh! OH! I ... I ... I have no vuns. Please. Can I geeve you des instead? $4 value! And... and take deese also. Please." Please?! GEEZ! Talk about your assumptive upselling! That was some darn pushy showmanship from the suddenly sleazy Docktor. But that is exactly how I came to own two packages of cinnamon grahams and two travel size pumpkin cheese bags along with my only intended purchase.
I ate the cheesy snack bounty, over the course of the next two weeks, with only mild distaste every time I thought of the financial wheeling & dealing that secured them. I held off on the cinnamon grahams because even I -- your basic optimist and believer in many a bald-faced marketing claim -- had a bad feeling about them. This weekend, I finally got desperate enough to crack a graham, spread some Nutella and tuck in.
Gag! Choke. Sputter. Cough. They were BAAAD, people. Not good. I mean... Baaaad.
I would have to downgrade the whole trip to "not quite successful" if it weren't for my only other Canton purchase of the month. With it I am quite pleased!
(Hmmm. Uh... Ummmh. Actually, I'm not even sure I can use a name or description, as Susie's mom is getting this thing as a gift but I don't know WHEN the gift-giving occasion commences. To be safe, I better follow the Super-Top-Secret protocol and refer to this only as "the next new thing.") I can say that it --like ET and jelly shoes and cut-out sweatshirts before it -- is oddly cool. Not stunningly attractive, I might say, but unique and new.
Now, just to tip my hat to the real niftyness of our find, I can share this: My flea-market purchase from East Texas was trend-spotted by a shopkeeper when I used it on my recent trip to Chicago. Yessiree, Bob: a real life, big city dweller recognized my cool item and swaped brand and product names with me -- me! a lowly, easy mark, push-me-around-and-give-me-cardboard-crackers-in-return kind of consumer. Just remembering this does wonders for my constitution.
I may not be a healthy eater or a bold defender of my own pocketbook, but I know a clever, soon-to-be-coveted item when I see one! I have been to the big city, my friends, and I was still cool. ;)
...Now, if only this Canton purchase can avoid becoming the next Crocs, I will keep that cool. Until the next Trade Days.
10.17.2006
Movie Maniac Me
So, I have this new kitten, right? And he likes me best among all my family. (This is not a brag. I am hardly ever proud of it and sometimes quite annoyed by it. It is what it is.)
Anyway, Chester is generally a friendly, engaging and endearing animal -- expect when an unsuspecting ankle passes his turf, or an unsuspecting business caller is on the line and would be damaged by my screams of profanity/ agony. These are the moments Chester strikes.
I can't figure out if the razor claws or the dagger teeth are worse -- but neither feels very nice on flesh. Nor do they allow any permanent healing of my scratch-surfaced, puncture-wounded, pock-marked hands. And -- I swear -- this cat is menaically drawn to me while I'm on the phone! Any movement of cord and it's all over. He's on the arm of the chair; he's reached the desk; he's in the air.
In response Chester's rapid attack mode, I have developed a plan I call Operation: Kill-him-with-Kindness. I've develope da cool, almost King-Fu move for when he takes flight, headed for my hands. I swivel my body, grab him and immobilize him against my midsection. Then, still holding firmly, I pet the cat and whisper nice things I don't currently feel. Being a fuzzy lump o' love at his core, Chester pretty much gives up immediately. As long as he gets attention, he will stay and purr.
So here I am all day -- a busy, busy woman of international business, attached to her headset, plotting counterattacks for kittens while playing it smooth in front of her flat screen. Then I recline in my large leather chair, stroking the purring pussy. I might as well be plotting world domination.
...Not seriosuly, but don't you see where I'm going with this? Yes, I have become the very picture of Auric Goldfinger.
No, really. James Bond villian extraordinaire -- that's me. Gimme a signet ring for the pinkie and the picture will be complete. "No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die."
"Choose your next witticism carefully, Mr. Bond; it may be your last."
What? You don't see it?
Anyway, Chester is generally a friendly, engaging and endearing animal -- expect when an unsuspecting ankle passes his turf, or an unsuspecting business caller is on the line and would be damaged by my screams of profanity/ agony. These are the moments Chester strikes.
I can't figure out if the razor claws or the dagger teeth are worse -- but neither feels very nice on flesh. Nor do they allow any permanent healing of my scratch-surfaced, puncture-wounded, pock-marked hands. And -- I swear -- this cat is menaically drawn to me while I'm on the phone! Any movement of cord and it's all over. He's on the arm of the chair; he's reached the desk; he's in the air.
In response Chester's rapid attack mode, I have developed a plan I call Operation: Kill-him-with-Kindness. I've develope da cool, almost King-Fu move for when he takes flight, headed for my hands. I swivel my body, grab him and immobilize him against my midsection. Then, still holding firmly, I pet the cat and whisper nice things I don't currently feel. Being a fuzzy lump o' love at his core, Chester pretty much gives up immediately. As long as he gets attention, he will stay and purr.
So here I am all day -- a busy, busy woman of international business, attached to her headset, plotting counterattacks for kittens while playing it smooth in front of her flat screen. Then I recline in my large leather chair, stroking the purring pussy. I might as well be plotting world domination.
...Not seriosuly, but don't you see where I'm going with this? Yes, I have become the very picture of Auric Goldfinger.
No, really. James Bond villian extraordinaire -- that's me. Gimme a signet ring for the pinkie and the picture will be complete. "No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die."
"Choose your next witticism carefully, Mr. Bond; it may be your last."
What? You don't see it?
10.16.2006
You Always Take the Weather
Did you know there's a real place called Comfort, Texas? I've never been, but it's always sounded good to me. Since it's raining bobcats and coyotes in East Texas, I have gazed down the fenceline of Greener Pastures and conducted a brief meteorological search. Just as I predicted: No precipitation in Comfort today. ...Comfort, which is near Kerrville, by the way.
Hours apart, back in Tyler, my Monday appears to have little of the comfort in it. It's dim inside and dreary out. You might think the overcast skies would signal a chill, but even in October, it's stiflingly muggy. The rain has come and gone all night (as the adults in my home have not been sleeping well, we know of the "all nights"); and now it's back with more force than before. It falls in waves of white noise, bouncing off the roof, the street, the driveway. Puddles of the wet stuff pool on the concrete, against the curb, in depressions where earth gives way to tree.
The rain makes me think of a Joy Williams song -- I think it's called "Beautiful Redemption." There's a line that says, "I've spent 40 days and 40 nights at sea; I've had 40 years in the wilderness, or so it seems." On a morning like this, I relate. The weather puts my mind adrift.
Hmm. It's letting up a little now. The static sound comes softer inside my office, and the rows of vertical dots and dashes are harder to make out if I squint slightly and focus across the street. You know, I believe the earth won't ever see 40 days and 40 nights of rain again -- not since Noah's flood and God's rainbow. When I sit with this thought for a while, I guess what I'm also saying is that I believe nothing so bad will ever happen to me.
It may feel like I'm spending days and days on a gray-clouded sea, sometimes. Especially on mornings that dawn with no comfort. But weather in Texas is a funny thing. Stick around, apply just a little patience, and watch everything change. The secretary at Miles' school told me we're expecting a clear day with a high of 90 tomorrow. Since I've already admitted to checking, that sounds like Comfort weather to me. :)
In truth, I don't need blazing sun (really, I mean it; who around here can forget -- or forgive -- August?!) to feel better. I don't actually want to compare my home to any other, everyday place with the same set of realities under a Utopoian name. The weather makes its way to everyone, I know. So my sky is gray today. That stinks. But I've heard a brighter forecast, and I'm willing to wait around and see.
Hours apart, back in Tyler, my Monday appears to have little of the comfort in it. It's dim inside and dreary out. You might think the overcast skies would signal a chill, but even in October, it's stiflingly muggy. The rain has come and gone all night (as the adults in my home have not been sleeping well, we know of the "all nights"); and now it's back with more force than before. It falls in waves of white noise, bouncing off the roof, the street, the driveway. Puddles of the wet stuff pool on the concrete, against the curb, in depressions where earth gives way to tree.
The rain makes me think of a Joy Williams song -- I think it's called "Beautiful Redemption." There's a line that says, "I've spent 40 days and 40 nights at sea; I've had 40 years in the wilderness, or so it seems." On a morning like this, I relate. The weather puts my mind adrift.
Hmm. It's letting up a little now. The static sound comes softer inside my office, and the rows of vertical dots and dashes are harder to make out if I squint slightly and focus across the street. You know, I believe the earth won't ever see 40 days and 40 nights of rain again -- not since Noah's flood and God's rainbow. When I sit with this thought for a while, I guess what I'm also saying is that I believe nothing so bad will ever happen to me.
It may feel like I'm spending days and days on a gray-clouded sea, sometimes. Especially on mornings that dawn with no comfort. But weather in Texas is a funny thing. Stick around, apply just a little patience, and watch everything change. The secretary at Miles' school told me we're expecting a clear day with a high of 90 tomorrow. Since I've already admitted to checking, that sounds like Comfort weather to me. :)
In truth, I don't need blazing sun (really, I mean it; who around here can forget -- or forgive -- August?!) to feel better. I don't actually want to compare my home to any other, everyday place with the same set of realities under a Utopoian name. The weather makes its way to everyone, I know. So my sky is gray today. That stinks. But I've heard a brighter forecast, and I'm willing to wait around and see.
10.04.2006
Brief & Random
No time to post. For reals! But as my last writing was kind of somber, and I don't want to leave the blog on a blah note while out of town, here are some random (and I mean, random, random, random!) Miles quotes that have recently made me smile....
To me, after reading a bedtime story: "I like it when the Dad in Spot says, 'Puppy overboard' because he doesn't know Spot is OK. It's just water; it's not like it's cement or anything!"
To Chester the kitty, soon after his arrival: "I know you don't have as many toys as me, but don't worry! We'll get more. This is only your second day."
To Chester, again, after kitty spent his first 10 minutes outside and came back: "You are the bestest cat in all the world. I KNEW you wouldn't leave us forever!"
(My child is a drama prince; I know, I know. Poor thing, though... He comes by the over-emoting honestly.)
To Dad, while snuggling under Dad's chin at a chilly restaurant: "Oh, your beard... it's so cozy!"
To the household, in confident proclamation while coloring and listening to Animal Planet: "Didncha know? Meerkat Manor is coming up next. They call it that because the little ones are still learning their manners."
To me, excitedly and loudly, while I am on the work phone: "Mom! Mom! I think I might want to dress up as Superman and then dress up Chester as Superkitty!"
Oh, I say, why not? Miles probably needs a Superman outfit. He is, after all, my own Boy Wonder.
G'night!
To me, after reading a bedtime story: "I like it when the Dad in Spot says, 'Puppy overboard' because he doesn't know Spot is OK. It's just water; it's not like it's cement or anything!"
To Chester the kitty, soon after his arrival: "I know you don't have as many toys as me, but don't worry! We'll get more. This is only your second day."
To Chester, again, after kitty spent his first 10 minutes outside and came back: "You are the bestest cat in all the world. I KNEW you wouldn't leave us forever!"
(My child is a drama prince; I know, I know. Poor thing, though... He comes by the over-emoting honestly.)
To Dad, while snuggling under Dad's chin at a chilly restaurant: "Oh, your beard... it's so cozy!"
To the household, in confident proclamation while coloring and listening to Animal Planet: "Didncha know? Meerkat Manor is coming up next. They call it that because the little ones are still learning their manners."
To me, excitedly and loudly, while I am on the work phone: "Mom! Mom! I think I might want to dress up as Superman and then dress up Chester as Superkitty!"
Oh, I say, why not? Miles probably needs a Superman outfit. He is, after all, my own Boy Wonder.
G'night!
10.03.2006
Rumination On A Day Gone By
Ed Note: Tonight I noticed this post, headlined in green & still labeled "DRAFT" in my trusty Blogger Dashboard. Huh. Well.
So I never actually wrapped it up and POSTED the dad-gum thing?! Sometimes, even I am surprised by my apalling lack of follow-through.
Here, then, is a delayed response to Sept. 21 -- a day that could have rallied much more reflection & response from me, I'm sure, but due to long blogging neglect is now only dimly memorable. All I can say now is it was some day last month... and, my, but it didn't seem to be a good one.
It's been a while since I slumped at the keyboard, drooling over the little letters, crossing my eyes and wondering how to push uphill the immesaureably heavy stone that is time.
But that day has come.
I don't exactly name this malaise "depression" -- cause I tend to recall, that feels a lot suckier. I do name it not a nice feeling. Yesterday, I got into a verbal snit with a customer. (Pause while I refrain from typing nasty thoughts about said customer, but imagine me RIGHT NOW, just recalling the snit, with a little cartoon squiggle of black above my head.) And I've been out of sorts ever since.
I believe the problem is: I need to REEEALLY come unhinged. I need to have some sort of throw-down, emotive, cathartic, hissy fit where I am indignant and outraged and gesticulate wildly.
...Only I can't find anyone to be legitimately mad at.
I had this moment, yesterday, where some jerk with a pushy attitude, no manners and a ridiculous line of argument was "wrong" and I was "right." And I felt so justified standing up to him and expressing my irritation. Then I was told I can never be so honest with customers.
Fine. (sigh.)
Sure. (shrug.)
Only: When doI get to feel how I feel? I understand the management perspective. I really do. We work for these (crazy) customers. It is our job to suck it up. I used to toil away in a newroom where fellow copy editors and city desk writers regularly hurled the F-bomb at each other, so I get why it is good to control our baser reactions and remain adult about things. I quite prefer an F'ing-free workplace. (Well, mostly.) But even on the job... I DO have personal reactions. I am not an automatron (no, I didn't look it up and no, I'm not sure it's a word). I need to censor some parts of me for my profession, sure. Everybody does. But, bottom line: Why can't I -- while not using any over-the-top language or personal insults -- occasionally EXPRESS MY-FREAKIN-SELF?
It is perhaps time for a day off.
Sadly, none is on the horizon. I AM due to get a new piece of furniture delivered tomorrow, and that should require me to unplug from the phone for a while. After that, I have a quick week and half before the big business trip of the year -- spring market in Chicago. I'll be gone 6 days (or for my entire business-appropriate wardrobe, however you want to measure). I think it will be great to get away. I'll miss my boys, absolutely, but anything to break the tedium....
If any are so inclined to share good will and good thoughts, maybe one could wish me Godspeed and a string of good-hair days. (Which I will need to distract the fashionistas from my not-this-season's shoes and my mangled home manicure.) Oh, and maybe someone should start praying that I don't have my long-awaited throw-down in full view of the entire industry. (Windy City, indeed! I bet I could give those jaw-flappin' politicians a run for their money.....)
So I never actually wrapped it up and POSTED the dad-gum thing?! Sometimes, even I am surprised by my apalling lack of follow-through.
Here, then, is a delayed response to Sept. 21 -- a day that could have rallied much more reflection & response from me, I'm sure, but due to long blogging neglect is now only dimly memorable. All I can say now is it was some day last month... and, my, but it didn't seem to be a good one.
It's been a while since I slumped at the keyboard, drooling over the little letters, crossing my eyes and wondering how to push uphill the immesaureably heavy stone that is time.
But that day has come.
I don't exactly name this malaise "depression" -- cause I tend to recall, that feels a lot suckier. I do name it not a nice feeling. Yesterday, I got into a verbal snit with a customer. (Pause while I refrain from typing nasty thoughts about said customer, but imagine me RIGHT NOW, just recalling the snit, with a little cartoon squiggle of black above my head.) And I've been out of sorts ever since.
I believe the problem is: I need to REEEALLY come unhinged. I need to have some sort of throw-down, emotive, cathartic, hissy fit where I am indignant and outraged and gesticulate wildly.
...Only I can't find anyone to be legitimately mad at.
I had this moment, yesterday, where some jerk with a pushy attitude, no manners and a ridiculous line of argument was "wrong" and I was "right." And I felt so justified standing up to him and expressing my irritation. Then I was told I can never be so honest with customers.
Fine. (sigh.)
Sure. (shrug.)
Only: When doI get to feel how I feel? I understand the management perspective. I really do. We work for these (crazy) customers. It is our job to suck it up. I used to toil away in a newroom where fellow copy editors and city desk writers regularly hurled the F-bomb at each other, so I get why it is good to control our baser reactions and remain adult about things. I quite prefer an F'ing-free workplace. (Well, mostly.) But even on the job... I DO have personal reactions. I am not an automatron (no, I didn't look it up and no, I'm not sure it's a word). I need to censor some parts of me for my profession, sure. Everybody does. But, bottom line: Why can't I -- while not using any over-the-top language or personal insults -- occasionally EXPRESS MY-FREAKIN-SELF?
It is perhaps time for a day off.
Sadly, none is on the horizon. I AM due to get a new piece of furniture delivered tomorrow, and that should require me to unplug from the phone for a while. After that, I have a quick week and half before the big business trip of the year -- spring market in Chicago. I'll be gone 6 days (or for my entire business-appropriate wardrobe, however you want to measure). I think it will be great to get away. I'll miss my boys, absolutely, but anything to break the tedium....
If any are so inclined to share good will and good thoughts, maybe one could wish me Godspeed and a string of good-hair days. (Which I will need to distract the fashionistas from my not-this-season's shoes and my mangled home manicure.) Oh, and maybe someone should start praying that I don't have my long-awaited throw-down in full view of the entire industry. (Windy City, indeed! I bet I could give those jaw-flappin' politicians a run for their money.....)
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