For The Girls...

Boys, sit down and buckle up. Grab your popcorn and prepare to enjoy...

A blog post about boobies.

Or, to be more specific, a blog post about bras.

(Because this is, at it's dirtiest, an NC-17 site. Risque isn't exactly our idea of a good time.)

That's right - today I will play a card I typically don't, and cater mostly to the understanding of my fellow womenfolk.

I made a poor choice in chestal holsters today. And the fault falls entirely on the shoulders of my workplace.

You may have noticed lately that I've been less-than-attentive to you, my ReaderFriends. For this, I'm sincerely sorry. Unfortunately I must offer a tawdry and pathetic excuse of "Work just isn't funny." Furthermore... it's even stopped being fun.

People are stressed. Management is worried. And we're all on this little itty bitty boat in a big corporate ocean, with enough rations for exactly two-thirds of the crew to survive.... and a hurricane on the horizon. A hurricane that mated with a tornado. And produced little baby tornicanes that are dancing around their Momma and Daddy like a big maypole. 

And there's no cake.

So... I've had some trouble getting blog posts together for you.

Oh, I've had some ideas...

Like the "Engineers have a weird sense of humor" train of thought, that I tried to follow but couldn't flesh out with enough examples because no one is feeling humorous. 

Or the "Adventure of Sunny Smiles Part Too" story, which artfully told the tale of how I single handedly saved the day from bad grammar, but couldn't finish because I ended up staying late to work on the stupid project and I wasn't going to stay later just to finish a blog post but by the time I got home I just wanted rum.

Or even the "I hate technology" rant that just turned into a big angry RawrFest that I refused to poison your minds with.

Yes, I've certainly tried. I've hashed out thoughts and worked through details and even pulled together some storylines... But in the end, I just can't deliver.

It's been like that with a bunch of other projects as well:

My dance has fallen by the wayside...

So has the new singing group that I'm really interested in, but cannot attend because it seems to be falling on the only night of the week when I can stay home and try to decompress with my Boyfriend of Amazingness...

Even my Adventures in Organized Religion are suffering, as I struggle to keep up with the tasks there.

So, in short, it's not just you. Not that it makes you feel any better. But you ARE in good company. The dancers are awesome. The singers are really spiffy, too. And, as previously noted, the Boyfriend is made of Amazingness.

(I told you all that, to tell you this...)

As it happens, the workdays have been fairly difficult to conquer, even with my mighty superpowers of positivity. So, I've been enlisting the help of some super-power-weilding accessories:

The Mighty Boots of Mightiness...

The Sparkly Eyeshadow of Glittery Delight...

The Fresh-From-The-Dryer-And-Hugging-All-The-Right-Places Bluejeans...

And... The uber-bra.

(Because - and this is a verified fact - Women's chests are armed with the reigning source of power.)

A good, perky appearance can make all the difference in the world. They can turn rain to sunshine. They can turn snarks to smiles. And (most importantly), they give you something awesome to look down at when you're feeling glum and staring at your shoes. Just one downward glance, and suddenly you remember that you have friends in low places that are working their hardest for you!

This is where I made my most critical mistake this morning.

I've used up all of my go-to uber-bras. So I had to settle for my emergency backup.

Which has caused me nothing but pain and strife all day.

It's a "convertible strapless." Which means that it's designed to be a strapless, but it has these dinky little straps you can hook in so you can attempt to hold everything in place. Note: dinky. This is a crucial turning point.

I put it on, and felt okay at first.

But then the adhesive tried to do its job.

I've owned this bra for almost three years. I bought it specifically for one purpose: To act as the underlying companion to a brand new dress that I bought for my first college graduation. And it failed. It also failed on my cruise and at the wedding reception where I attempted to wear it again. Every time, the adhesive would become slippery and a southern migration would commence.

But today, as I attempted to employ the shoulder apparatuses to minimize this exodus... The adhesive made up for its previous performances by bonding enough for *three* important events. It pulled and pinched and stretched and caused general mayhem just below my neckline. 

So much so that I forgot the strapless nature of the beast, and began trying to adjust to find a more comfortable position.

This is never easy in an office environment. Inevitably, as soon as you are in prime awkward-position, someone will catch you doing something horribly embarrassing... like adjusting your bra. You can try to play it off... Make like you were scratching your stomach or rubbing your arm... But they know. It's out.**

So, of course, as I was sitting there trying to get comfortable, I was walked up on. And in my haste to get my hand out of my shirt (Yup, full hand-down-the-front-of-the-neckline-and-under-the-arm position here...) I moved too quickly and unseated one strap from it's rear fastener. 

And... that's the story of Why It's Work's Fault That Sunny Flashed Her Boss.**1

**No, I cannot make these adjustments in the bathroom. That's crazy talk.

**1 Okay, not really. I didn't flash anyone. But the heart attack I felt as though I was having certainly seemed to be on par with an accidental flashing. In reality, nobody noticed.

Sweet Spot

Every building has an acoustic "sweet spot." 

Not, as you might think, the spot from which your voice sounds most amazing and announcer-like (although one must admit that room dynamics MUST have something to do with Old Spice Man's *fantastic* vocal carriage)...

No. 

In fact, I'm talking about the spot from which you can *hear* everything.

In one of my hometown libraries, this spot is directly on top of the StoryTime table. The table is just slightly off-center under a barrel ceiling, and being in proximity to the Sweet Spot means that you can hear every crackle of the old patron's wheezing, every swish of the librarians corduroy pants and every sniffle of the drippy-faced child playing with the well-loved castle playset. 

(Sidenote: I realized the intensity of this Sweet Spot as I was trying to learn poi while standing on top of this table. The rest of the library was empty, other than my teacher and the librarian... who had given us a full "go ahead" with the project ((with the caveat that if one of us fell, she was NOT going to clean it up.)) and was looking blissfully in the other direction.)

In my car, this is the driver's seat. From that position, every note that passes my lips sounds as if it were plucked from the golden lips of a spring songbird. I can sing along to any song - even in harmony - and put forth only the highest quality of sound from my perfect form.

And at work... It's at the back desk.

The Back Desk is the third of three desks at the Reception Area. 

The first desk, of course, is mine. It is in the closest proximity to the elevator and the lunch room, and is therefore ideal for people watching (but is almost always too far detatched from the action to provide optimum listening-in on goings-on.)

The second desk sits beside me, across an aisle, and is reserved for "Reception Back-Up." When I'm supremely busy, when my coworkers want to chat or when I'm out of the office, those others who are qualified (and consider themselves worthy - not above my lowly position) will take the helm and lead us fearlessly into battle from this station. But, it's just on the opposite side of a fake wall from a huge (and horridly chatty) CopierDemon.** And that's not entirely ideal either. Between the chatter around the copier, and the chatter OF the copier, it's kind of like trying to listen to what your parents are saying on Christmas Eve after they've sent you to bed "in anticipation of Santa" when they've turned up the volume on the Christmas movie that they won't let you watch and started talking about your presents. Especially the one they forgot to get you.

But anyway.

Point being, it's hard to hear from that one.

But from the Back Desk...

If you stand in just the right spot, you hit acoustic *gold.*

So, you're sitting at the Back Desk. And you're kind of bored, because you're finished with your "real" work for the day and the phone's been dead for hours (hypothetically, of course... I would never admit to down time for realsies...) and you decide that maybe there'll be something exciting behind the bookcase. Because, usually, bookcases have exciting things behind them.

So you stand in the corner and lean a little.

And realize that you can hear the whispered phone conversation next to the copier.

I don't know what it is about this spot. As I mentioned before, the Second Desk is almost drowned in noise from the accursed beast, and you can't hear what the person in front of you is saying (much less what the person on the other side of the wall, standing next to the stupid thing is whispering to her neighbor about). But from next to that bookcase, it was clear as day. The machine trucking along like it was its job, the computer beside me whirring and a page over the intercom, and still - as if they were whispering to me - I could hear...

"Did you see her makeup today? What a mess!"

Well. Maybe some whispers are better off unheard.

**No, seriously. It talks all the time. blah-blah-blah-JAM-blah-blah-BEEEP-blah-blah-blah-blah-CRUMPLEPAPER-blah.

Freshen Up

I wore red lipstick into the office today.

I'm sure you're thinking Meh, no big deal. It's just lipstick. What's the fuss?

Well, ReaderFriend, I assure you that it IS a big deal.

Here's why.

I woke up this morning in an okay-kind-of-mood. It was raining enough that I could hear it from bed (which is a sound that I absolutely adore). It wasn't overly warm in the bedroom, which would make me uncomfortable under the blankets, but it wasn't so cool that getting out of bed was a shocking experience that would leave me in full-body shiver mode. My shower was warm, my legs got shaved (I'm sorry if that's too much information, but this is a big deal too. I was starting to look like a chimp. There was so much hair on my legs that I was actually beginning to worry that my knuckles were approaching Minimum Acceptable Altitude and were going to commence dragging on the floor at any moment. It was a serious situation. Why I let it get so bad is a testament only to the stress and frustration of the last month of my existence. You should be *commending* me on having the emotional strength to shave today, because it certainly isn't going to happen again at least until the end of the week. So there. That's that. Get off my back.), and I felt reasonably certain that, at any moment, Boyfriend was going to announce that Surprise! They told me I didn't really need to go out of town all week! And there would be massive celebrations, and maybe even cake.

That was, I assure you, not the case.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

After showers and scampering about getting ready for work, Boyfriend was almost positively going to be late for his week-out-of-town. So after he successfully departed and I waved goodbye from behind-the-door-where-he-couldn't-see-me-but-I was-all-but-certain-he-knew-I-was-standing-anyway, I turned and looked at the clock.

Kind of.

Actually... perhaps it would be more forthcoming to admit that I engaged in a staredown with the clock. It was taunting me.

Ten of seven, it ticked. Ten of seven. Ten of seven. Every second that ticked by reminded me that I had a full hour of time to myself... and wasn't entirely certain how to fill it.

Ten of seven. I could go back to bed, but I was already dressed. (On occasion, I will ship Boyfriend off to work and then curl up for another half-hour of less-blissful-than-before-but-still-better-than-being-awake slumber. But I try not to do this when I've already put more effort into my workday appearance than I would be able to recreate after I woke back up again.) No use rumpling the good duds, and it was just on the too-chilly side of the spectrum to consider stripping down for my nap. Option two, here we come.

Ten of seven. I could clean something, but again, this would jeopardize my cute cargos-and-turtleneck look I had so cleverly pulled together. All it takes is one accidental swath of dirty dish bubbles to ruin even the most versatile home-to-workplace wardrobe pieces. And all of my aprons were upstairs. No dice.

Ten of seven. I could get crafty. Maybe knit... Maybe embroider... But all of my patterns are on the computer, and I wasn't entirely keen on bringing the weekend to an end by firing up the laptop prematurely. I sit in front of the glowy-screen-of-death all day at work... no need to bring that into my "personal" life all willy-nilly.

Ten of... Wait. 

What's that? 

Over there?

It's my Fabulous Red Nail Polish.

(From just last night when I spent half an hour carefully painting my fingertips** a gorgeous shade of deep, sensuous red, and then two hours waiting for the stupid things to dry as I desperately tried to remember not to touch *anything*.)

Which made me think of the lipstick I had upstairs.

(If you give a mouse a cookie...)

The lipstick I never ever use, except when I'm going on stage and need to make sure that there's something on my face to make me "pop." Deep, sultry red as though I'd taken up a life of vampiring and hadn't learned to use a napkin yet in my new lifestyle.

Ten minutes later, it was five past seven (bear in mind that approximately five minutes passed as I was having my staredown with the clock, and then coming to my Startling Realization. I *can* tell time, I just wanted you to know.) and I was Made Up. I had on all my subtle makeup for work, right down to my very-professional-and-not-overpowering line of eyeliner...

And bright red lips.

(No, this is not typical. I typically go for the lip balm, understated look. I'm not a stand-out-er. So... This is the big deal.)

Which promptly led me to flounce around my home for the following half hour, singing at the top of my lungs...

IF YOU GOT IT, FLAUNT IT

SHTEP RIGHT UP AND STROOT YOUR SHTOOF...

Which is also what I was singing as I walked into the office this morning.

**Yes, fingertips. Not fingernails. It would have saved time - and probably paint - to just dip my fingers one by one into the paint pots. I looked less like a sexy Receptionatrix and more like someone had tried to chew off my fingers at the first knuckle. Oh yeah... I was a vision.