Too Productive for Work

This morning was sort of an early morning.

I say "sort of" because it wasn't so early as it could have been - we only had to get up about half an hour before we usually do.

But it was rainy... And the rain was making a delightful pitter-patter against the window pane without raining so hard that the sound would make me have to leave my bed-cocoon to go pee...**1 And Boyfriend of Amazingness was being full of snuggles.

So when the alarm went off half an hour before we typically have to rise-and-shine, I didn't want any part of it.

But then, once I did rouse myself, I started having the most productive morning I've had in quite some time.

I showered. I dressed myself, and was happy with the result on the second try. Hair, makeup, brushed teeth, and the rest of the shenanigans that are typically attended in the morning were seen to.

Then I made the bed.

Complete with brandy-new fresh sheets for this evening.

I folded the clean laundry that had made it to the bedroom but needed to be folded.

Then I put it away.

I put the dirty laundry into baskets, ready to be taken downstairs and washed.

I emptied the bedroom trashcan - which was overflowing with dryer sheets and dead socks - and brought everything downstairs to the kitchen trashcan. Upon realizing that this trash filled the can completely, I brought the bag outside and put a fresh one in the kitchen.

I packed my lunch.

I looked at the clock, and it was finally time for me to depart.

As I tied my shoes, I thought about how productive I had been in the past hour.

I hadn't gotten so much done in weeks.

I mean... I had intended to. But there's been the house-hunting thing going on, and the emotions and stress tied to that have made me a Sunny-Zombie. I come home from work, struggle through dinner and then crash on the couch full of sleeps. Sometimes I make it through a couple episodes of a TV show with Boyfriend of Amazingness... but most often I just zonk into dreamland. He wakes me up around bedtime and points me in the direction of Bed.

On weekends, instead of being productive, I sit and I think about everything that needs to get done. Typically there's some social event or another that needs attending. And then... I nap. My mind is exhausted and frustrated.

So this morning, when I awoke all full of rain-assisted sleep and ready to face the day, I thought "Hmm... what a waste. I'm so ready to get things done, and I have to go to work."

Which was the point at which I wondered if it's ever okay to call in "too productive for work."

"I'm sorry, Boss. I can't come in to work today. There's laundry and dishes and vacuuming and I'm seriously thinking I might even get out the dust rag... and I'm just feeling too productive to come sit at my desk today. I'll see you tomorrow, when I'm worn out and pathetic again."

**1 I realized upon re-reading this that I had made it sound ever-so-slightly as though a light rain is cause for peeing in the bed instead of getting up to use the facilities. This is not the case... but it made me giggle so I didn't rephrase it. This clarification is offered for anyone who was worried about my bladder control.

Superstitions

I'm not a terribly superstitious person.

When I'm cooking, and the recipe calls for salt, I pour what I need into the palm of my cupped hand. I dump that into the bowl and then, because my opposite hand usually has a spoon in it or something, I curl my hand into a fist and try to flick the salt off of my (notoriously clammy) palm with my fingernails. Sometimes I flick over my shoulder. Sometimes I flick in front of me. And sometimes it's asking too much of myself, so I just wipe the extra salt on my pant leg and move on.

When I worked construction, I was often the smallest worker on site. So when someone was working on a ladder and dropped something, or they simply needed ground-level assistance, I would walk under said ladder and do what needed to be done. Sometimes I didn't even just pass under the ladder - I would stand there for moments on end. I was little, and I fit. So it made sense.

For a practical sort of someone (as I can be, from time to time...) superstition just doesn't compute.**1 I don't get the salt thing. I don't get the ladder thing. And I really don't get "Friday the Thirteenth."

Today is Monday the Thirteenth. To me, this seems like the day for superstition.

Fridays are always full of win. It's the end of the work week! It's usually a shorter work day, because people can knock off at 4:30 and head out for pre-weekend happy hour. And even if it's a regular-length work day, it's better because there isn't work in the morning. You can get out of work at your regular time and go see a late movie because you don't have to be up in the morning.

It would make so much more sense to me if Monday the Thirteenth were greeted with superstition.

Mondays suck. End of story. Sometimes you can come in to the office and still be rocking the weekend high, but it doesn't last for long. Work sucks the fun and the hope and the happiness right out of you, and you're left with soul-sucking emptiness and the knowledge that you won't rest freely again for another four nights.

I woke up this morning filled to bursting with trepidation. A couple of important phone calls are on the horizon today, so I'll be waiting anxiously for those all day.

I'm stuck at the switchboard today. That fills me with the angst of boredom, because there simply isn't enough to do here to keep an active mind occupied.

I mean, sure... I've got some invoices to do.

I've got a timecard to fill out.

And I get to look forward to tomorrow, when the Receptionist will return brimming with reports of today's medical procedures.

Does that sound lucky to you?

Happy Monday, ReaderFriends!

**1 Boyfriend of Amazingness is even more practical than I, and is absolutely heedless of superstition. Yesterday we fell into a discussion of the tradition wherein a man carries his lady across the threshold of their new home. It's a subject a few friends have broached with us, declaring that (if he loves me at all) he must tote me in. We finally pinpointed his confusion over the situation as we realized that he hadn't the foggiest from whence this tradition had stemmed.**2

**2 In case you're foggy on it too: The tradition came from those age-old days where, typically, a man and his brandy-new bride would get a new home as a wedding gift from their parents, or would purchase a new home that they moved into immediately following their wedding. It was terrible luck for a bride to trip on the threshold of her brandy-new home, and if she did, she couldn't live there. Thus a tradition was born: The man, in order to have a happy and healthy home complete with the bride he just married, would tote her over the threshold and therefore avoid any tripping hazard that might impede his impending conjugal rights. Because, really, that's what it's all about: If the bride can't live there, she can't make his pot roast and they certainly can't do the boogie woogie.

My Dawdling Brought To You By...

There are so many websites out there for me to waste time on. 

There are my social networking sites where I can chat about really important personal issues, and post links to my amazing blog. That being said... I liked it better when I could throw virtual sheep. There's just nothing quite like flinging a fuzzball through the cyberwaves to show a loved one how much you care.

There are video hosting sites where I can watch almost anyone do almost anything. A three year old singing about the sweet names her mom calls her ... A college student dancing like a maniac...or even a baby monkey tootling about on its favorite swine. (Yes, dearhearts, all links here are to the *actual* websites, where the *actual* authors are credited. Call me crazy, but someday, if someone ever decides I'm worth copying, I want me some credit, so I try to repay in kind.) Again, I reiterate - watch almost anyone do almost anything... in almost terrifying clarity.

There are websites where I can shop... Websites where I can find recipes... Websites where I can sit on my tukkas and just listen to some tunes... The Internet is full of wonderfulness.

But today's web-focused delirium is brought to you by The Online Corkboard.

I managed to avoid the preliminary rush of excitement over this phenomenon. I mean, my physical environment is clutteriffic anyway. I have my Wall of Pictures. I have a three-month calendar, a weekly calendar and a weekly planner (and still I can't keep on schedule or on task). I have piles of paper on every available surface... Including my guest chair.** I have plenty of crap around without littering an online corkboard with Items of Interest to Me. I'm an (optimistically speaking) artist, for goodness sake. If it's shiny, or sparkly**1, or of any interest whatsoever... I'm going to click on it. And then I'm going to waste time.

Which I did. I trawled through photos of DIY clothing... dance photos and makeup tutorials... I even found a clever advertisement for an open Engineering position. But I didn't see anything I was anxious to "RePin."

So when I stumbled across a new website in the same vein, but focused upon a male audience... My interest was piqued. Which, of course, is always the way of it: Women develop something completely inane. Men turn this inane-ity into something sexually based, therein creating something completely different and completely interesting. Women find it and are outwardly shocked at the blatant nature of it... While inwardly they bitch slap themselves for not thinking of going to The Sex Place right from the start.

So I opened this new website. And, of course, was bombarded by awesome: Bacon... Star Trek... A fantastic Guide To Eating Anything Delicious You Will Ever Encounter (Except Bacon)... And, of course, the Token Female In Various States of Undress. (No, kidlets, I will not provide a link to that. I'm a *good* person, despite some prevailing opinions. And if you get grounded, who will visit my blog and make me feel validated that someone is reading my words?) In essence, this site was filled with things I *actually* take an interest in... With so far fewer of the baby goods that I have no need for. (Note: the Man Version does have this, which is made of baby and awesome. Win.)

So with a slow day approaching me tomorrow, I ask you my ReaderLoves - Do you have a favorite Pin or Nail to share here? I'd love to hear your thoughts. 

**All the better for discouraging unsavory characters from loitering in my cubby.

**1 Vampires NOT included. 

Momentous Occasion

Today is a big day.

"But why, Sunny?" you surely must be asking. "Why is today so big?"

I'm glad you ask.

Today is a big day, because today is the last day of freedom for one of my very dear friends.

That's right - Tomorrow, the Corporate Workforce will be one Wonderful Northern Woman stronger.

However, it will also be the day that another graduate of my Alma Mater leaves our beloved state for greener pastures. And that gives me pause. (And pouts. But mostly pause.)

Sure, I could make her a present with my two hands. But that process takes forever, and I still haven't even gotten through her Christmas gift. By the time I finish that and get it to her, and then make something else to commemorate this exciting day, she will have quit this job, and the one she got after it, and be living in a yurt taking care of a generously-sized herd of dog-e-beests** with her Hubsters. And today is just too important for that.

So, I'll be crafting something of a different sort: The Sunny Smiles Guide to Not Ripping Your Hair Out in CorporateLand.

So without further ado... this one's for you dearheart. Give 'em hell.

* Greet yourself with a bright, sincere smile every morning when you look in the mirror. Corporate peoples can, on occasion, be snobbish little snots... so it might be the only friendliness you encounter during your day.

* Opportunities are everywhere. Always always always say yes when given a task - you never know when you might get a trophy for being the awesomest at filing.

* Only talk about what you would feel comfortable hearing about within office walls. No one wants to be That Coworker, who is avoided in the hallway because of a difficult case of oral diarrhea.

* Don't be afraid to employ a popular office-place tactic to make friends with your coworkers: The candy dish. There's nothing like bonding in the name of snacks.

* Lunchtime is a treat. Make sure to step away from your desk and spend at least twenty minutes doing something entirely different from what you are employed to do. While being devoted to your job is wonderful, and while it may seem difficult to break away during the early days of your employment, I assure you that you don't want to gain a reputation as That Girl Who Will Give Up Her Lunch Altogether Because Some Idiot Screwed Up Their Deadline. Helping is wonderful... but don't set yourself on the road to burnout immediately. Besides - lunch is yummy.

* Use headphones if music is essential to your workplace endeavors. As much as you may love Sir MixALot, your neighbor might think he's the stupidest musician ever, and I don't want to come to a funeral with the headline "Young Up-And-Comer Dies in Brutal Pen Stabbing."

* Check behind you before you dance. Copy room... Break area... Your cubicle... These are all totally danceable spaces, but if someone walks up behind you when you're busting a move, you're liable to look more like you're covertly dealing with a wedgie instead of expressing your inner ballerina.

* Kiss your special someone every night as soon as you get home. Don't immediately launch into stories about how your hellacious day really sucked (or about how your epic day beat the socks off of every other workday in the history of time). Remember that you are both people with important duties, and that your relationship is important to nurture, too.

* BUT, don't feel like work must stay at the workplace. If you're upset, talk about it. That way you'll have an explanation for why you yelled at the dishwasher for making a funny sound. It's also justification to devour a guiltless pint of Chunky Monkey for dinner.

* Eat healthy as often as you can. Yes, pizza is delicious... but if it makes you smell funny, try to save it for special occasions (like your first Friday-after-a-long-workweek). You will spend your first month making first impressions... Don't let them be stinky ones.

* Stretch whenever you get the chance. Some offices have a daily stretching regimen. It can be a time to bond with your coworkers. While you work out the kinks from sitting ergonomically for such extended periods of time, see if everyone can share a (clean, suitable-for-work) joke or piece of trivia.

* Treat three-hole-punchers with care. All it takes is one misguided tug of the catch-tray to send those obnoxious little chips flying all over the place... And then you have to vacuum, which sucks.

* If you find yourself in the enviable position of having a lunchroom that is frequented by the Snack Fairy, please indulge. But indulge cautiously. It's wonderful to enjoy a special treat in the heart of a bonding moment with fellow snacky-coworkers. But it's not so wonderful to be That Girl Who Lurks In The Lounge Waiting For Her Next Free Nom.

* Clean your desk before you go home every night. It not only gives you a fresh start every morning (and a chance to make sure you didn't miss any immediate-action items that may have landed on your desk), it also gives the Office Pixies a place to dance during the night. And if there's anyone whose good side you want to be on... It's those Pixies.

* Leave notes with any paperwork you abandon on a coworker's desk. While they might know exactly what gift you're leaving them, there is always the possibility that they're having a suck-tastic day and that one little report will push them over the edge into insanity. That's what post-its are for - jot a quick message about what you're leaving and why... And sign it. That way, when they lurch over the edge into oblivion, you'll be safe from certain death at their rage-addled hands.

* E-mail your friends and loved ones often, to make sure they know you haven't forgotten them. While this is the first step in a tremendous journey for you, it is a difficult step for them as well.  They love you bunches, and great crocodile tears are leaking all over the place as you spread your wings.

Much love, S.S. <3

** Kind of like wildebeests, but smaller and more snuggly.

Spirit of the Season

Writing while you're part of a national organization can be a little terrifying.

Every day, I worry about the words that I put onto paper.

While the fodder provided within the walls of my little slice of Awfice Heaven is almost as delicious as a cranberry-raisin pie, it's also equally dangerous. While a little indulgence is good... too much can get you into trouble.

(And I don't mean the kind of trouble that comes from over-indulgence in a natural laxative... Although that has ramifications of its own.)

No, I mean the kind of trouble where a writer must be constantly vigilant for cues that she is giving away too many specifics, and is placing herself into danger if her employer ever finds out and confronts her about "That angry admin blog."

For instance, it would be a hoot and a half for me to write about the responses they released regarding the recent employee satisfaction poll. But that would be a release of too many specifics.

It would also be fantastically funny for me to write about being trapped in a basement with a herd of misfiring toilets because of a crummy landlord who doesn't take care of his building, but that is also rife with specifics and could also create a situation of negative ramifications if said landlord ever caught wind of it and then lashed out at me for creating an "online spectacle."

I would love to write about some of the more specific Noms that come across my plate at work, but (you guessed it), they're too specific for public consumption.

Basically, it's pretty hard to write when your hands are tied regarding the material you would most love to put out there for your beloved ReaderFriends.

But then, every once in a while, something wonderful will come along that I don't have to resist sharing because it's so delightfully delicious AND so fabulously vague.

As you know, there's a grand holiday approaching. One where we get to gorge ourselves on pies and delectables all morning, and then on turkey and savorables all afternoon, and then spend the evening in a food-induced coma with our pants unbuttoned and a gluttonous smile upon our greasy lips.

Or, you know, something like that.

Anyway, in preparation for this holiday, I usually get my bake on.

This year I took a break from the typical pie-a-palooza in which I usually indulge and opted instead for something new and different: Gingerbread men.

In the shape of Ninjas.

Yes, boys and girls, you heard right: Ginja-Ninjas.

This is tremendously exciting not only because they are cookies, but also because they are stealthy and because they will kick you in the uvula on their way to assault your stomach with their deliciosity.

I've been looking forward to baking these cookies for almost five weeks, ever since I ordered the cookie cutters. And I've been talking about them with the select few at work I knew were capable of keeping my incredible secret.

One of these individuals is arguably the funniest person in the office.* I told her about my Ginja-Ninjas, and her face lit up.

"My son LOVES ninjas. Do you think you could bring in some for him?"

I, of course, was delighted at the idea. Her son has his own difficulties throughout his life. So the idea of making something that would bring joy to a child AND a smile to a coworker was optimally awesome to me.

And now, it is Sunday evening. The cookies are baked, including one very special one with the child's initial in the middle of it. And I know that my weekend was spent doing something worthwhile.

I hope that your week is short, demands placed upon you are few and that you're able to escape your own office and spend time with your family free from technology and other constraints upon you. I hope that you will give thanks to someone for your gainful employment (if you have it), or for the extra time to devote to what you enjoy (if you don't). I hope you will enjoy good food and the start of a wonderful season.

To Your Health,
*Sunny

* I should give an example. For Instance: When told that someone in our company was packing for a five month trip, she sat silently for a moment before saying "That's a lot of underpants."

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.

Why Elevators Are Germ Boxes of Doom

I've always been a bit of a germophobe.

Some environments trigger this more than others. For instance, being in a doctor's office makes me acutely aware of just which diseases I have NOT contracted, and makes me wonder whether I will be exposed to H1N1 from the oozing child in the next chair... so I end up tucking my nose into my magazine and covertly sending telepathic messages to the little snot machine** to take their leaking orifices over to the lovely little play corner. Being on an airplane makes me think about what jungle viruses the other passengers might be radiating into our shared air... so I end up burrowing into my blanket and breathing through it for the duration of my flight. Being in a vehicle - especially one of which I am not in control - makes me wonder if the driver has the capacity to poison me with germs through the air ducts under the guise of "turning up the heat to reach you all the way back there."

But the worst has to be the elevator.

Doctors' offices have windows that can be left open. Airplanes have doors that can be left open. Vehicles have both. 

Elevators do not.

Doctors' offices, airplanes and vehicles can create a scenario of moving- with the appropriate allocation of open airway and stout breeze.

 Elevators can not.

Sure, the doors open. For exactly 14 seconds (at least on my Friendly Local Elevator). That is NOT enough time for an air-exchange. That's enough time to cool down the air right inside the doorway, and then trap you inside for a 45-second-long ride of germ-tastic doom.

Well, it should be easy enough, right? Just avoid elevators. 

Except...

I am one of only a handful of people who have a key to the Box Of Doom. Which means that, twice a day, I have to push the little button and wait for the disgustingly long descent, and then step inside to turn the key. Which, inevitably takes 18 seconds (two seconds longer than the breath I can hold when I totally forgot to take a deep, holdable breath before the elevator arrived and have to just gasp in what I can before the doors ding open). Most days I can step in, fumble for my keys, grab the right one and be en-route to the keyhole before I have to kick my foot in front of the door to keep it from closing me in (thereby at least feigning to my brain that there is breathable, un-germy air around should the need for it arise). I can then complete my task of turning on the elevator, escaping it and breathing deeply as I walk myself up the well ventilated stairs.

(Mind you, all of this is happening in a two-story building. The elevator is only for clients, of which we have very few right now because the company is in a "state of transition." So all of this work is pointless, and goes unrecognized until the one day I forget to turn on the elevator and someone has to walk up the stairs before a meeting ((heaven forbid)) and is forced to get some exercise, thereby totally winding them and ruining the meeting because they can't think for the breath they can't catch.)

Unfortunately, this was not the case today.

Today, I was just at the kicking-of-the-foot part when I heard a ding. And then a clanging bell. And then, all hell broke loose.

The ding was a call for the elevator. Easy enough. Once the key is engaged, it will rocket off on its upward trajectory, hurtling towards its destination at a staggering eight-inches-per-second-per-second rate of acceleration. (Yep. Tested and true. It really is faster to climb the stairs.) But it will not rocket upwards before the key turns and the connection is completed and I can escape unscathed. 

Most of the time.

Today, it was really on its game, and I got sucked into its trap.

COURSE OF EVENTS:

Sunny: <pushes button>

Elevator: Oh hai! 

              <opens immediately>

Sunny: Meep! Not ready!

            <gasps quickly to avoid imminent germ-cloud>

            <steps into elevator, fumbles keys, accidentally drops them>

            Crap.

            <reaches to pick up keys while awkwardly kicking leg out to stall closing door>

Elevator: Oh! A game! I love games! I'll make loud crashy noise, too.

               <dings as if being called>

Fire Alarm: What fun! A game! I can make noise, too!

                  <clangs and joins in the fun>

Sunny: <startled> Oh!

Elevator: Have you disembarked, HumanFriend?

               <begins closing doors>

Sunny: No! NoNoNoNoNo!

            <frantic kicking of leg>

Elevator: HumanFriend! You're still here! But I'm about to move! I will save you!! You will be safe!!

              <closes doors more quickly>

Fire Alarm: I'll keep you company!

                  <CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG>

So... I was terrified. I was locked in a little box which appeared to be making decisions of its own volition. I was moving upwards on a trajectory I hadn't requested, towards the source of a noise which was startling the ever-loving earwax out of me**1, and I was fairly certain I was going to die.

By the time I reached the first floor, I was in Catastrophic Meltdown. I had run out of air in my lungs, so I had pulled my sweater up over my face and was breathing in through that and out through my right sleeve. My belongings - such as they were - were scattered about the floor, having been dropped in the hubbub. I was curled into the far corner of the elevator with my back pressed to the wall and what I'm sure was a look of terror plastered firmly on my face.

Which must have been a fantastic spectacle for the Fire Alarm Guy that greeted me on the first floor.

"Oh!" he said nonchalantly as the doors opened and he peered inside. "I wouldn'ta used the emergency key if I knew you were about."

** I love children. I really, really do. It's the parents who do nothing to stem the flow of viscous fluids that bother me. Really, honey, is it that hard to help him blow his nose? No, don't drug him, just employ a tissue. 

**1 Loud noises in small spaces lead me down a short path to schizophrenia. I see angry faces in my head, my heart palpitates almost to the point of making me feel ill and my breath comes in these little raspy bursts that make me sound like a PugDog with chronic respiratory disease. So... fire alarm in elevator = Sunny the Wide Eyed Terror-Beast.

Yo Ho Ho...

Ahoy, me hearties!

Today is International Talk Like A Pirate Day.

In celebration, I thought about writing you a Pirate Song, but then wasn't certain how it would be received since I can't actually sing it for you. (Not for lack of technology... I mean I really can't sing.)

I thought about writing you a Pirate Story, but couldn't get past "Ahoy, me hearties!" and thus thought that the creative juices were opposed to that idea.

I thought about writing you a Pirate Play, but then had a little trouble getting out of the scene-setup and into the actual dialogue.

And so, I decided that a fun, unobtrusive List Of Excitement might be in order today.

For your reading pleasure, I present to you:

CAPTAIN SUNNY SMILES' PIRATE CODE

~When, in cases of disagreement, an accord cannot be reached: The Captain is always right.

~When, in cases of disagreement, an accord is reached which is converse to the Captain's wishes: The Captain is even more right.

~All snacks are to be evenly distributed amongst the EngineerHearties; HOWEVER, Captain Sunny must get her equal portion before all the EngineerHearties take all the best bits.

~ When any EngineerHearty is caught saying mean/derogatory/stoopid things, they will be keelhauled.

~When any EngineerHearty is caught taking the last doughnut without carte blanche from The Captain, they will be made to walk the plank.

~When any EngineerHearty is caught taking *half* of the last doughnut, they will be keelhauled and THEN made to walk the plank.

~When it is Sea-Shanty Sing-A-Long Time, all EngineerHearties *must* take part. This is not a request.

~All grievances may be settled by payment to Sunny in Gold Dubloons (preferably the kind with chocolate in the middle). Keelhauling, plank-walking and shark-feeding may still commence, at whim.

NOONTIME NOMZ

DrafterFriend: Is it really only ten o'clock in the morning? I feel like I've been here for hours...

Sunny: You have.

DrafterFriend: Right, I know, but like *lots* of hours. I wish there were a fast forward so the day could be over faster.

<pause>

But then I would need a rewind too, you know, to go back...

<pause>

And a pause button. Definitely a pause button.

Sunny: But if you hit pause, wouldn't you be stuck forever? If you stopped the world, and you're *in* the world, you would stop too...

Drafter Friend: Oh, right...

Sunny: <on a roll> Yeah, definitely. And then you'd be stuck there forever. But would you *know* that it's forever? Or would you just exist?

DrafterFriend: <startled> Umm, right... <backs away>

Sunny: <remains on tangent> You just wouldn't know. You'd be stuck there forever. An eternal loop of pause...

Your Password Will Expire...

Monday morning isn't exactly the pinnacle of greatness in my week.

In fact, it's about the opposite.

(Except that would make it the pit of despair, or something.. And that makes it sound super melodramatic. Melodrama is something we seek to avoid, and thus... I guess we'll just call it Monday morning.)

This morning wasn't all downhill. I did wake up on time. And looked at the clock, and said "Hmm... that should have gone off two minutes ago." Then I set the clock for eight minutes later (because even a sleep-deprived Sunny can be anal-retentive about her round numbers) and went back to sleep. And promptly snoozed for 56 minutes (that's 8 hits of the snooze button), at which point bed needed to be rocketed out of in order for the morning's schedule to commence accordingly. 

Which has pretty much set the standard for the rest of my morning.

Over the weekend, I partied too hard. I went to a restaurant that sets my tummy into fits of Rawr, so I've spent most of the weekend feeling (and looking) like a pregnant beluga. I watched a football game late into the evening, so I'm sporting some very healthy bags under my eyes. I haven't done laundry in the better part of a fortnight**, so I'm down to the bottom-of-the-barrel clothes-wise. I haven't gone grocery shopping in a week, either, so I'm scraping the bottom of the unhealthiest choices in my pantry for nutrition. And I've been napping like a crazy person, so I can't even argue that it's a busy schedule keeping me from living a healthy lifestyle.

Anyway, all of these choices have led me to feel less-than-stellar today. My shirt is too small and my jeans have a hole between the thighs. I'm not wearing makeup and I forgot my rings. My skin isn't fitting properly, and every time I move something smells funny in my cube, and even though I showered this morning, I suspect it might be me.

This is the type of morning totally befitting a Monday. And thus, when I got to the office this morning... I had to change my password.

Hurray.

The tiny little message is so unassuming:

Your password will expire in 0 days. Would you like to change it now?

OK | Cancel

It's a setup. You can't really cancel. You HAVE to change your password. If you hit cancel, you can go about your business for exactly 45 minutes, until you forget that you didn't change your password and you step away to go pee and accidentally lock yourself out of your computer and your password expires, so you have to go beg the IT guy to please let you in to your computer... All while he sighs and asks why you didn't just change it before.

"Well, ninny, why didn't you change it before now?" you must be asking, just like IT guy. "Don't they give you a warning?"

Well of course they do. They give me 14 days. Which isn't nearly long enough to be clever and witty in devising a new password.

Here's the basic scoop:

One must come up with a new password every 40 days. (I would say something witty about Organized Religion here, if I weren't worried about offending the masses. Or at least the masses who read this blog. Hi, masses! Look at me, trying not to offend you!)

That's just enough time to get settled in to a pattern where you remember your password without looking at the little sticky you hid underneath your frog-soap-dish-that-functions-as-a-business-card-holder to remind you of your last bout of password creativity. After all, the safety of your workstation and the company depends on the strength of your password! Without a strong password, any schmuck could wander into the company and start firing off messages about impending doom and free barbeques at lunchtime. I just can't have that responsibility hanging on my shoulders.

So, every 26 days (when the error message first pops up), I try to get clever. I think about what passwords I've used in the past, and how I can modify them ever so slightly so I don't go completely bonkers when I try to remember just what, exactly, I changed it to on day 41.

But it can't be as easy as a-b-c or 1-2-3. You must use at least one capital letter. You must use at least one lowercase letter. And you must use a number or a symbol.

Which means I usually end up with something terribly clever like aBc1@3 .

Yeah, good fun. Totally rememberable... Except unacceptable.

Corporate doesn't accept patterns, either.

So I try to go with the season. Snowflake... Pumpkin... Patriot... they've all been victims in the past.

Or I try to go with a current hobby. Knitting... Medieval... yup, they've worked it too.

But eventually, one runs out of creativity.

And eventually, one runs out of days to push off their finding-of-creativity, and one must just make a decision and go with it.

So one looks around ones office, and comes up with something that their eyes will settle on every morning just to get them past the little blinking error message of doom...

So for the next 40 days, one ends up peeking under the frog-soap-dish-that-functions-as-a-business-card-holder to remind oneself to type in ScotchTape! every time a password is requested.

And then your pattern gets shaken up with a swirly-whirly swizzle stick of corporate doom, and you start all over again.

** Two weeks. You should read some Shakespeare.

Spoil Your Lunch

I'm about to tell you something shocking...

I'm a girl.

Yes, I know. I should have let you sit down first and brace yourself. My clever subtleties like wearing skirts and glitter often conceal my inner femininity... At least from EngineerFriends. 

However, it remains true. Although I can (don't usually, but can) cuss like a sailor, work like a lumberjack and spit... I also enjoy frilly undergarments, drinking something sweet out of a pretty glass and pretending I'm a princess.**

There are times at work where this shines through more brightly than others. Sometimes it's the local fauna (read: spiders) that bring out my inner Disney Girl, where I shriek and pull my feet up on my chair until someone comes to rescue me.. Sometimes it's something exciting that riles me into my feminine mode, where I giggle and flit about and my excitement expells itself from my flailing fingertips. And sometimes... it's shopping.

See, part of my job is to shop for the office supplies. I get a request from an employee, and I go through our vendors and find the best price and buy it with the company account. (This, then, creates an invoice which I have to process. Happy circle, no?) It's a little more exciting because I don't have to use my own money... And the thrill of the hunt can be pretty awesome. There are some great deals on Post-Its out there. (And, of course, I get to dictate what colors we get. "Oh! Sorry, EngineerFriend! They only had the Vibrant Violet packets this week! I guess you'll just have to make do.)

For today, I got a request for some kitchen supplies from a satellite office. My shopping list: Coffee, creamer, pretzels, and "two or three kinds of candy. Whatever you choose will be fine."

Internal dialogue went like this:

<rainbows and sunshine and smiling puppies> SQUEE! Candy! Whatever I want to pick!

But wait... I don't get to eat it.

This isn't for my office.

I just have to choose it, and someone else will eat it.

And I have to order it from an office supply website, so really, their selection is going to stink.

No use getting my hopes up. I'll get basic hard candy and basic chewy candy and I'll be on my merry way.

Boring, but merry.

(End of internal dialogue.)

So, resignedly, I signed on to  my favorite of the office supply order websites. 

Search term: "Candy." Results:

FIFTY NINE ITEMS.

Now, don't get too hasty. Two of these items were tea (Candy Apple, anyone?) and and one was a note pad (Ribbon Candy paper?), so really there were only fifty six types of candy to choose from.

And so began my mid-morning splurge of candy shopping.

New Internal Dialogue:

Do I get them Jolly Ranchers? Tootsie Rolls? Starburst? M&M's? So many choices! So many decisions!

Oh my goodness, I didn't know you get that many Jelly Bellys  in one package!

Saf-T Pops?! They still make Saf-T Pops?! Oh, my goodness! Want!

Oooh... Candied fruit slices. 

Oooooh... Life savers. 

Oooooooh... Gummy bears. 

I can't pick. The pressure is too much.

Search term: "Basic Candy." Results:

Original hard candy mix.

Original soft-'n'-chewy mix.

That, I can handle.

** A warrior princess. Don't judge.

MONDAY NOONTIME NOMS!

EngineerFriend (Over the loud-speaker system): Any architect dial my extension. Any architect, my extension. If you can spell "Charette."

EngineerFriend (Over the loud-speaker system): <music plays>

Sunny: Did you mean to do that?

EngineerFriend: Yes. This song is awesome. They should rock out.

EngineerFriend: You've been useless since two o'clock this afternoon. Please go home.

No Pain...

Ow.

Remember that insomnia post? And how I vaguely hinted at some pain from over-exertion?

My muscles aren't being vague anymore.

So here's the scoop: I took a tumble over the weekend because I didn't take care of myself, got a little too thirsty and a little too dizzy and fell down carrying a box of books on the stairs. Which wouldn't have been so bad except I landed on my butt/back/hips. So now (two days later), I hurt.

A lot.

Until now, it had been tolerable. At home when I got uncomfortable, I would fidget around and get myself comfy again, and go on with my tasks. At work, I pretty much just sit here. There's only so much fidgeting one can do from a seated position, and so... I grump.

In the scheme of things, I don't have it so bad. I have a remarkable feeling of accomplishment for That Which I Got Done Over The Weekend, and I have an afternoon off to do That Which I Didn't Get Done Over The Weekend, so I'm in good spirits about that. And keeping on with the moving helps me not seize up entirely and fall to a quivering lump on the floor.

Besides... it can be kind of fun to incite pity from my coworkers, and see what I can get them to do for me. (So far, nothing. But it's early yet.)

MONDAY NOONTIME NOMS!

We been clusterin' all mornin, and it's only 10:30. (From a client who insists that his projects always go wrong.)

I'm gonna retire -  I don't give a God-damn! (From the same client, later in the same conversation.)

Are you have time to make a presentation printie? This is for internal ooing and ahhing.  (From an EngineerFriend who was trying desperately not to come apart at the seams with their stressful project.)

<EngineerFriend approaches desk to sign out in Sign Out log>

Sunny: <mostly to self> Oh my goodness... They have cologne with undertones of bacon.

EngineerFriend: Hmm... <looks dreamily out the window for a moment> Oh! <starts, and looks back to Sign Out log> Now you got me all flustered, thinkin' about bacon!

Is your pride in your butt? (Upon telling a client on the phone that I had fallen and hurt myself some. He said 'I bet your pride got the worst blow.' I said 'Tell that to my butt!' This was his response.)