Winter Walks, Part 1

Springtime is my very favorite time of year.

The winter goes away...

The sunshine comes out to play...

The snow melts...

The leaves peek out, unfurl and greet the world...

All sorts of poeticalness happens in the springtime.

It's beautiful, and I love it.

Here in the frozen wastelands of New England, winter has been pretty brutal this year. His grip has been relentless - day after day of sub-zero temperatures and driving snow and general frosty mayhem.

I don't like it.

Neither, I've found, does the Young Master.

See, wintertime is a time of cooped-uppedness.

He doesn't get to go outside and play as often, because the ground is frozen and his toes are tender. He starts limping almost immediately with the cold on his feet. And if there's salt or sand... forget it. I might as well carry him through the yard.


I would look like this, only less photogenic.

Photo Credit:
http://dsmpower.tv/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/oneman.jpg

 So when we had a tropical heat wave the other day and the temperature soared up into the thirties, I knew it was my lucky break.

Two out of the past four work days have been kind to me. I've gotten out of the office early enough that I can make it through my commute home and get there before the sun has completely set. This is due (in no small part) to the sun deciding to stick around longer because it knows springtime is coming. It's also because I found a new way to drive home from work that avoids the string of red lights that hates me through three of my four commute-through towns.

So, on Monday, I got out of work at 2. I went to the eye doctor for my bi-annual** adventures with glaucoma drops and those charts with the little numbers. And then I drove home. The glaucoma drops had given me a bit of a headache, so I took it easy on the commute... but I still arrived home by 4:45. Sweet! I thought. Evening walky time!

Walks with the Young Master can go a couple different ways, depending on the time of day. I'll do a visual breakdown when I figure out exactly how to portray it. But I can sum up here:

• He has the focus to see the walk through with practically show-dog-worthy attention. This is mostly because of his Walking Stick.
• On occasion, he will walk politely until we are fifty yards from the house, and then begin to lolligag because the walk is coming to an end. This is mostly in the morning.
• He does not have the focus to see the walk through with the patience God gave a guppy. This is mostly because:
• Something smells good
• Something that smelled good tastes good
• He has dropped his walking stick and is waiting for me to pick it
• There is something - anything - that has a heartbeat or once had a heartbeat or might have a heartbeat if he stares at it longingly enough

The latter almost always wins out over the former.

It's easier in the wintertime to schedule in morning walks. We leave the house right after the school bus has gone by, and we're back so I can get on the road and into the office before my coffee is cold.

But it's more fun to take evening walks. I imagine, in his mind, it goes something like this:

Hmm... another leaf just blew by the window. I don't think I'll bark at this one. No one's home to see me. But... hark! What noise at yonder portal makes?

Could it be?

Dare I hope?

I must adjourn to the window and smush my nose upon it.

Is it?

Is it?

Is it?

IT IS!

MOMMA'S HOOOOME!

Momma! I missed you! I missed you! I missed you SO MUCH! I don't think you understand. Let me lick your tongue to tell you how much I missed you! Momma! I missed you! I missed you!

Wait.

Why are you standing up?

MOMMA. I missed you. Come back and kneel with me, so I may properly shower you with my pent up adoration.

Momma.

Momma.

Mo....

Sit? Okay... I can sit.

OH. MY. GOD.

We're going for a walk.

WAAAAAAAAALKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIES!!!!

Yeah... that's pretty much how it plays out, but picture it with fifty pounds of exhilarated adorable-ocity and a long, lolling tongue.

Tomorrow, I tell you just what happened on this Monday evening walk.

And let me tell you, ReaderFriend... it'll be worth the wait.

**1 I always have trouble with this. Does bi-annual mean "every other year?" Or does it mean "twice a year?" Semi-annual means twice a year, no matter what. Bi-annual needs to make up its mind.

New and Exciting

Indeed, that is the name of the game today: "New and Exciting."

Because Boyfriend of Amazingness and I have embarked upon a New and Exciting Journey, wherein we welcomed a New and Exciting Houseguest to join our family.

No, we are not procreating...

No, we've not randomly welcomed a vagabond into our home and decided to keep him as a permanent fixture, between the lamp and the bookcase in the library...

No. Instead, we've welcomed a four-legged youngster to our home, and he's decided that it might be okay to stay.

After a whirlwind adoption process,**1 Friday marked the day that 44 pounds of fur, drool and snuggles took up residence on our living room couch.

And on the kitchen floor.

And on the bed.

And just about everywhere else in the house. (Well... everywhere except the craft room. Craft rooms are full of things that Young Masters would find shiny and delicious, and there's no need for yakked-up piles of crayon to become my new decorating scheme.)

So, over the past few days, everything has been an adventure.

No, seriously...

Everything.

You're going to go pee? Let me come watch. I'll rest my head on your leg, and make sure you're okay in this weird little room on your weird little throne.

You're going to pour yourself a glass of lemonade? Let me stick my head in the refrigerator and make sure there's nothing out-of-the-ordinary. For good measure, I'll lick the bottle. Yeah... I think you'll be okay if you drink this.

You're going to sit on the couch? Why, I think that sounds fabulous. Let me just... oops, that was your face I just hit with my tail, and your squishy middle bit feels funny under my feet. So sorry, just trying to get to the optimized seating area between you and The Important One.**2 Won't take me but a moment more... here's a kiss for your troubles.

What will tomorrow bring?

Only he knows.

**1 When I say whirlwind, I mean that this makes Dorothy's tornado seem tame. We sent in an application and a lighthearted request for additional information on Tuesday, thinking that (at best) we might be able to schedule a short meet-and-greet over the weekend, if he hadn't alreay gone to a Forever Home. By noon Wednesday, the shelter called to inform us that we were approved and they wanted to know when we'd be retrieving the young master to bring him home. After a short session of flailing our arms and saying "But we haven't even met him yet!", we decided that Boyfriend of Amazingness would check out the situation on Friday morning, at his earliest convenience, and see if it might work out. By the time I arrived home from work on Friday afternoon, we were Proud Puppy Parents. Now that, my ReaderFriends, is a whirlwind.

**2 How I imagine the Young Master refers to Boyfriend of Amazingness. I am The Tolerable One. He is The Important One. It's a Man-And-Beast bonding thing. My lack of dangling bits in the middle means that I simply wouldn't understand.

Where?

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, SUNNY!?"

I've heard your resounding cry, ReaderFriend!

I assure you, I haven't been willy-nilly ignoring you:

I've been here:

http://pennsicwp.org/2013/07/07/what-does-pennsic-look-like/

For two glorious weeks, I indulged in a technological detox and much too much campfire smoke, many too many fabulously frosty beverages and altogether disgusting amounts of frivolity and fun.

The creative fodder upon which my mind feasted will keep me producing fresh, funky blog posts for you for weeks to come.

So now I ask: What did you do on your Summer Vacation?

The Itsy-Bitsy Spider

When I was very young, I grew up in an AdventureHouse.

(No, not like the kind with a Jungle Room complete with wildcats. Nice try, but your grand illusions cannot make me feel inadequate. My childhood was awesome.)

By AdventureHouse, I mean that it was under construction from when I was born right up through when I moved out.**1 And when I say under construction, I mean I vividly remember using an Army blanket as a door for the bathroom (the one with actual plumbing and a potty - not the outhouse. That had a real door). And stubbing my toe on the hardwood flooring because I couldn't (wouldn't) "pick my damned feet up and stop scuffing around."**2 And when we finally got ceiling tiles, instead of just rigid sheathing insulation.

It was always an adventure.

Because of the state of constant construction under which my childhood home interminably was, there were certain rules we had to follow that other children just didn't have to deal with.

For instance... we weren't supposed to scuff our feet, because we would a) pick up splinters in our tender tootsies**3, b) ruin whatever slippers we might have gotten for Christmas, and then get splinters through them, or c) stub our damned toes on the hardwood flooring because we didn't pick them up to step over the threshold from room to room.

And it wasn't just the interior of the house that was under construction. The outside got lovin's too.

Which meant that we also had rules about How To Enter the Domicile, How To Exit the Domicile, and How To Proceed About The Dooryard. All of the rules were pretty much the same for these three activities.

Thou Shalt, upon crossing the dooryard, approaching the building or disembarking from the building, Abide by the Following Guidelines:

a) Wear a blaze orange hat for optimized visibility.

b) Cover thine head with thine arms, as arms are more replacable than heads.

c) Sing loudly to announce thine presence to yonder working Daddy. 

i) Do not sing "If All The Raindrops Were Lemon Drops And Gum Drops." That song implies a tiny face thrust skyward, which simply begs to be bashed in by any object that may have just made an unplanned departure from the roof. 

d) Do not dawdle in your traversing. Make haste. 

i) Do not make so much haste that you topple over. With your arms wrapped about your head thusly, such a misstep would guarantee a face driven most thoroughly into the gravel.

I told you that story... to tell you this story.

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting in the smoking area outside of my office. (Making a phone call. I do not smoke. I dated one smoker when I was young, and it made me physically ill to encounter his icky-tasting tongue. Not that the rest of him was any less icky for that disgusting habit... just that his tongue was super gross with its smokiness and propensity for being in my mouth.) It's immediately adjacent to the building (the smoking area, that is... not the ex-boyfriend's tongue...), and relatively sheltered from the wind so it's optimized for telephone conversations.

At least... I thought it was.

Until the building started eminating a noise that sounded as though a cordless drill was boring through the sheet metal and attempting to throw itself to its death eight stories down.

I hastened from the area into the adjacent parking lot and completed my phone call there.

But it was upon my reembarkation towards the building that I realized how deeply ingrained my childhood training was.

I had, unknowingly, pulled my arms over my head and begun singing - more loudly than a grown woman should - "The Itsy Bitsy Spider."

**1 As a note: Construction completion did not occur just because I moved out. The house is, in fact, still under construction. And probably will be until we sell it or all die and leave it to the animals.

**2 Dad loved when I scuffed my feet.

**3 Or bunsies. Ask my mother's beloved cat, whom I dragged around by the tail as a toddler. Nothing like a prickly posterior to make you want to move out of the house with the Tiny Schizoid and back down the road to Grandmom's.

Excuse Me While I Whip This Out...

Did you shriek? Did you gasp? Did you faint?

Well... you should have.

Try harder next time.

So, today is unseasonably warm in My Little Slice of Heaven. The weather forecast is remarkable:

Yeah. *Almost* 80 degrees. In Northern New England. In March.
That seems right.

In any case, it's too warm for woolies and boots anymore. Which means that yesterday, the Summer Clothes came out. And great excitement ensued.

The cute tops... The swishy skirts... The sandals and flip flops and The-Pastel-Purple-Ensconcements-of-Remarkable-Comfortableness-But-Also-Remarkable-Dorkiness-That-I-Only-Wear-To-Start-My-Car-In-The-Morning-Because-The-Rest-Of-The-Time-I'm-Ashamed-To-Own-Them Crocs... Oh yeah. The good stuff.

Except yesterday I wore the only skirt in the bunch that I could pull out of winter storage and wear immediately, because it was made to look wrinkled. And then last night I spent my time being outside in the sunshine... and then enjoying Tasty Noms of Social Awkwardness But Total Deliciosity**... and then going out for ice cream *with sprinkles*... So I didn't get around to airing the rest of the clothes out and conquering some of the months-old wrinkles.

Which means that my Morning Garb-A-Palooza today wasn't so easy.

After rifling through the entire box (and two different iterations of "I own *nothing* of suitable cuteness!", followed by "I thought your last outfit was awesome, honey...") I ended up finding one of my favorite purple dresses. It's soft cotton jersey - like wearing Boyfriend's favorite tee-shirt, but without the unfortunate side effect of being baggy in all the wrong places. And, you know, it's purple. I can do anything through Purple, who I'm pretty sure is magic.

But Favorite Purple Dress is clingy and drapey and doesn't have a pocket or a low-slung waistline. Which means that I had to endeavor to find some other accommodations for my badges this morning.

Yes, badgeS.

Being in a new office of markedly higher safety standards, I am safely ensconced within a maze of locked doors that only open for Bearers of The Badge. So safely ensconced, in fact, that it takes a series of badges to get into my Work-Week Homeland.

First, there is the Parking Garage Badge. Larger than its cousins, it contains what I am certain is a chunk of magnet thick enough to render a pacemaker useless. Every morning I flap it idly at the little pad, and the gate opens. I am worthy of parking my car. (It's nice, because it's 24/7 access to secure parking in the part of town filled with amazing restaurants and clubs and Places to Frequent with a Boyfriend of Amazingness. Thank goodness I have one, so I can go there.)

Then I tootle up the little hill and to the back door of the office where I must use Outside Door Badge in order to gain access to the building. It MUST be tipped sideways, though, which made access difficult in the beginning of my employment as it had been punched for my badgeholder on an end that got in the way of scanning. So mostly I just stood at the door looking pathetic until someone else came along and I could hitch a ride on their worthiness train. (Once Someone In Posession Of A Badge Punch found out about my predicament, though, it was quickly remedied. Now I can get in any time, all by my big girl self.)

Finally, once inside the building, I can abandon my other badges in favor of the one I need for inside: my Inside Door Badge. This is the prettiest badge of all, adorned with my face on one side and the splashes from a mud puddle it jumped into over the winter on the other. And whenever I encounter a door within the building, I flap the little badge against the little touchpad, and the lock clicks open.

Which is a pain in the neck first thing in the morning, when I put my badge on my desk so I can "run real quick to get my breakfast" and then can't get back inside. (So I stand in the hallway, looking as though I just got off the elevator and waiting for someone else to come along and beep me in.) And also when I wear pretty slinky purple dresses with no where suitable to clip a badge holder.

I tried clipping it to the little empire-waistline belt that is purely for decoration. It ended up agitating my armpit.

I tried clipping it to my neckline, just under my shoulder, but it ended up thwaping my chest, my arm and my ear whenever I walked. (The ear part boggles me. I wasn't jumping or anything.)

So that's how I ended up in the restroom this morning, trying desperately to figure out how to conceal an Inside Door Badge Of +5 Access To Workplaces in my bra.

It works okay, except for the pinching. It threw everything off kilter when I tucked it into one side or the other, so it's stuffed directly down the front.

Which means that I either need to stuff my hand down the front of my dress every time I encounter a door (a la Blazing Saddles, of course!) or I need to take sexual liberties with wall fixtures.

Either way, it's been an exciting day indeed.

** Deep fried chicken patty with bacon, cheese and a fried egg on top, all in one heavenly little burger called the "Mother and Child Reunion." Don't think... and for the love of all that is Purple, don't judge. Just eat.

Winter Safety

Ah, winter. What a glorious time of year.

- The roads get covered with gooey gunk which rivals the grease trap in the kitchen of the Ol' Home Fill 'Er Up And Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe.**

- The sidewalks become a disgusting mess of frozen puddles and salt deposits with the sole purpose of ruining my favorite "It's Winter But I Don't Have To Admit It Yet" boots.

- The driveway becomes stuck in an infinite loop of Being Shoveled and then Being Filled With Snow From The Rotten NeighborSpawn Who Insist That My Driveway Is Better For Sledding Than Their Own, with only sporadic interruptions for when Lady Nature decides that my yard is a disgraceful mess and needs to be whitewashed.

So, yeah. Winter. Woot.

I'm fairly lucky. While my driveway is a source of difficulty, at least it isn't long. And if it snows overnight while the cars are in the yard, the shovelling isn't awful. Just pull the cars into the road and *kapow.* Instant clean.

And it's not like this season lasts forever, either. Yes, it starts getting cold in September. Yes, it's still not tee-shirt weather in April. But at least the snow is only really awful from January until the end of March. And the days don't stay short forever. In fact, just this morning I realized that there was light for my Getting Ready For Work ritual. Which is nice.

However, I do have a bit of an issue with one thing:

Walking.

Walking around My Friendly Home State can be a mess in the wintertime. It never used to be such an issue - Prior to the move, I had to walk around a small parking lot at work. I could dictate how far I wanted to walk on my Shopping Endeavors, and walking up my driveway was a slice of schnitzel. There's hardly any drive to walk up. No complaints there.

But now, I've got a bit of a hike.

When we evacuated our prior Working Establishment in favor of new digs, we gave up our Cooshy Parking Lot of Awesomeness in favor of a parking garage.

Which isn't awful, I admit, when it snows and I don't have to shovel my car.

However, this parking lot is (depending on which side of the building I exit), just under a quarter of a mile away. Which means that I have some hiking to do.

That becomes difficult in the wintertime because:

- I do not live in a flat state, where you can see from one side to the other uninterrupted. I have mountains all over the place Being In The Way. To that end I do not just travel in the X and Y, but also in the Z.

- I work in a lovely older neighborhood whose establishment thought that bricks made a fantastic paving medium for sidewalks. Not the rough kind of brick, either... No, walking on these puppies is an adventure not unlike fresh fuzzy socks on a clean hardwood floor. Careful footsteps can make your walk a little safer, but you never know when the dog is going to come barreling around the corner and send you skittering across the living room on your rumpus.

- I am not old and decrepit, so I enjoy pretty shoes. That means I don't always choose the sneakers or clonky winter boots that would keep me safe... Sometimes I pick the pretty heels that make me feel like (brace yourself...) a female.

Now, that's not to say that residents of my fair Work City don't understand my plight. Last evening, as I was slip-sliding down the sidewalk on my Boots of Sunneriffic Might, two gentlemen passed me and regaled me with a little ditty I hear often on my adventures: "Be careful there! Whoops! Are you alright?"

I forged onward. I have my own little arsenault of tricks that help me feel more in control of my appendages:

- Stick arms out as if to create an A-Frame around one's trunk. This increases wind resistance in case a skid occurs. In addition, it airs out ghastly underarm odors that can occur when Heavy Winter Jackets are installed.

- Bend knees to increase proximity from posterior to sidewalk. This leaves a shorter distance to landing in case of an unfortunate fall, thus protecting That Which The Opposite Sex Ogles.

- Don't pick up one's feet. Just slide them along the sidewalk, lessening propulsion to impulse speed. This takes forces (other than gravity) out of the equation for toppling to the ground, so it's more of a fall and less of a forceful hurling of one's self to the pavement.

By and large, these rules keep me from Eating Dirt during my trudge from the office to my car.

However, it must have become apparent that I wasn't employing teleportation, and was indeed using My Own Two Feet to zoom from my workplace to the garage, and couldn't possibly be making safe choices unsupervised.

And so my employer created Safety Instructions just for travelers like myself.

These commandments have been issued in what I'm sure was constructed to be a whimsical fashion - Trying to catch the attention of the masses and impart their Safety Knowledge without bludgeoning the workers over the head with proper walking practices. Their thoughts aren't unlike my own - arms out, shuffle your feet, bend your knees... However, they took it one step further. For your enjoyment:

Don't Endanger Your Posterior, ReaderFriends. Make Good Choices Instead.

** Thank you, C.W. McCall, for that timeless piece of classic music!

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.

Seriously?!

Really, ReaderFriends?

Really?!

It's been three weeks today since my last post.

THREE WEEKS!

And you didn't say anything!

It's like I'm not talking to anyone.

Or, conversely, I'm talking to a bunch of people who are worried they'll frighten me away with feedback.

Yeah... let's go with that.

SO... We've moved!

We're safely in our new location. I have a new cubicle, far from the madness of my former life.

And it's fantastic.

No, for realsies.

I have four walls, that go all the way up. I can tippy-toe and see over them, but I'm not a rat in a cage on display for my coworkers to antagonize. And I love it.

I have neighbors who whisper their conversations in an attempt not to interrupt my work and what I'm trying to get done. They speak on the phone as if they're normal people. They don't yell, they don't cuss* and they treat each other with respect.

And when I say each other... I mean me, too.

I've gotten more work done in the last two weeks than I had in months. I'm caught up (almost entirely, except for the stuff that just came in) on my invoicing, I'm caught up on my typing and I'm getting a handle on the record keeping that's been hanging over my head since before I started as an administrator for this company.

It's fabulous!

However, things are going so well and I'm staying so busy that it's been hard to keep up with writing. So I wanted to send you this.

In my free time, I've been working in a very sexy production of a classic Christmas ballet. It's helped me both to bolster my self confidence by working with people who make me smile, and to help me keep a lid on my Christmas Spirit by keeping me in a state of moderate exhaustion throughout the Christmas season.

But it's been fabulous. Full of glitter, full of feathers and full of fun.

SO: I hope you have a wonderful holiday, ReaderFriends. I hope it's fabulous and I hope that it brings you all the sparkling things you desire.
* Not aloud, anyway. I hear they're pretty rude-and-crude people once you get to know them, but I don't hear much of anything from them. Maybe they're scared of me, too.

Load 'Em Up...

So... I guess we're moving.

(Understatement. I've known we were moving since June. It's just now that it's real.)

"Why is it only real now?" you ask?

Good question. You wouldn't know if you hadn't been here. And you weren't here (because there is almost certainly not anyone loitering under my desk), so I should tell you.
My awfice has been taken over my boxes. 

And when I say my awfice, I don't mean just my little cube-shaped slice of professional world heaven... I mean the *whole damned floor.* 

And the other floor in this building that we occupy. 

And our satellite building two miles away. 

And possibly the moon.

There are boxes *everywhere*.

Which wouldn't be so bad, I suppose. Right now they're empty, and are standing around in intimidating piles lurking in corners and empty cubicles. 

It's not the lurking boxes that bothers me, though. I'm used to them. Boyfriend of Amazingness works for a company that handles big moves, so he has some castoffs that we store things in. They're really cool - they're these huge plastic bins with interlocking plastic lids that pop right in and keep all your stuff safe and cozy inside. Like my shoes.

No, the crates themselves aren't scary at all.

What intimidates me is that they are all going to be full.

Of stuff.

In a week.

Which is terrifying.

I suppose I would be able to handle it better if I knew that everything would come out okay once we unpacked. But I don't know that at all.

In fact, all I know is that I have to load up everything in the Reception area, which includes the mailing stuff and most of our deliverable packaging and even a toolbox. 

And then there are the copy rooms, with their piles of paper and their copying goodness.

And I have to package it all and get it into crates - four high per skid, please: we must be ergonomically conscious! - for the moving company to take away.

A week from tomorrow.

I guess it's the timeline that creates the greatest of my discomfort. I left the office Monday for my stint at our new location with the other employees who already live there. I left at noon on Monday with a smile on my face and an excited gleam in my eye. (Because, let's face it - any time not spent within these confines are well spent moments indeed...) 

And when I came back Tuesday, all hell had broken loose. We suddenly had confirmation that we would indeed be moving out of our current location before Christmas. 

As in, well before Christmas.

As in, less than two weeks from the official announcement.

Tuesday was a day of meetings: Meetings with movers, coordination with employees on site, coordination with superiors off site, and a flurry of phone calls to start the process.

Wednesday I was again slated to go over to the new location. I looked forward to it with even more focus, as my coworkers had become Hell Hounds bent upon one common goal: Bringing me to my inevitable stress-riddled demise before the last crate was packed. 

So, this morning, I came in to these boxes.

Everywhere.

I thought briefly about crawling into one and hiding until the whole mess is over with... But that didn't seem feasible. There are no breathing holes, and my feet might stink.

For now, I have to go coordinate the secure storage guy who just showed up to take away my last four days of work: 

I'm not sad to see them go. Those suckers are heavy.

So I'm forging onward and trying desperately not to lose my mind. Please stay tuned for more moving fun as the next week goes by.

NaNoWriMo Final Count: 23,800

So... It's official.

I'm bailing out of NaNoWriMo.

I felt good when I started out at the beginning of the month. I was getting my daily word counts (mostly), and even when I fell behind, I was confident that I would catch up shortly.

Then I got sick.

That was my first sign.

I spent four days down-for-the-count with what I would like to call the plague, except the plague would have been merciful and killed me. After that, I should have realized that I was too far behind to make up my lost time and lost wordage. Instead, I forged onward as best I could.
After getting sick, I managed to pull this little chunk of text together:

"Writing when you’re sick is like trying to run a cross country race barefoot. It’s possible... but it sucks, and you’re going to make a lot of stupid little mistakes that you could have avoided if you just kept yourself in order from the get-go. So, when I stumbled into the office one day with sinuses full of tepid molasses and a throatache that led me to believe I had spent my sleeping hours unconsciously mouth-pleasuring a well-hung porcupine, it could only be a sign of a grand day to come. The first phone call of the day was relatively uneventful. A co-worker, thankfully, because I picked up the phone and promptly coughed in her ear. After clearing my throat, I went on to greet her with my best 1920’s -flapper -with -permanent -smoking -damage voice. It went a little something like this: cough hack splutter “Umm... Hello? I mean... Good morning. This is Sunny.” “Oh wow... you sound like crap.” cough “Thanks. I feel like crap.” “Wow... Well, I was just calling to say... Umm... I’m not feeling so great.” “Okay.” sniff “So I think I’m gonna stay home today.” “Sounds good. I’ll mark you out. Thanks for calling in.” “You should go home, too. I mean, you’re sick, aren’t you?” throat-clearing “Yeah... I don’t feel so hot. But I can’t just leave. I have to do my job.” “Oh, okay. Well, I guess... take care of yourself.” cough “You too. Feel better.” ... The day didn’t get much better from there. I managed to answer the phone every time it rang. I managed to page the office, and not to terrify the locals when I needed to use the intercom system. Throughout the day, I even started to feel a little better. That was my fatal error. That evening, after I went home, I remember being sad that Boyfriend wasn’t there. I vaguely remember sitting on the couch and watching an episode of MacGyver as the room faded from twilight to darkness. As night fell, I remember looking at the clock and realizing I had an appointment to keep. I think I kept it. After that... It’s a haze. I must have called out sick from work on Thursday and Friday, because there are phone calls on my phone after the time that Boyfriend leaves for work in the morning. Either that, or he stayed home and took care of me. I don’t even remember feeling the typical “Am I really sick enough to warrant using a sick day?” guilt that overcomes me shortly after taking a workday to stay at home in bed. Even if I did... I couldn’t tell you. I must have eaten over the course of those two days, because I was never hungry enough to seek food outside of my nest that I created in bed. I must have found nourishment, or had some brought to me. But I couldn’t tell you. I must have done a number of things over those two days which I simply cannot tell you about. I just don’t remember. After falling into an illness which I was sure would claim my life, I don’t remember anything until Saturday morning. It had been two and a half days since I had fallen into my snot-addled haze, and finally I was starting to feel human again. Boyfriend tells me that he knew my fever was peaking and getting ready to break on Friday afternoon, just after dinner. He made me a special meal of rice with gravy so I could glean some healthy nourishment (after two days of not eating? or maybe after two days of living on Cheezy Poofs and orange juice?) and to get something fatty into my system to give my stomach something to chew on. Although I had felt well enough to dine on the couch in front of the television that evening, I tired out quickly after we had finished eating. After a weak attempt at staying awake (and then arguing that I was far too rested to feel... yawn... sleepy...), it was mutually decided that I would go back to bed. And by mutually... I mean he pointed in the general vicinity of the bedroom, and I tootled off willingly. If my nose would have stood for it, I probably would have whistled on the way. It was two hours later that Boyfriend tells me I stumbled back out of the bedroom and was remarkably distraught. He tells me I made it halfway down the stairs before I simply couldn’t wait any longer, and had to know if brownies would taste okay if I baked them in miniature muffin tins. When that conversation proved fruitless, I moved on to bombard him with my worries about the plight of the grocery store lobster. I would love to tell you the witty, exciting details... But they simply aren’t forthcoming. I blame the fever... and the special spice in the gravy."

This, I'm afraid to say, is the highlight of my novel.

So, after spending the last two days blissfully enjoying time with my family (and not writing - not even a little), I am not entirely unhappy to say that I will be stepping away from my novel for at least the time being. Perhaps, if I have time in upcoming weeks, I'll finish it before the end of the year. I'll find out as time passes and I realize whether or not I've got the resources available to do the homemade holiday I'd like to. If I don't finish it before the end of 2011, I'll finish it in 2012 and be damned proud of myself for all I've done. It's how I roll.

NaNoWriMo - 5000 Words

Well, ReaderFriends, I've broken the 5000 word mark. Unfortunately, I've broken it about four days too late... Meaning that I'm approximately 8000 words behind, and only 1/10 of the way to the finish line. But NEVER FEAR! I have the power of the words on my side. Somehow I'll reach my 50,000 word goal.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

My daily life became an ongoing search for inspiration. I was desperate for my next successful blog post, and was willing to do almost anything to find fodder for my writing.

One day, on a whim, I decided that I would go for a run to “unlock my creativity.” I wasn’t entirely convinced that exertion of the physical sort was the key to my first Nobel prize, but the Blogger Buddy site was adamant. “Physical activity activates basal centers of the cognitive process,” the website touted. “Many writers find the act of performing simple movements - like washing dishes or going out for a run - will sensitizing synapses through an abrupt shift in focus in order to elevate reception of creative constructs through sub-conscious stimulation of neural receptors.” Blah -blah -go -for -a -run -and -stop -thinking -to -start -thinking -blah.

What Blogger Buddy forgot to tell me was that, unless your body is accustomed to physical exertion on the running level, it’s not exactly a mundane, simple movement.

It’s hell at five miles an hour.

My desperate desire to produce quality verbage had rendered my little frazzled brain incapable of long-term memory retrieval: specifically, the ability to remember high school gym class.

If my neural synapses had been functioning at their highest potential, I might have remembered my last attempt at becoming one of the gym-bunnies that could pound out a six minute mile and move right on to volleyball while the gym teacher regarded them with proud adoration. They could run effortlessly in laps around the gymnasium, quickly passing me - and then lapping me - while chatting in their obnoxious little pep-groups and giggling with that infuriating little high-school-cutesy giggle at their football star boyfriends.

I had the same amazing gym clothes. I had my hair pulled back into the same power-pony. And there - right there - was where the similarities ended.

The first step of that run was driven by pure jealous energy. I was insanely jealous that those skinny little bitches - in all their pep and cuteness - could so effortlessly impress their musclebound boyfriends and glean positive feedback from our drill sargeant gym instructor. That jealousy drove me into a panic that convinced me: if they could do it... so could I.

Less than half a mile in, it became blatantly obvious that sheer jealousy couldn’t propel me to their height. They had more than yoga pants and shiny hair on their side. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been operating in such a blind fury, I would have connected the peppy, cutesy girls to the cheerleading squad I hadn’t made at the beginning of the year. Unfortunately, the best thought I could formulate was a gutteral grunt of defeat as my body collapsed, drained completely of energy and will to push forward.

More unfortunately, I had also forgotten the humiliation of being escorted to the nurse’s office by one of the cutesy vomit-inducers and her even more vomit-inducing muscleboy, who dropped me in the waiting room and then stood in the hallway making out, just to mock my pain.

These are all flashes of memory that should have sparked inside my mind before I set off in search of literary inspiration.

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.

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.