Prompted

Sunny's Disclaimer:

I've never used a writing prompt for my blog before. As a matter of fact... I haven't used a writing prompt since I was in college a couple years ago. But today, I felt like writing. And what I feel like writing about isn't ready to be written yet.**1

So I Googled.

(Oh, Google, you amazing beast - is there anything you don't know?)

And the prompt that I found struck a chord, so we're embarking on this literary adventure together.

Buckle up, ReaderFriends! Here we go!

The Tooth Fairy: A fun and harmless fiction, or a pointless justification for lying to children?

When I first saw this prompt, I thought immediately of a discussion I stumbled across yesterday on a Social Media website. A friend of mine - who happens to have a young child - was discussing that he was about to lose his first tooth. The apparent chain of events is this:

1. Child's tooth becomes wiggly.

2. Child goes to school.

3. Child shows classmates the wiggly tooth.

4. Classmates weigh in on Tooth Fairy Gift-Giving Criteria.

5. Child comes home to inform Mom that he's ready to lose his tooth, as the Tooth Fairy will be bringing him gold in exchange.

I was flabberghasted. Seriously?! Gold?! I got a quarter for each lost tooth. (And I panicked when I lost a tooth while we were staying away from home. I was certain that the Tooth Fairy would never find me, and that I'd be out a quarter. Which sucked, as I was close to the only candy store I knew about that accepted quarters in exchange for a sizeable portion of candy, instead of just a gumball or something pathetic like that.) I couldn't imagine getting more.

Sure, I knew other kids did - The typical haul for a kid in my class was $1 per tooth. There was one lucky soul who got higher dollar values for more important teeth - up to $5 for a molar, I think. I was on the low end of the scoring stick there.

But I also knew that the Tooth Fairy wasn't as much as other kids thought he (or maybe she?) might be. So there wasn't as much weight to the ritual (outside of getting the monetary haul so I could indulge in more sugary treats to rot out the remaining baby teeth... Ironic, no?) as there would have been if my parents had insisted that there was a little fairy that came in, took my old teeth and left me a gift.

So, in my world, the Tooth Fairy was a harmless fiction. He (or, again, she - We were never terribly specific) was a nonspecific entity that my parents indulged us with as a childhood rite of passage - Not a ritual that they clung to. Perhaps that was a side-effect of having parents slightly older than my classmates' Moms and Dads. Perhaps it was a product of my parents' childhoods - realistic grandparents make for realistic children, who then have baby realists of their own. Or perhaps it was a trickle-down from our economic status. (When your family is on food stamps, you don't give dollars to children for doing what their bodies will do whether you reward them or not.) Or maybe it was a hodge-podge of all three. In any case... when I realized that the Tooth Fairy was a childhood story, and not a Real Thing, I suffered no ill effects.

But I've witnessed children fall apart at their very seams at the realization that some beloved childhood character was fictitious. Which seems cruel, when you consider that the average age of a child whose belief crumbles is somewhere between 8 - 12... and that's such a tough age anyway. Bodies are changing. Social dynamics are changing. Life is a whirlwind of craziness, punctuated by "I'm ready to sleep without my teddy bear now" and "Mom, don't kiss me when you drop me off at school anymore." To have the beloved characters that surround important events such as Christmas/Easter/Tooth Loss taken away - and to find out that they were a ruse that the world imparted upon you - must be a harsh reality to awaken to indeed.

So I must admit that I'm grateful to my parents. They gave me just enough belief to make the events magical, without centering them around a falsehood. Santa Claus? Let's leave him a Sam Adams and a slice of fruitcake. And maybe some rum balls for the reindeed. Easter Bunny? It's okay - he'll find us at our Aunt and Uncle's house. He's clever, and even if he doesn't make it, we'll have a wonderful day with our family. Tooth Fairy? He'll do what he can. But I'm proud of you for being brave through losing that tooth anyway.

Sounds pretty good to me.

**1 Long story. I'll tell you another time.

Triumphant Return!

This is my triumphant return from The Land Of The Vacationing!

(I know I was technically back last week... but then I had another long weekend again this past weekend**1 so I wanted to report that I'm really back now. For real and for true.)

I am ashamed to report that, while I had something witty and clever to share this morning**2, I don't remember what it was now. So I have nothing to share now... But perhaps it's better that way. We don't want to wear you out with my wittiness prematurely.

So, for now... Does anyone want to share a tale of their own adventures while I was away?

Please?

**1 Not a vacation, mind you. I was working my sheboop-shebangbang right off.

**2 I remember that it wasn't work related. It had something to do with coming back to The Real World, though. Probably something to do with wearing pants.

Chats That Need No Explanation

Sunny: ManagerFriend, it's time for your department meeting.

ManagerFriend: Are these them?

Sunny: Yes, dear. This is your Mechanical Department. Please allow me to introduce you to EngineerFriend and Drafter Friend.

EngineerFriend: [extends hand to ManagerFriend] Hello. I'm EngineerFriend - the answer to all your problems.

DrafterFriend: [extends hand to ManagerFriend] Hello. I'm your drafter... and I am your problem.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunny: "The client is on the phone. He says he thinks the call got cut off."

EngineerFriend: "It did - I hung up."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sunny: "That guy wigs me out."

DrafterFriend: "Is it the fastidiously trimmed goatee? [Because] A man with such control of his facial hair should be treated with the utmost respect, and a smattering of fear."

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.

NaNoWriMo - 3100 Words

I've not forgotten about you, ReaderFriends! I still love you dearly, and am working on something clever and amazing for you...

I've just undertaken the NaNoWriMo challenge (find out more here) and am frantically spurring my creativity along a long and winding trail to the 50,000 word mark. So far, I am just past the 3100 word mark, which means I am 1/17 of the way to my goal. Unfortunately, it took me three days to get here... Not ideal, but you know what they say about a slow start.
My story will be a conglomeration of new material and old blog posts (and some new posts that I don't know about because I haven't written them yet). For now, here's a prologue to keep you smiling:

Sometimes I wonder what it might be like if my office were laid out for what I actually do, instead of what I’m supposed to do. For instance, I would have a comfortable couch. Or maybe even a chaise. Something lounge-able, in any case, where my patients would stretch out and really tell me what was preying on their minds. I would have a soft, calming color on the walls… maybe a nice lavender?... that would set them at ease. I would have a friendly and inviting wood desk with soft curves and geometric features. And my nameplate would proudly declare “Sunny Smith, Psy.D.” That would be epic.

Instead, I sit in a 1980’s flavored mauve playpen sprinkled sparsely with photos of people who actually make me happy. The walls around me are a sterile, boring tan except where the scuff marks lend their own traces of character. And the closest items I have to a couch are these generic, craptastic folding chairs with vinyl seats and flexible backs that make the sitter feel as though they’re going to fall backwards into oblivion. Which aren’t even in my office. So they don’t really count.

Oh yeah... and my coworkers terrify me.

This isn’t some generic sort of fear. Not like some it’s Halloween and some parent with a sadistic sense of humor got really creative and has turned their four year old into the scariest looking Chucky doll that I’ve ever seen in my life and now I’m going to have nightmares for weeks thing. No, nothing like that. This is a more basic fear... The fear that I may become one of them.

Let me explain.

Beyond my playpen is a wall of picture windows. Underneath those windows lies a long, mauve windowsill. (Goodness knows we must be color coordinated.) Under the windowsill is a heater, and behind the windows is the outdoors. This makes the windowsill a perfect perch for one of the most common species of wildlife that traipses through my life:

The EngineerFriend.

From their post, the greatest of the EngineerFriend’s facial orifices will begin to splutter. First a garble will come out, and then a slow trickle, and finally... A full blown avalanche of angry Engineer-isms leaks forth and assaults my senses.

Perhaps they’re whining about their current project:

“First, I had to do this survey and the data points were scattered all to hell, so I had to upload them into that other program just to make heads or tails of it...”

Or sometimes, they complain about their coworkers:

“And then she said ‘Well, his project is more important, so you’ll just have to wait!’ Can you believe that? She told me I had to wait!”

Or even their home lives:

“The car wouldn’t start this morning. Straight up - it just wouldn’t go.”

“The kids were monsters today. My daughter ran around screaming something about her hair, and my son tore past me on his way to the bus with my underwear on his head. Not his - mine.”

“My wife is driving me nuts. I slept in my office again last night because the crazy woman just Will. Not. Shut. Up.”

At first, I listened with interest to each story that they presented. These are my coworkers, I would tell myself. I’m new to the office, and I’ve established myself as trustworthy. I knew that their talkative natures were just a side effect of my pleasant demeanor, and should be taken as compliments. I was certain that, after the newness faded away, I would be bombarded with more pleasant stories about Life in The Real World.

But months went by, and the stories didn’t change. I didn’t hear the positivity I was so certain would be forthcoming. Instead, the stories got just slightly darker:

“The project is crap. I’ve got to tell the client we can’t follow through.”

“I’m so sick of her belittling my work. I filed a formal complaint the other day, and if they don’t ask her to leave, I’m going to quit.”

“I’ve had it with that woman. I’m getting a divorce.”

Darker and darker and darker. I found myself sinking into a pit of unhappiness, surrounded by the negativity of the people around me.

And worse than that, I began to feel detached from them as well.

The passion I had felt at hearing the stories from my coworkers was gone, replaced instead by a swelling emptiness that sent me walking on the brink of depression. I still listened, but only while staring into space. Their words would swirl around me, but I would not allow myself to really listen. I had problems of my own, and couldn’t be bothered to focus on them.

I had decided not to care.

For The Girls...

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

A blog post about boobies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there's no cake.

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

Oh, I've had some ideas...

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

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

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

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

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

My dance has fallen by the wayside...

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

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

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

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

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

The Mighty Boots of Mightiness...

The Sparkly Eyeshadow of Glittery Delight...

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

And... The uber-bra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I put it on, and felt okay at first.

But then the adhesive tried to do its job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green Land

OH MY GOODNESS! You poor dear! Sit down! Sit down!!

I know... it's crazy. It's WEDNESDAY, and it's been over a week since my last blog post. How did you survive?!

(I know. You probably ate lots of bacon and drank lots of rum and got through just fine without me. But humor me, dear. It's been a long week.)

First, I must apologize. The busy nature of my schedule notwithstanding, I've been fighting against this inexplicable bout of writer's block lately. Which is frustrating. I want so badly to share witticisms and fun thoughts with you all, but find myself zapped of creative energies enough to bring these intents to fruition. But NO LONGER! Today, I break the block and *make* myself find something to tell you about. 

What an exciting week it's been! Last Wednesday I packed myself up and got myself together and shipped off for Lands Unknown for my very first ever historical recreation event. (Recreation, as in fun. Not reenactment. We're not doing anything over again - we're starting fresh, because we're cool like that.) I exercised muscles I forgot that I had, made friends I didn't know could be so cool and had an all around glamorous time under a completely different name that was just totally awesome. And it was good.

But all good things must come to an end... As did my adventure. And with the end of my adventure came my re-immersion into 

But then, upon my arrival back in the office, I found I had forgotten to do something before my departure...

Water the plants.

I wish I could tell you I lived in Green Land. No, not the country... I mean the state of being. That happy place where so many of my cohorts can go to commune with nature and bring forth shoots of new life from dry, hardened dirt.

But I do not live in Green Land. I don't visit there, either. I don't call, text, or smoke signal. For the most part... I pretend it doesn't exist.

Why?

Because I kill plants.

No, I don't think you understand.

I KILL THEM. They see me coming, and they just *die.* 

Now this is an unfortunate habit for an administrative person. 

I sit at the Reception desk of my dear office. And the Reception desk is disgustingly close to all communal company areas... Like the kitchen, the copy rooms, and the area where clients congregate when they step off of the elevator. It is the last where I find myself standing, hands on hips as I survey the carnage this afternoon.

I forgot to water the plants before I went on vacation. The current state of affairs finds me gazing at greenery in states of disrepair ranging from slightly-wilty-around-the-edges to mostly-yellow-with-just-a-little-green to back-to-becoming-one-with-the-dirt-from-whence-they-sprung. This means that one of two things could have happened:

1) Some kind soul took notice of their plight and watered them for me on Friday afternoon. Then another kind soul, not wary of the actions of the first, did the same. And now they're drowned.

2) No one has touched the blasted things since I left.

I'm leaning more towards the second on this list. The droopy leaves and absent puddles of water lead me to think that these poor critters are famished, dying for a drink from the wellspring of the bathroom. They cry out to me, "Please, Sunny! Help us! We're dying!"

But that's a problem.

I could water them. But they're so dry right now that I risk OVER-watering. And that's a horrible, fatal thought in and of itself. The oozing, dripping puddles that leak from the bottom of the planters and pool across my desk, the windowsill and my printerstand* wreak havoc on my workspace and my calm. Water stains soak across the paperwork that litters my desk, and inevitably I find myself cussing at an empty roll of paper towels long before the mess is tidied up.

I don't set out to be a horrible plant mommy. It didn't happen overnight. As a child, I helped tend our vegetable gardens and could (for the most part) tell the difference between baby corn stalks and baby pigweed. However, as I grew older, my abilities lessened in direct proportion to the amount of time my father had to help me with my green endeavors.

It is a conundrum that does not go unnoticed. For my high school graduation, a good friend gave me a wonderful plant encyclopedia that, by rights, should help me grow anything out of plain old dirt. But it doesn't happen. I soak the dirt tablets, I set up the pots, I push in the seeds and sometimes can even get little sprouts to spring up... but then they collapse in a glorious blaze that would make Bon Jovi stand up and take notice. Tender shoots curling, browning and disintegrating back to their origins in a catastrophic meltdown. 

Every. Single. Time.

Actually, I had the opportunity to perform a study in which I tested my hypothesis on the speed at which a plant would die with my care, and without.

A few months ago, I graduated from college. Throughout a series of honors ceremonies, I found myself gifted with six potted plants and one cut arrangement. It spoke volumes to my abilities as, one by one, the plants gave up the fight and stopped trying for me. At the end of the graduation ceremonies, I boxed up all six potted plants and sent them to live with my mother (or, those whom I had attempted to care for and killed entirely, to be thrown away by my mother onto the farm where they could be given the burial they deserve). At the end of the ceremonies, the only flowers that still looked halfway decent were the three-week-old gerbera daisies in a vase on my kitchen counter.

It just boggles me. Why are plants such a necessity in the office environment, or indoors at all? In the movie "Music and Lyrics" with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore, Grant's character states that "Plants make women comfortable." This is hardly the case. Comfort does not spring forth from dead vines curling and crusting around my desk leg. Don't argue health benefits either, as if my measly fichus is going to offset the reams of paper we throw away every day. And as for the aesthetics? Hah. Don't make me laugh. 

The real question is this: How many receptionists cry out in frustration at the realization of the plight of their surrounding vegetation, and the further understanding that their best efforts will almost certainly mean an untimely herbal demise? I'm certain I can't be the only one.

*Not a smart move.