Dear God, Jamie Bamber is hot.
The fact that King County makes you fill out 9 .pdf pages for an entry-level job is a good indication of just how sadistic government can become unchecked. Seriously, don't you people have better things to do than make me sweat over my computer for three hours, swearing as I reformat text boxes that somebody put in the wrong place?
Both husband and I went running in our respective countries today. Both of us made sure to run until we were feeling slightly ill, which in our minds indicates a good workout. Clearly, both of us are insane. Distance does not appear to be fixing this shared affliction.
Any ideas on how to convince well-meaning family that maybe it's not such a good idea to have a dog with my name, even if it did come that way?
Career guides make it all sound so easy. They are liars.
No, I mean Jamie Bamber is REALLY hot. I cannot deny reality.
This whole two-year drought thing is going to be a problem.
The husband, although he cannot conceive of it now, is maybe possibly going to be sorry by the second day home. The neighbors might be sorrier.
I cannot believe I just wrote that.
Let alone that I am going to post it. The blogosphere really is a bad influence on us all.
I am definitely getting rid of all references to my real name tonight. And hoping all family members stopped reading months ago.
(But Jamie? Still hot.)
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Hitting home
This article really hit home with me. Not because I come from a highly privileged town (I don't) or attended an elite public school (I didn't), but because I think that every girl I know can relate to the pressure these kids are feeling today. We were on the cusp of it eight years ago, when four AP classes were becoming "the norm," when I felt like I not only could take, but also needed to take those courses, plus serve as the yearbook editor, plus volunteer at two different agencies, plus hold down a job.
I worry about these kids. A lot. What happens when they turn 25, like I have, and realize that they never paused long enough to figure out where they were going? All my life, I've been on a self-selected track that I just assumed would lead to somewhere that made sense. Instead, I'm here, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do now when all of that work (which I loved) isn't leading to jobs, or bliss, or a real sense of what exactly I crave to do more than anything in this world. So what do I do now? What happens when you realize that all of your work to prepare yourself isn't going to help, because you never quite figured out what you were preparing yourself for? You just thought you'd be on the right track because you thought (with the limited ability of any young kid) that you had done everything you could to get on it. Now, I'm not sure if there is a track, let alone if I know how to find it -- or if, in this speed-crazed, income-disparate, "do it all asap" world, anyone my age is really going to have a chance to figure things out before their options pass them by.
To be blunt, it's fucking terrifying. Paralyzing. I know what would make sense: pull back, take a breath, do something random until the picture comes together. But I can't. There's something in me that drives me to understand right now, to pick a direction and get moving before it's too late to choose. It's like most of the people I know are frantic, throwing things up in all directions to see what sticks, or going with the one track they're on even if it doesn't feel right anymore. None of us know what to do now. And I worry for these girls. The mounting pressure to know what you want before you even understand who you are, the sense that nothing you do is good enough to get where you might want to go...sooner or later, people are going to crumble under the weight of their own expectations. And I don't know if anyone knows how to slow us down before we come undone.
Gotta love your mid-20s crisis, right? Gaaah.
I worry about these kids. A lot. What happens when they turn 25, like I have, and realize that they never paused long enough to figure out where they were going? All my life, I've been on a self-selected track that I just assumed would lead to somewhere that made sense. Instead, I'm here, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do now when all of that work (which I loved) isn't leading to jobs, or bliss, or a real sense of what exactly I crave to do more than anything in this world. So what do I do now? What happens when you realize that all of your work to prepare yourself isn't going to help, because you never quite figured out what you were preparing yourself for? You just thought you'd be on the right track because you thought (with the limited ability of any young kid) that you had done everything you could to get on it. Now, I'm not sure if there is a track, let alone if I know how to find it -- or if, in this speed-crazed, income-disparate, "do it all asap" world, anyone my age is really going to have a chance to figure things out before their options pass them by.
To be blunt, it's fucking terrifying. Paralyzing. I know what would make sense: pull back, take a breath, do something random until the picture comes together. But I can't. There's something in me that drives me to understand right now, to pick a direction and get moving before it's too late to choose. It's like most of the people I know are frantic, throwing things up in all directions to see what sticks, or going with the one track they're on even if it doesn't feel right anymore. None of us know what to do now. And I worry for these girls. The mounting pressure to know what you want before you even understand who you are, the sense that nothing you do is good enough to get where you might want to go...sooner or later, people are going to crumble under the weight of their own expectations. And I don't know if anyone knows how to slow us down before we come undone.
Gotta love your mid-20s crisis, right? Gaaah.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
You can take the girl out of hicksville...
Actual lyrics from a country song:
I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks
Do I get any credit for living through four years of this (high school) and still winding up as the Death Cab-loving, Sufjan Stevens-addicted, Simon and Garfunkel devotee that I am?
I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks
Do I get any credit for living through four years of this (high school) and still winding up as the Death Cab-loving, Sufjan Stevens-addicted, Simon and Garfunkel devotee that I am?
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Pish off
So, I haven't been around this week. Where have I been?
Oh yeah. That's right. Pursuing my new hobby, one guaranteed to make me the coolest kid on the block and the biggest Babe Magnet of all time. You guessed it: Birding.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Damn, why didn't I decide to spend all of the last two sunny afternoons sneaking through brush at the city parks, ruining my eyesight while trying to identify diving ducks from at least 1000 feet away?
I know, I know. But we can't all be the cool kid. Only a few of us get to see Greater White-fronted Geese (SIX OF THE MO-FOS!!) at the Montlake Fill; only a few of us get to feel good about ourselves, crouched in between the goose poop, alarming passers-by as we squawk "Did you see that?? Do you see that, right there?!" Only a few of us know what a Rhinoceros Auklet is. Or care. But you can still aspire to greatness. Maybe start with your robins, move onto your black-capped chickadees and bush tits. Someday, you, too, might be emailing a birding list to report what you've found.
You might even find yourself with an Audubon form in hand, trying to choose between a class on birding by ear and a two-night series on bird anatomy. Who do you think you are, making that kind of decision? Just take them both. Don't worry. I'll be the one in the desk next to you, jabbering about how I'm pretty sure I need to buy a spotting scope because I almost had the ID on a Yellow-Billed Loon the other day, except I couldn't confirm it with my binoculars.
Sure, some of you might recall how long CB's been overseas and posit that all of my newfound birding zeal is driven by some pent-up energy I've been harboring. But you are wrong. WRONG. My pileated woodpeckers are way cooler than whatever I used to do with spare time.
I need help.
Or a Master Birder. Yeah, definitely the latter.
Silence, you and your dirty minds! I can hear you thinking from over the internet. I kid you not.
Oh yeah. That's right. Pursuing my new hobby, one guaranteed to make me the coolest kid on the block and the biggest Babe Magnet of all time. You guessed it: Birding.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Damn, why didn't I decide to spend all of the last two sunny afternoons sneaking through brush at the city parks, ruining my eyesight while trying to identify diving ducks from at least 1000 feet away?
I know, I know. But we can't all be the cool kid. Only a few of us get to see Greater White-fronted Geese (SIX OF THE MO-FOS!!) at the Montlake Fill; only a few of us get to feel good about ourselves, crouched in between the goose poop, alarming passers-by as we squawk "Did you see that?? Do you see that, right there?!" Only a few of us know what a Rhinoceros Auklet is. Or care. But you can still aspire to greatness. Maybe start with your robins, move onto your black-capped chickadees and bush tits. Someday, you, too, might be emailing a birding list to report what you've found.
You might even find yourself with an Audubon form in hand, trying to choose between a class on birding by ear and a two-night series on bird anatomy. Who do you think you are, making that kind of decision? Just take them both. Don't worry. I'll be the one in the desk next to you, jabbering about how I'm pretty sure I need to buy a spotting scope because I almost had the ID on a Yellow-Billed Loon the other day, except I couldn't confirm it with my binoculars.
Sure, some of you might recall how long CB's been overseas and posit that all of my newfound birding zeal is driven by some pent-up energy I've been harboring. But you are wrong. WRONG. My pileated woodpeckers are way cooler than whatever I used to do with spare time.
I need help.
Or a Master Birder. Yeah, definitely the latter.
Silence, you and your dirty minds! I can hear you thinking from over the internet. I kid you not.
Monday, March 26, 2007
I'll be leaving soon
Thursday afternoon.
I hear a noise from the office doorway and look up from where I'm crouching over sets of figures, tabling the numbers we're going to lose on the event being canceled. Outside, the rain has been sliding down from the sky all afternoon in thick, sinewy sheets that splatter along the sidewalks. My boss, or ex-boss, is leaning against the door frame, red-faced, just staring. I set my pencil on the edge of my desk and fold my hands, looking at him expectantly. He's only just learned that the other co-worker is leaving, too, and now he's on his way out for the weekend. When he comes back, I will be gone.
He doesn't say much. Just stops and starts, fixed rigidly in the doorway. I don't reply.
"I just, I'm not good at...the thing is. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."
He half approaches, maybe seeking a handshake, but I don't move. I can't. My feet are glued to the floor and I just want him to leave because I don't want to feel bad now, not after I've learned what he told the board, how this is all my fault, how everything that's happened comes down to me and my inability to handle the job's burdens.
But he looks so sad and confused and even small that I want to say something. Anything to at least let him know that I haven't enjoyed one moment of the past two weeks, either. Instead, I drop my gaze and pick up the pencil and mutter, "I'm sorry, too."
He waits a moment longer, then leaves. I listen as his footsteps recede down the hallway. When I know he's gone, I drop my head to my desk and remain there while a trickle of rain seeps through the window like an open wound.
I hear a noise from the office doorway and look up from where I'm crouching over sets of figures, tabling the numbers we're going to lose on the event being canceled. Outside, the rain has been sliding down from the sky all afternoon in thick, sinewy sheets that splatter along the sidewalks. My boss, or ex-boss, is leaning against the door frame, red-faced, just staring. I set my pencil on the edge of my desk and fold my hands, looking at him expectantly. He's only just learned that the other co-worker is leaving, too, and now he's on his way out for the weekend. When he comes back, I will be gone.
He doesn't say much. Just stops and starts, fixed rigidly in the doorway. I don't reply.
"I just, I'm not good at...the thing is. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."
He half approaches, maybe seeking a handshake, but I don't move. I can't. My feet are glued to the floor and I just want him to leave because I don't want to feel bad now, not after I've learned what he told the board, how this is all my fault, how everything that's happened comes down to me and my inability to handle the job's burdens.
But he looks so sad and confused and even small that I want to say something. Anything to at least let him know that I haven't enjoyed one moment of the past two weeks, either. Instead, I drop my gaze and pick up the pencil and mutter, "I'm sorry, too."
He waits a moment longer, then leaves. I listen as his footsteps recede down the hallway. When I know he's gone, I drop my head to my desk and remain there while a trickle of rain seeps through the window like an open wound.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Frack you, Battlestar. Frack you hard.
I'm catching up on BSG's first season, since I'm a new initiate this year. Can I just say that one might do better than to watch the first half of the miniseries before bed? Not that it isn't a brilliant show (and I *love* learning all the little things I hadn't known), but it's not a great bedtime story. I'm right in the middle of the nuclear holocaust now, at the point where the survivors have to leave people behind in order to save themselves.
Now I find myself sitting at a dimly lit desk while the city sleeps, thinking about planes. About how a plane isn't just a silver streak in the sky anymore. Does anyone still watch planes in the city for the sake of watching them? Are we all tracking them warily out the corner of the eye, telling ourselves we just like watching planes when we're really wondering Where's it going? What's it doing? Did it dip a little? Should I hold my breath again?
Remember when a plane was just a cumbersome bird lumbering across the lazy sky?
Now, I hate flying. HATE it, despite knowing how irrational it is to cringe every time the plane shifts. I look around, and I know who else feels that way. You can mark us by the stiffness in our shoulders, the way we fix our stares on magazines without reading the lines. I hate what happened for making me feel this way. I hate myself for not being able to stop it.
I wonder what it's like for people born after 9-11. How do they watch planes? What do they see when they look up as an engine drones overhead? Does what happened even seem real to them? It barely seems plausible to me, and I saw everything they won't air on anniversary repeats these days. I struggle to incorporate it into what I know, and yet it's touching every part of our lives, from the war we're in to the way we think about little things. Planes and border crossings. Subways and double-decker buses.
Don't ask why a sci-fi show brought this all home again. That's why it's so good. It makes you think about the things you take for granted, and about how "normal" life feels now when it's really askew forever. It isn't normal for me to think about how I'd reach CB if it all went down while we were still a continent away from each other. Nor is it normal for me and everyone I know to view a plane as a possibility. None of this is alright. We still aren't okay -- as evidenced, I'd hazard, by the fact that two hours of a well written sci-fi debut leave me here, in my room, thinking about all the facts you push aside in order to continue with everyday life.
Now I find myself sitting at a dimly lit desk while the city sleeps, thinking about planes. About how a plane isn't just a silver streak in the sky anymore. Does anyone still watch planes in the city for the sake of watching them? Are we all tracking them warily out the corner of the eye, telling ourselves we just like watching planes when we're really wondering Where's it going? What's it doing? Did it dip a little? Should I hold my breath again?
Remember when a plane was just a cumbersome bird lumbering across the lazy sky?
Now, I hate flying. HATE it, despite knowing how irrational it is to cringe every time the plane shifts. I look around, and I know who else feels that way. You can mark us by the stiffness in our shoulders, the way we fix our stares on magazines without reading the lines. I hate what happened for making me feel this way. I hate myself for not being able to stop it.
I wonder what it's like for people born after 9-11. How do they watch planes? What do they see when they look up as an engine drones overhead? Does what happened even seem real to them? It barely seems plausible to me, and I saw everything they won't air on anniversary repeats these days. I struggle to incorporate it into what I know, and yet it's touching every part of our lives, from the war we're in to the way we think about little things. Planes and border crossings. Subways and double-decker buses.
Don't ask why a sci-fi show brought this all home again. That's why it's so good. It makes you think about the things you take for granted, and about how "normal" life feels now when it's really askew forever. It isn't normal for me to think about how I'd reach CB if it all went down while we were still a continent away from each other. Nor is it normal for me and everyone I know to view a plane as a possibility. None of this is alright. We still aren't okay -- as evidenced, I'd hazard, by the fact that two hours of a well written sci-fi debut leave me here, in my room, thinking about all the facts you push aside in order to continue with everyday life.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
What a way to make a living
You know, there's nothing like getting the silent treatment from your boss to make your workday even better than it already was.
Seriously, I spent the day with an elbow propped on the desk, reading the New York Times Magazine online. My boss emailed me periodically from the next room. Sample correspondence:
"Are you around?"
"Yes."
Useful stuff, I tell you. I came in two hours late -- not my fault, the place I was applying to opens late on Tuesdays and doesn't say so online, dang it! -- and for a moment he looked like he was going to ask me where I'd been. I adopted my best Crawl Back To The Rock From Under Whence You Came stare, and he dropped his gaze and shambled down the hall.
This all was precipitated by a volley of hostile emails and online sparring yesterday. Over the weekend, I decided that I was no longer interested in reconsidering my resignation, as I'd been instructed to do. For the record, my boss's original response to my first resignation attempt was to say:
"No. I'm not accepting this. You need to reconsider. You need to spend the weekend thinking about this from a broader perspective."
He also refused to take my resignation letter, and so I stood there stupidly, letting it dangle from my hand until I finally dropped it on his desk. Later, he said he could respect -- well, no, actually, he couldn't respect my decision. Not really. Just so I knew.
Let me tell you: giving an employee grief when she's only been there for six weeks? Telling her that she's the only one who can help you re-energize and rebuild your organization? Thinking she's really thirsting after the responsibility of cobbling together a functional institution out of fragments? Knowing this is her first "real" job, which means she's already second-guessing everything about her decision and is too overwhelmed by your attacks to call you out when you cross the line? Not exactly the best way to convince her to stay, particularly when you follow it up with a second day filled with snide remarks like, "My wife says you aren't giving this enough of a chance," and veiled threats like, "I can fire you anytime I want to." Really? Can you? Then would you hurry up so I can leave your sorry butt behind?
Oh, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to care what your wife, who doesn't work here, thinks? I should feel bad because *TWO MONTHS* notice "isn't enough"??
So, over the weekend, I emailed again and said I indeed had reconsidered, per his request; now, my original offer to leave in two months had changed, and I intended to leave in three weeks. He ignored me for two days, but he was sick on Monday and I chose to wrap up the matter before he could get to me at the office. Let the email battle begin. Alas, the man tried to out-manipulate me, by arguing (incorrectly) that I'd promised to stay that long. He can definitely back you into a corner in-person, as evidenced by the two-hour attack I sustained on Friday...but he's a lousy e-manipulator. I won. He lost. And now, I'm getting the silent treatment.
Tomorrow, I think I'll follow SueBob's idea. Novels and/or DVDs at the workplace, coming up! Heck, I need to catch up on the first two seasons of BSG anyway.
For god's sake, it's like breaking up with a boyfrind. A needy, passive-aggressive, high-school boyfriend who winds up halfheartedly stalking you in the school parking lot until you finally have to employ vivid castration descriptions to make him leave you alone. I thought I'd finished with these creeps when I turned 18.
What really makes me angry is that I'm unemployed. AGAIN. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. Taxes to pay, car to repair, thyroid to medicate, and limited assets to do so. Stuck with the parents even longer, after 7 years of independence. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. But hell, anything is better than working where I am now. Even living with two people who harbor secret fantasies that you'll turn back into a precocious twelve year-old at any moment.
Seriously, I spent the day with an elbow propped on the desk, reading the New York Times Magazine online. My boss emailed me periodically from the next room. Sample correspondence:
"Are you around?"
"Yes."
Useful stuff, I tell you. I came in two hours late -- not my fault, the place I was applying to opens late on Tuesdays and doesn't say so online, dang it! -- and for a moment he looked like he was going to ask me where I'd been. I adopted my best Crawl Back To The Rock From Under Whence You Came stare, and he dropped his gaze and shambled down the hall.
This all was precipitated by a volley of hostile emails and online sparring yesterday. Over the weekend, I decided that I was no longer interested in reconsidering my resignation, as I'd been instructed to do. For the record, my boss's original response to my first resignation attempt was to say:
"No. I'm not accepting this. You need to reconsider. You need to spend the weekend thinking about this from a broader perspective."
He also refused to take my resignation letter, and so I stood there stupidly, letting it dangle from my hand until I finally dropped it on his desk. Later, he said he could respect -- well, no, actually, he couldn't respect my decision. Not really. Just so I knew.
Let me tell you: giving an employee grief when she's only been there for six weeks? Telling her that she's the only one who can help you re-energize and rebuild your organization? Thinking she's really thirsting after the responsibility of cobbling together a functional institution out of fragments? Knowing this is her first "real" job, which means she's already second-guessing everything about her decision and is too overwhelmed by your attacks to call you out when you cross the line? Not exactly the best way to convince her to stay, particularly when you follow it up with a second day filled with snide remarks like, "My wife says you aren't giving this enough of a chance," and veiled threats like, "I can fire you anytime I want to." Really? Can you? Then would you hurry up so I can leave your sorry butt behind?
Oh, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to care what your wife, who doesn't work here, thinks? I should feel bad because *TWO MONTHS* notice "isn't enough"??
So, over the weekend, I emailed again and said I indeed had reconsidered, per his request; now, my original offer to leave in two months had changed, and I intended to leave in three weeks. He ignored me for two days, but he was sick on Monday and I chose to wrap up the matter before he could get to me at the office. Let the email battle begin. Alas, the man tried to out-manipulate me, by arguing (incorrectly) that I'd promised to stay that long. He can definitely back you into a corner in-person, as evidenced by the two-hour attack I sustained on Friday...but he's a lousy e-manipulator. I won. He lost. And now, I'm getting the silent treatment.
Tomorrow, I think I'll follow SueBob's idea. Novels and/or DVDs at the workplace, coming up! Heck, I need to catch up on the first two seasons of BSG anyway.
For god's sake, it's like breaking up with a boyfrind. A needy, passive-aggressive, high-school boyfriend who winds up halfheartedly stalking you in the school parking lot until you finally have to employ vivid castration descriptions to make him leave you alone. I thought I'd finished with these creeps when I turned 18.
What really makes me angry is that I'm unemployed. AGAIN. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. Taxes to pay, car to repair, thyroid to medicate, and limited assets to do so. Stuck with the parents even longer, after 7 years of independence. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. But hell, anything is better than working where I am now. Even living with two people who harbor secret fantasies that you'll turn back into a precocious twelve year-old at any moment.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Friday, March 16, 2007
Don't you mess with me
Something tells me I'm not the only one in the building who despises our workplace.
Stupid, cheerful-ass Peeps. They probably deserved it. Nothing like skewering a shiny happy yellow marshmellow bunny, let alone spearing a pair, to really make your day better. Sadly, this did indeed make my morning.
The morning, that is, of the day after I quit my job.
Or tried to quit.
And was told I wasn't allowed.
It's been a very long week. I was tempted to add my own adornments to the dart board, starting with my business cards and finishing with something of value, like the only company phone that works more than half-time, but instead I snapped this shot and skipped back upstairs. There's really not much else to write tonight. I quit. Or tried to. It's hard to quit when your fortysomething boss reverts to juvenile behavior. When I told him that this wasn't working out, I received a one-word response: "No."
Is it any wonder I've been fantasizing about Jaeger shots since noon yesterday? I'm going to go find some of those and then run over Peeps with my bike. Maybe back up and do it again for good measure. Are you ever going to receive the full story? Perhaps. It's just that every time I tell it, I get a little.bit.ANGRIER. And you know, I don't actually want to be known as "That girl who went postal on Peeps in the basement of our building and had to be escorted out by security." I always wanted to go postal on something far more deserving. Like the Wiggles.
Stupid, cheerful-ass Peeps. They probably deserved it. Nothing like skewering a shiny happy yellow marshmellow bunny, let alone spearing a pair, to really make your day better. Sadly, this did indeed make my morning.
The morning, that is, of the day after I quit my job.
Or tried to quit.
And was told I wasn't allowed.
It's been a very long week. I was tempted to add my own adornments to the dart board, starting with my business cards and finishing with something of value, like the only company phone that works more than half-time, but instead I snapped this shot and skipped back upstairs. There's really not much else to write tonight. I quit. Or tried to. It's hard to quit when your fortysomething boss reverts to juvenile behavior. When I told him that this wasn't working out, I received a one-word response: "No."
Is it any wonder I've been fantasizing about Jaeger shots since noon yesterday? I'm going to go find some of those and then run over Peeps with my bike. Maybe back up and do it again for good measure. Are you ever going to receive the full story? Perhaps. It's just that every time I tell it, I get a little.bit.ANGRIER. And you know, I don't actually want to be known as "That girl who went postal on Peeps in the basement of our building and had to be escorted out by security." I always wanted to go postal on something far more deserving. Like the Wiggles.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Ayudame
Disclaimer One: if you're family, by blood or marriage, I'd appreciate it if you skip this one. It's definitely for friends and blog buddies only. Thanks.
Things aren't so good right now. I feel like a broken record sometimes, but I'm not sure what else I can do. I could definitely use some advice from friends here: say you have a job, and it's a foot in the door to a rather small, fairly exclusive field. But it's in a three-person office with a less-than-shoestring budget, and your job could really be filled by two full-time people, and you never even got trained officially, and at the end of the day you come home and realize just how upset you are because the slightest thing kinda makes you flip out.
But it's a job, a job with responsibilities, a job that might actually get you somewhere else someday. It's a job where leaving right now would be a terrible thing to do to them, because you're in the middle of a massive project that no one else is going to be able to pick up easily. And yet, you are tired. You are so very, very tired, and a little voice in the back of your mind is realizing that you've been tired for a couple of years now. Every time, you fight through it, telling yourself that you just have to grit the teeth for one last push, and then you'll finally get a break. That break? It still hasn't come -- and as stupid and weak as you feel, you just don't know if you can actually push through again because the exhaustion, it's maybe bigger than you. It saps your energy, drains your writing, makes you want to curl up and sleep until everything just resolves itself. You hate feeling that way. You can't fix it. But you're afraid to leave the job anyway.
So what the hell do you do? I'm too tired to think straight, and I keep traveling the same circles without finding a side channel out of here.
Things aren't so good right now. I feel like a broken record sometimes, but I'm not sure what else I can do. I could definitely use some advice from friends here: say you have a job, and it's a foot in the door to a rather small, fairly exclusive field. But it's in a three-person office with a less-than-shoestring budget, and your job could really be filled by two full-time people, and you never even got trained officially, and at the end of the day you come home and realize just how upset you are because the slightest thing kinda makes you flip out.
But it's a job, a job with responsibilities, a job that might actually get you somewhere else someday. It's a job where leaving right now would be a terrible thing to do to them, because you're in the middle of a massive project that no one else is going to be able to pick up easily. And yet, you are tired. You are so very, very tired, and a little voice in the back of your mind is realizing that you've been tired for a couple of years now. Every time, you fight through it, telling yourself that you just have to grit the teeth for one last push, and then you'll finally get a break. That break? It still hasn't come -- and as stupid and weak as you feel, you just don't know if you can actually push through again because the exhaustion, it's maybe bigger than you. It saps your energy, drains your writing, makes you want to curl up and sleep until everything just resolves itself. You hate feeling that way. You can't fix it. But you're afraid to leave the job anyway.
So what the hell do you do? I'm too tired to think straight, and I keep traveling the same circles without finding a side channel out of here.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
In the waiting line
Tomorrow marks three months since I first tried to close my bank account in the UK -- when I was still living in the UK. Since then, I've made at least five to eight phone calls -- always at midnight or later, thanks to the time zones. I've sent letter upon letter, completing increasingly ridiculous requests from the bank, including one which asked me to send a certified copy of my passport signature page because apparently I forged my own signature on the previous account closure letter. It's fantastic. Now, I'm being told I sent that to the wrong place, even though the last letter I received *and* the last person with whom I spoke told me to send it there. Oh, and apparently? I also have to cut my debit card into four pieces, shred my checks and return them to yet another part of the bank's nebula. And apparently? The fact that no one told me that once in the past three months, during which period I destroyed and threw out my checks because I didn't like having them lying around to tempt airport security checkers and passersby? That, apparently, is my own damn fault and means I need to write yet another letter explaning myself.
So, what do you do when your international bank refuses to close your account? Or when they try to send you to collections for mounting fees because your account no longer has money in it? (Hey, maybe because I was told to take it all out the first time I went to close it!) Anybody know a good lawyer out there? Hell, I'd settle for a consolation prize: a nice big bottle of whiskey to keep me company while I sit cradling the phone yet again tonight, trying not to think about how this might affect my credit, praying that just this once the person on the other end of the line actually has something useful to impart. If they don't, I guess I have to wait until next summer, when I fly back to visit CB and march into the nearest branch with my forty-fifth letter in hand and eighteen months of pent-up rage waiting to be unleashed on the nearest bank representative.
Seriously, this is ridiculous, isn't it? Or is it all happening because they can tell I'm American and want to make my life miserable? See, I know that's not true, but try waiting three months for an account to close and see how paranoid it makes you.
So, what do you do when your international bank refuses to close your account? Or when they try to send you to collections for mounting fees because your account no longer has money in it? (Hey, maybe because I was told to take it all out the first time I went to close it!) Anybody know a good lawyer out there? Hell, I'd settle for a consolation prize: a nice big bottle of whiskey to keep me company while I sit cradling the phone yet again tonight, trying not to think about how this might affect my credit, praying that just this once the person on the other end of the line actually has something useful to impart. If they don't, I guess I have to wait until next summer, when I fly back to visit CB and march into the nearest branch with my forty-fifth letter in hand and eighteen months of pent-up rage waiting to be unleashed on the nearest bank representative.
Seriously, this is ridiculous, isn't it? Or is it all happening because they can tell I'm American and want to make my life miserable? See, I know that's not true, but try waiting three months for an account to close and see how paranoid it makes you.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Digging my ditch
Last Friday, we went south of the city to visit a few old project sites, only to discover that one of our ever-rising creeks (thanks, development!) finally exhausted a client's already short fuse. He was tired of it eroding his property line and threatening the hundred year-old stack of sticks shed at the water's edge. So, he did what any rational person would do.
He made a pond.
And by "made a pond," I mean borrowed a neighbor's backhoe and dug a 10-foot hole in the middle of his yard, near enough to the creek that the crumbling bank is likely to collapse at any time. Surprisingly, officials noticed the sudden emergence of a pond where no such thing had existed previously, and they told him to fill the damn thing up again before they fined him.
But the pond, having been made, is apparently staying. The officials are probably too afraid of his massive pond-digging tools to mess with him.
His next door neighbor? That guy looked at the creek, looked at his sloping property, and decided, "Hey, I know where to build a great house! Right in the depression next to the creek!" Just to be sure he really enjoyed the full benefits of annual flooding, he made sure that nobody put any pesky stilts under his house. No sir, just wet, wet floors for that man.
Naturally, of course, both the pond and the soggy house are our faults. Stupid third parties, trying to mediate. Should've just dredged the damn creek and buried the channel in concrete.
Meanwhile, a third party is busy sabatoging our tree plantings by using deer antlers to scrape away all the bark. In February.
I really want to be there when the person's in action, just to wander up and innocently ask where all the antler-wearing deer come from in the middle of winter.
Gotta love my job. Beaver management and landowner pacification. At least I'm never bored, right?
He made a pond.
And by "made a pond," I mean borrowed a neighbor's backhoe and dug a 10-foot hole in the middle of his yard, near enough to the creek that the crumbling bank is likely to collapse at any time. Surprisingly, officials noticed the sudden emergence of a pond where no such thing had existed previously, and they told him to fill the damn thing up again before they fined him.
But the pond, having been made, is apparently staying. The officials are probably too afraid of his massive pond-digging tools to mess with him.
His next door neighbor? That guy looked at the creek, looked at his sloping property, and decided, "Hey, I know where to build a great house! Right in the depression next to the creek!" Just to be sure he really enjoyed the full benefits of annual flooding, he made sure that nobody put any pesky stilts under his house. No sir, just wet, wet floors for that man.
Naturally, of course, both the pond and the soggy house are our faults. Stupid third parties, trying to mediate. Should've just dredged the damn creek and buried the channel in concrete.
Meanwhile, a third party is busy sabatoging our tree plantings by using deer antlers to scrape away all the bark. In February.
I really want to be there when the person's in action, just to wander up and innocently ask where all the antler-wearing deer come from in the middle of winter.
Gotta love my job. Beaver management and landowner pacification. At least I'm never bored, right?
Monday, February 19, 2007
Constantly unfolding
Keeping busy is the name of the game these days, so I'm taking photography classes next month and starting a shoreline naturalist training program a little later. Not a lot else going on, but these did show up at work a few days ago:
He's a very smart boy. Not only are these flowers beautiful (and fragrant), but they're also sustainably harvested:
We aren't usually big on Valentine's Day, but this year I couldn't wait for a little bit of romance. Flowers and gifts do make a difference sometimes, especially when you know they put some thought into the why of the gift.
I've also discovered that we're a source of inspiration, which anyone who knows us should find unsettling. The maniacs wreaking havoc at Crate and Barrel? Inspiring? But I've had several friends tell me recently that whenever they're despairing over their LDRs, all they have to do is think of us. Presto! Instant mood elevator. Sure, this sucks, but at least we're not Eco and CB! These friends have spurred me to set a new goal: find a friend whose partner is even further away, ideally in a country where U.S. citizens can't enter legally.
Hmmm. Anybody know any couples separated by an ocean or two for at least three years?
He's a very smart boy. Not only are these flowers beautiful (and fragrant), but they're also sustainably harvested:
We aren't usually big on Valentine's Day, but this year I couldn't wait for a little bit of romance. Flowers and gifts do make a difference sometimes, especially when you know they put some thought into the why of the gift.
I've also discovered that we're a source of inspiration, which anyone who knows us should find unsettling. The maniacs wreaking havoc at Crate and Barrel? Inspiring? But I've had several friends tell me recently that whenever they're despairing over their LDRs, all they have to do is think of us. Presto! Instant mood elevator. Sure, this sucks, but at least we're not Eco and CB! These friends have spurred me to set a new goal: find a friend whose partner is even further away, ideally in a country where U.S. citizens can't enter legally.
Hmmm. Anybody know any couples separated by an ocean or two for at least three years?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
It's just a little crush
Poor CB. He has competition.
Some of those pictures do not do Kate Walsh (aka Addison Shepherd of Grey's fame) justice, but seriously, she is the most smoldering on-screen presence since, well, I don't know what. Sure, it might have been better for my self-esteem to never realize how uniquely attractive some women can be without trying -- but I gotta admit, after marathoning my way through the second season, I sure do enjoy looking at her anyway. ;)
Sorry, love. We can now update my lust list to include Zach Braff, Jake Gyllenhaal, Natalie Portman and Kate Walsh. Hey, a girl can dream...
Some of those pictures do not do Kate Walsh (aka Addison Shepherd of Grey's fame) justice, but seriously, she is the most smoldering on-screen presence since, well, I don't know what. Sure, it might have been better for my self-esteem to never realize how uniquely attractive some women can be without trying -- but I gotta admit, after marathoning my way through the second season, I sure do enjoy looking at her anyway. ;)
Sorry, love. We can now update my lust list to include Zach Braff, Jake Gyllenhaal, Natalie Portman and Kate Walsh. Hey, a girl can dream...
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Just another day at the office
You know, going from zero bike miles per week to 14 bike miles per day probably isn't the best decision one could make. Although, I'm not the only slightly crazed outdoorsy person in my office. Here's how my first conversation went this morning:
Me: "Hey."
Alex*: "Hey."
"How are you?"
"Not so good." Grimacing, Alex tries to stand. "I kinda busted my ankle on a run yesterday. Check it out."
I admire his battle scar, which, judging by the large purple contusion around his entire calf, is likely more than a sprained ankle.
"How're you?"
I wince. "Not great, either. Did you know that sore glutes can actually make migraines feel pleasant by comparison, when you force those glutes to propel you up one of our city's finest hills?"
Alex looks sympathetic. "How're they doing?"
"Tight as rocks."
I look at him. He looks at me. I realize it is my tenth day on the job, and I am talking to a co-worker about my butt. In an entirely nonsexual, frankly off-putting manner.
"This isn't really a normal office, is it?"
"No. Not at all."
*not his real name
Me: "Hey."
Alex*: "Hey."
"How are you?"
"Not so good." Grimacing, Alex tries to stand. "I kinda busted my ankle on a run yesterday. Check it out."
I admire his battle scar, which, judging by the large purple contusion around his entire calf, is likely more than a sprained ankle.
"How're you?"
I wince. "Not great, either. Did you know that sore glutes can actually make migraines feel pleasant by comparison, when you force those glutes to propel you up one of our city's finest hills?"
Alex looks sympathetic. "How're they doing?"
"Tight as rocks."
I look at him. He looks at me. I realize it is my tenth day on the job, and I am talking to a co-worker about my butt. In an entirely nonsexual, frankly off-putting manner.
"This isn't really a normal office, is it?"
"No. Not at all."
*not his real name
Monday, February 12, 2007
With love, from me
Dear Internet friends,
You are all lovely people. I can't tell you how much better I'm feeling after your calls, posts and emails. Just having you in my life makes it much, much easier to bear things of late.
Well, that, and getting to meet with landowners in a place I will never dare mention by name. It's always enlightening to see firsthand what happens when government agencies don't handle rural landowners with sensitivity. Namely, Operation Sneaky (no, I am not kidding), in which you drive the county off your property with some help from neighbors, then declare war on the resident beaver population while the county gnashes its teeth at your front gate. Damn beavers, damming everything.
We also encountered a recently exploded meth lab while investigating a giant beaver dam on a different site. Clearly, the mammoth proportions of the dam indicate a positive correlation between beaver production and exposure to methamphetamines. Drugged-out rodents with giant teeth are fearsome creatures.
And then, there was the guy who didn't have a phone, or electricity, and who's fondly referred to by his neighbors as "that guy who's always spending time in one of our finest correctional facilities." To quote one acquaintance, "He's a real nice guy. I'm just surprised you found him. I thought he was still in jail." He was sitting in the driveway when we showed up after trying fruitlessly to reach him on his imaginary phone. He didn't seem overly surprised to see us, just a little taken aback that we hadn't called.
So, here's to friends, meth labs, and beavers. And an extra toast to whoever finds me Googling for porn and drugs after I post this. Sorry about that, buddy.
You are all lovely people. I can't tell you how much better I'm feeling after your calls, posts and emails. Just having you in my life makes it much, much easier to bear things of late.
Well, that, and getting to meet with landowners in a place I will never dare mention by name. It's always enlightening to see firsthand what happens when government agencies don't handle rural landowners with sensitivity. Namely, Operation Sneaky (no, I am not kidding), in which you drive the county off your property with some help from neighbors, then declare war on the resident beaver population while the county gnashes its teeth at your front gate. Damn beavers, damming everything.
We also encountered a recently exploded meth lab while investigating a giant beaver dam on a different site. Clearly, the mammoth proportions of the dam indicate a positive correlation between beaver production and exposure to methamphetamines. Drugged-out rodents with giant teeth are fearsome creatures.
And then, there was the guy who didn't have a phone, or electricity, and who's fondly referred to by his neighbors as "that guy who's always spending time in one of our finest correctional facilities." To quote one acquaintance, "He's a real nice guy. I'm just surprised you found him. I thought he was still in jail." He was sitting in the driveway when we showed up after trying fruitlessly to reach him on his imaginary phone. He didn't seem overly surprised to see us, just a little taken aback that we hadn't called.
So, here's to friends, meth labs, and beavers. And an extra toast to whoever finds me Googling for porn and drugs after I post this. Sorry about that, buddy.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Be calm, be brave, it'll be okay
Fuck. What was I thinking when I thought I could do this?
We haven't even been apart for two months, and there are fissures running the length and breadth of me. I can't touch him, hold him, kiss him, see him. The curse of multiple time zones means we're lucky to talk more than a few hours per week, and we usually can't help but catch each other right before bed or just before dawn.
It's quiet and rainy here tonight, and suddenly I don't know if I can fight hard enough to get through this. Two years? Twenty-four months of this? I feel like my whole world is coming to pieces. I'm just scared that without meaning to, we'll drift apart. We're busy people, busy by nature, most satisifed when we're flying between half a dozen tasks and events, brains chattering at dizzying speeds. When we live together, it's hard enough to "be" together for any amount of time. When we're apart? Like any couple in an LDR, we fill the hours to avoid thinking about the hurt and the loneliness -- but in cramming the waking life full, we don't let ourselves have time to miss each other. It's a double-edged sword: it doesn't hurt as much, and it's probably the only thing that lets us slog through every day without collapsing -- but it almost means we have to detach to survive. And what if we can't stop detaching? What happens when we get to see each other for a whopping two weeks this summer, and then go apart again? And again? And again? What if we grow apart without meaning to? Without realizing the space between us until it's too late?
There aren't any easy answers. It's happening to more and more people we know: if you aren't fortunate enough to share the same career interests (and, sometimes, even if you are), you may be bound for a time apart should you marry young. We knew it, and we knew it, and we knew it...but then it comes down to the wire and you realize that what we knew doesn't compare to what it feels like when it happens. But what are we supposed to do? Is one of us supposed to give it all up, which doesn't do anything but sow seeds of resentment that spring up overnight like dandelions? Is it even possible to find a middle ground where we can both do what we like without going apart for what we love?
Fuck. Sometimes I wish I could just be happy doing anything, and it kills me that I can't. And yet, I get frustrated when people suggest that this is the problem. No one ever asks why he can't give up his path. It's like it all comes down to me, the onus is on me, the problem is me. And the only one who doesn't see it that way -- even when I'm questioning whether they're right -- is him.
In the end, maybe that's why this has to work, even if it hurts in ways I didn't think were possible. Because the only one who understands me is eight thousand miles away. And I'd be a damned fool to let that keep us apart without a fight.
We haven't even been apart for two months, and there are fissures running the length and breadth of me. I can't touch him, hold him, kiss him, see him. The curse of multiple time zones means we're lucky to talk more than a few hours per week, and we usually can't help but catch each other right before bed or just before dawn.
It's quiet and rainy here tonight, and suddenly I don't know if I can fight hard enough to get through this. Two years? Twenty-four months of this? I feel like my whole world is coming to pieces. I'm just scared that without meaning to, we'll drift apart. We're busy people, busy by nature, most satisifed when we're flying between half a dozen tasks and events, brains chattering at dizzying speeds. When we live together, it's hard enough to "be" together for any amount of time. When we're apart? Like any couple in an LDR, we fill the hours to avoid thinking about the hurt and the loneliness -- but in cramming the waking life full, we don't let ourselves have time to miss each other. It's a double-edged sword: it doesn't hurt as much, and it's probably the only thing that lets us slog through every day without collapsing -- but it almost means we have to detach to survive. And what if we can't stop detaching? What happens when we get to see each other for a whopping two weeks this summer, and then go apart again? And again? And again? What if we grow apart without meaning to? Without realizing the space between us until it's too late?
There aren't any easy answers. It's happening to more and more people we know: if you aren't fortunate enough to share the same career interests (and, sometimes, even if you are), you may be bound for a time apart should you marry young. We knew it, and we knew it, and we knew it...but then it comes down to the wire and you realize that what we knew doesn't compare to what it feels like when it happens. But what are we supposed to do? Is one of us supposed to give it all up, which doesn't do anything but sow seeds of resentment that spring up overnight like dandelions? Is it even possible to find a middle ground where we can both do what we like without going apart for what we love?
Fuck. Sometimes I wish I could just be happy doing anything, and it kills me that I can't. And yet, I get frustrated when people suggest that this is the problem. No one ever asks why he can't give up his path. It's like it all comes down to me, the onus is on me, the problem is me. And the only one who doesn't see it that way -- even when I'm questioning whether they're right -- is him.
In the end, maybe that's why this has to work, even if it hurts in ways I didn't think were possible. Because the only one who understands me is eight thousand miles away. And I'd be a damned fool to let that keep us apart without a fight.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Warning: temporary depression ahead
Sometimes, I miss my husband more than I ever thought possible. Like now, when I work an 11-hour day, completely alone in the office, trying to organize and run an entire auction on a budget that might not even allow for real letterhead.
In the future, I'd better be able to look back on the last two years and say, "Oh yeah. Now I see the reason for all of that," because if I can't? If I can't, then I don't really know why I'm perpetrating self-inflicted torture now by moving back overseas and trying to establish a career in a field that's alternatingly invigorating and insomnia-inducing. For real. I don't know if I'm going to sleep tonight because I'm so worried that we can't even afford the postage for the freaking bulk mail solicitations I need to send.
I miss him so fucking much.
In the future, I'd better be able to look back on the last two years and say, "Oh yeah. Now I see the reason for all of that," because if I can't? If I can't, then I don't really know why I'm perpetrating self-inflicted torture now by moving back overseas and trying to establish a career in a field that's alternatingly invigorating and insomnia-inducing. For real. I don't know if I'm going to sleep tonight because I'm so worried that we can't even afford the postage for the freaking bulk mail solicitations I need to send.
I miss him so fucking much.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Let's go exploring
I'm sorry for leaving you in suspense for so long (and the fact that anyone cares is really sweet).
But yes, I have a job. An Official Title job which entails real responsibilities, as there are fewer people in my office than fingers on one hand. The position includes orchestrating our annual fundraiser auction (scheduled for spring, and no work done yet! Eeep!), co-organizing the volunteer projects; doing public outreach, presentations, etc; digging into restoration policy; and a few other things. Hence, the slight panic: this is a serious, serious job. I insisted I never wanted to be an admin assistant again, and it remains true -- but I'm realizing that the perk to admin was that I never really had to be held accountable for anything. The worst I could do was transfer a few phone calls to the wrong desk or missplace something of moderate importance, like our housing bills. Now? Now, I could singlehandedly throw an organization into chaos by double-booking the auction venue or wrecking the company truck. (Have I mentioned that both trucks are stick shifts, which I can't drive? Do you SEE why I'm working on my first ulcer?)
As strange as this may sound to anyone who's been in the workforce for awhile, it also feels very, very odd to have a "real" real job. This isn't something I can leave in a year to finish grad school (that comes later), or something I can just do on a whim to keep me occupied in between classes. More than anything else I've done, this feels like serious adulthood, and I'm feeling a little ambivalent about it. While I'm thrilled to actually be in the field I wanted and to have a job which will challenge me by making me stretch in a dozen directions at once, I also feel a little wistful. So much for doing the over-romanticized coffeehouse job while writing my novel between shifts. No spontaneous "pack it up and travel" moments coming soon. I'm really envious of people who can do those things, but I think I learned this year that I can't. I need more structure, as well as a role that feels like it's really "doing something"...and I'm a little disappointed in myself as a result. I'm afraid I won't finish that novel, or do that traveling, and even though I know those fears are exaggerated right now, they still nibble at me when I'm lying in bed. Here comes the nontraditional student in grad school, the mortgage (if we can ever afford one), the itemized taxes and IRAs and scheduled vacation time. Part of me's relieved, and the rest wants to run screaming to the nearest bar...which probably explains why I spent Friday night in the tub with a giant Bloody Mary.
At the same time, I'm totally stoked about this job and think that it will be a perfect way to launch the environmental policy career I'm hoping to have. This is going to let me get involved with every aspect of an organization, and it's a group which straddles the nonprofit-government border while also working with the private sector. I wish I could tell you all about it, but I don't feel like getting dooced anytime soon...and with such a small office, you know I'll have stories to tell.
Tomorrow is my second day, and I'm already going to be alone in the office all week. In that time, I have to select two or three venues for the event while remaining mindful of our microscopic budget, and I also need to prep all of our PR materials and start identifying potential donors. So much for easing into things! But life is good, and I just hope I can perform well enough to convince them to keep me. On the bright side, I do get to keep the eyebrow, the jeans, and the bike-to-work habit. I may be getting dragged into full-blown adulthood, but I have a healthy clump of my less-responsible side clutched between my fingers. Aren't you thrilled you get to come along for the ride? ;)
But yes, I have a job. An Official Title job which entails real responsibilities, as there are fewer people in my office than fingers on one hand. The position includes orchestrating our annual fundraiser auction (scheduled for spring, and no work done yet! Eeep!), co-organizing the volunteer projects; doing public outreach, presentations, etc; digging into restoration policy; and a few other things. Hence, the slight panic: this is a serious, serious job. I insisted I never wanted to be an admin assistant again, and it remains true -- but I'm realizing that the perk to admin was that I never really had to be held accountable for anything. The worst I could do was transfer a few phone calls to the wrong desk or missplace something of moderate importance, like our housing bills. Now? Now, I could singlehandedly throw an organization into chaos by double-booking the auction venue or wrecking the company truck. (Have I mentioned that both trucks are stick shifts, which I can't drive? Do you SEE why I'm working on my first ulcer?)
As strange as this may sound to anyone who's been in the workforce for awhile, it also feels very, very odd to have a "real" real job. This isn't something I can leave in a year to finish grad school (that comes later), or something I can just do on a whim to keep me occupied in between classes. More than anything else I've done, this feels like serious adulthood, and I'm feeling a little ambivalent about it. While I'm thrilled to actually be in the field I wanted and to have a job which will challenge me by making me stretch in a dozen directions at once, I also feel a little wistful. So much for doing the over-romanticized coffeehouse job while writing my novel between shifts. No spontaneous "pack it up and travel" moments coming soon. I'm really envious of people who can do those things, but I think I learned this year that I can't. I need more structure, as well as a role that feels like it's really "doing something"...and I'm a little disappointed in myself as a result. I'm afraid I won't finish that novel, or do that traveling, and even though I know those fears are exaggerated right now, they still nibble at me when I'm lying in bed. Here comes the nontraditional student in grad school, the mortgage (if we can ever afford one), the itemized taxes and IRAs and scheduled vacation time. Part of me's relieved, and the rest wants to run screaming to the nearest bar...which probably explains why I spent Friday night in the tub with a giant Bloody Mary.
At the same time, I'm totally stoked about this job and think that it will be a perfect way to launch the environmental policy career I'm hoping to have. This is going to let me get involved with every aspect of an organization, and it's a group which straddles the nonprofit-government border while also working with the private sector. I wish I could tell you all about it, but I don't feel like getting dooced anytime soon...and with such a small office, you know I'll have stories to tell.
Tomorrow is my second day, and I'm already going to be alone in the office all week. In that time, I have to select two or three venues for the event while remaining mindful of our microscopic budget, and I also need to prep all of our PR materials and start identifying potential donors. So much for easing into things! But life is good, and I just hope I can perform well enough to convince them to keep me. On the bright side, I do get to keep the eyebrow, the jeans, and the bike-to-work habit. I may be getting dragged into full-blown adulthood, but I have a healthy clump of my less-responsible side clutched between my fingers. Aren't you thrilled you get to come along for the ride? ;)
Friday, February 02, 2007
Shout it out
One guess what finally happened today, based on these two back-to-back reactions.
Let's see...utter elation (note to self: do not be elated often, as it looks like I could frighten children and small dogs with that expression), followed by actual situation setting in...well, I'll let you stew on it. ;) Full meditation on the event coming tomorrow.
Let's see...utter elation (note to self: do not be elated often, as it looks like I could frighten children and small dogs with that expression), followed by actual situation setting in...well, I'll let you stew on it. ;) Full meditation on the event coming tomorrow.
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