Today is my daughter's first birthday.
The people at my office have spent a lot of time taking care of me this year; dealing with my mood swings and emergencies, looking at baby pictures, humoring me when they've heard the SAME story for the gazillionth
time.
So I planned this sort of "thank you for being there for me" lunch for my team, and some select friends who've been with me through the various moments of motherhood, or who just love my daughter enough to be really
angry with me if I hadn't invited them.
It IS NOT a Birthday Party. I'm adamant in that... I DO NOT want my co-workers to feel obliged to do anything Birthday-esque. I figure over the coming years I'm likely to impose on them enough with cookie and candy
sales and all the other crazy things mom's ask of their co-workers for their kids.
At the same time, I'm thinking, I should have thought about some decorations or something... even just a few balloons. Because, well, after all, it IS her Birthday... but at the same time, the invitation said: "To thank you for your support"... so it's a party for them, and - well - quite honestly, I don't need to decorate for them.
Oh bugger... I'm just going to get some pizza, lay it out with some napkins (plates if they're lucky!) and show them where the cupcakes are.
27 April 2005
25 April 2005
After the (snow) Fall
I honestly can't complain much.
I knew the weather was coming, I even prepared for it by rescuing oodles of pretty flowers from our spring garden before the snow flew. And I didn't have anyplace to go in the mess of weather that attacked yesterday.
Still... it was crazy disheartening to know that all my precious little zinnia and poppy seedlings are gone - laid to waste by the cold and snow. I'm still hoping that those that were still germinating will be ok, and prove to be the little Lazarii of my efforts.
Nothing spectacular happened this weekend:
I finished my book - excellent read
I knit-whittled a couple more squares for my daughter's sweater
I made a decent dinner and an excellent one
I had brief visits with my in-laws and my mom's brother and his wife
I got a lot of dishes washed
I spent some much-appreciated time with my husband
Like I said, it was nothing spectacular, but again, nothing horrible... and in fact pretty peaceful.
In spite of the dread without.
I'm going to make some work happen now.
I knew the weather was coming, I even prepared for it by rescuing oodles of pretty flowers from our spring garden before the snow flew. And I didn't have anyplace to go in the mess of weather that attacked yesterday.
Still... it was crazy disheartening to know that all my precious little zinnia and poppy seedlings are gone - laid to waste by the cold and snow. I'm still hoping that those that were still germinating will be ok, and prove to be the little Lazarii of my efforts.
Nothing spectacular happened this weekend:
I finished my book - excellent read
I knit-whittled a couple more squares for my daughter's sweater
I made a decent dinner and an excellent one
I had brief visits with my in-laws and my mom's brother and his wife
I got a lot of dishes washed
I spent some much-appreciated time with my husband
Like I said, it was nothing spectacular, but again, nothing horrible... and in fact pretty peaceful.
In spite of the dread without.
I'm going to make some work happen now.
21 April 2005
Exhaustoid
I suppose it's my own fault.
All those months ago, it was *I* who determined that letting the baby sleep
with me would be a better idea than slogging my backside to the crib in the
middle of the night, occasionally bashing my toes, and invariably having to
pee while easing her back to sleep.
Flash forward 9 months
Last night she was running through a well-designed gymnastic floor routine,
or perhaps practicing some new (ha ha - in it's infancy!) form of martial
arts in the bed.
It started at about midnight.
It didn't end.
I may have grossed about 3 hours of sleep last night. Net - less than 2,
certainly.
This wouldn't be so bad, I suppose, if I were a nuclear engineer,
or a surgeon,
or even a rocket scientist...
...but I am a data monkey.
I am required to make my brain ooch through functions, and numbers, and
intricacies of analysis all day long.
And the people who use this information are ALWAYS scraping through it
after me with one of their many, intricate, probably
"priceless-collector's-edition", fine toothed combs... waiting to snare me,
pointing the accusing finger at the saboteur in their organization
- the woman who would give them "entirely incorrect information" secretly
plotting to ruin their relationship with the second set of scrutinous
eyes...
Have I mentioned that I get all weirded out and sort of paranoid and very
imaginative when I'm sleep deprived?
19 April 2005
Equal Opportunity Stink-Fest
Today the elevator reeked of ratty cologne. Nasty cheap men's cologne... and maybe more than one kind.
Not too long ago I was griping about women who use too much perfume... but at least when I make my way into the ladies' room after she does, it's a soft sweet lingering. This smelled like a male version of French-Whore-Meets-Aqua-Velva-Man.
Ugh.
Not too long ago I was griping about women who use too much perfume... but at least when I make my way into the ladies' room after she does, it's a soft sweet lingering. This smelled like a male version of French-Whore-Meets-Aqua-Velva-Man.
Ugh.
18 April 2005
Monday Sprung
For the months after I had my daughter I utterly LOATHED Sunday night, as
it meant I had to prepare to return to work and leave her (albeit in very
trustworthy hands) for another round of 10.5 hour days (I work an hour from
home - in good traffic).
Earlier this month, I re-awakened to that sensation. It's not that I ever
found myself rejoicing at the idea of Monday morning, but that the agony of
leaving her had sort of normalized into my regular Sunday night mind-prep
routine. It has always amazed me how adaptable the human spirit really is.
But as I said, recently I've rediscovered the tragedy of Sunday night.
Part of me says it's just that I (like EVERY mammal I know) suffer, to some
degree, the effects of SAD. The longer days, full of sunshine and warmth
bring me almost un-namable joy. These beautiful days on their own are
reason enough to dread Monday morning.
It's drastically increased when compounded by:
the feeling of accomplishment after a long day of yard work
the delicious aroma of pre-summertime bliss
- grilled meat
- fresh cut grass
- bunches of daffodils on the dining room table
- the (generally) uninterrupted company of my husband, and
- the absolute delight of witnessing the world through my daughter's fresh
eyes
Good Heavens, it's all I can do to bring myself to work on most days, but a
Monday morning, in the hour before the birds wake up, after a weekend of
absolute joy...
this is torture.
13 April 2005
Denim Wednesday
The company for whom I work rather seriously supports the March of Dimes. There are many events in the month preceding the walk: silent acutions, bake sales, golf outings, and "Jeans Days".
For the meagre sum of $5 per day, we are invited to wear Blue Jeans for Babies on every Wednesday of the month in support of the MoD. People smile, are friendly, possibly even productive on these days... and ever so grateful for the opportunity to be really comfortable at the office.
There have been rumblings about wanting to change the dress code here at my office... to allow us to be business casual on week days and denim on Fridays - this is already our summer dress code, and very much approved of by all of the employees whom I've interviewed (not scientifically by any stretch of the imagination) on it. I, too, think that the business casual model is the way to go... bearing in mind that from time to time we have customer visits which would necessitate - at least for some - the return to a customer-centric dress code.
But it does make me wonder, if we were allowed to wear jeans every Friday - gratis - if we would feel quite as compelled to pay for them on Wednesdays.
For the meagre sum of $5 per day, we are invited to wear Blue Jeans for Babies on every Wednesday of the month in support of the MoD. People smile, are friendly, possibly even productive on these days... and ever so grateful for the opportunity to be really comfortable at the office.
There have been rumblings about wanting to change the dress code here at my office... to allow us to be business casual on week days and denim on Fridays - this is already our summer dress code, and very much approved of by all of the employees whom I've interviewed (not scientifically by any stretch of the imagination) on it. I, too, think that the business casual model is the way to go... bearing in mind that from time to time we have customer visits which would necessitate - at least for some - the return to a customer-centric dress code.
But it does make me wonder, if we were allowed to wear jeans every Friday - gratis - if we would feel quite as compelled to pay for them on Wednesdays.
12 April 2005
One Woman's Perfume...
...is another woman's poison.
Even though it smells rather nice - in low doses - there is a terror in my heart when I think of what it must be to sit, stand, or walk beside (or heaven forbid, ride the elevator with) the woman who sometimes leaves the ladies room before I come in.
When I arrive there, sometimes, there is a lingering - granted it's pretty - of some woman's perfume.
The only way for that smell to stay there THAT long (these are days when I'm NOT passing someone coming out the door as I am going in) is for her to be wearing way too much of it.
sigh...
Even though it smells rather nice - in low doses - there is a terror in my heart when I think of what it must be to sit, stand, or walk beside (or heaven forbid, ride the elevator with) the woman who sometimes leaves the ladies room before I come in.
When I arrive there, sometimes, there is a lingering - granted it's pretty - of some woman's perfume.
The only way for that smell to stay there THAT long (these are days when I'm NOT passing someone coming out the door as I am going in) is for her to be wearing way too much of it.
sigh...
11 April 2005
Nod
Last night I had the craziest dream.
I was in college again, but this time college happened like high school - complete with lockers. On the door inside my locker - as in all of my high school dreams - is a copy of my schedule.
I learned a long time ago that by forcing my dream to have a copy of my schedule, I won't have one of those horrible nightmares where I don't know where I'm supposed to be until it's too late and then I get there as everyone is leaving... this is as lucid as my dreaming gets, mind you.
At any rate, my schedule seems to be a bit like "college lite" as one of my classes is a "Social Correspondence" studio... it's part of my Women's Studies requirements... required of all women... yeah - crazy "college lite." Yes, I too would expect it to be a lecture, but no... it's a studio course. Having been, in real life, an art major (dual with English Lit) (and a minor in dramatic arts), I know that when one attends a studio course, one dresses casually, as they last for hours - typcially 3 - and are often labor intensive.
A lot I know... at least in dream land.
It's more like, when you attend a stuido course, you dress appropriately for the studio. When I finally made it to the classroom - after having been directed no less than three times down increasingly beautiful marble halls - I find that I alone am the only woman clad in comfortable clothes. Everyone else has arrived - ON THE FIRST DAY - with briefcases full of beautiful linen and engraved stationery, dressed in their "Sunday Casual" best dresses (though a few are even wearing short white gloves) and not a soul is there without discrete pumps, and every head is covered.
*I* - on the other hand - am wearing a pair of red thermal underpants under a pair of red and white boxers, and topped with a huge white polo shirt bearing the name of "Chip", in red, across the left breast. I am wearing pink ballet slippers and no hat. This was my all-time favorite outfit in real-life college, and thus makes sense that I would wear it in my dream-land.
Needless to say, I'm miserable, and expecting the BEAUTIFUL woman who is teaching the class to send me back to my room to collect something suitable to wear (not that I have anything suitable to wear back at my room). She doesn't, however, and I notice the extreme grace with which each and every other student in the room ACTIVELY ignores my inappropriate dress. I am even more miserable.
After class, I'm instructed by one of the upper classwomen that if I arrive like that ever again, I will be publicly shamed before being kicked out of the class (a required course) without another chance of entrance. Noting my obvious chagrin, and guessing at my utterly deficient wardrobe, she takes me under her wing, and - get this - organizes a "second-hand-drive" among all the girls in the school to get me some decent clothing. Before I know it, I'm burdened by more of "last year's styles" than I ever thought could be designed, and advised by one or two of the less affluent students of how to make modifications to them in order to bring them "up to standard."
I hear, as I'm walking away with the (obviously) kinder of my classmates - "that is assuming she knows how to sew" followed by "you mean you think she even knows what a needle is?"
As the class progresses day by day - did I mention this was a DAILY class? - so too does my manner of dress, my ease with needle and thread (in the dream I did not, in fact, know how to sew - entirely unlike my waking self), the fluency of my pen (fountain pens ONLY were allowed in the classroom), and the haughtiness of my person. By this point in the dream I am, I suspect, the snob that many of my brief acquaintance consider me.
Then, it gets worse. There is to be, I am informed, a formal event, in which each of the local schools participates, and during which the utmost of social graces is to be demonstrated at all times. All of the women from each of the schools are to travel together, "as if on a guided tour of some romantic European country" and there are penalties for those schools whose girls do not conform to the etiquette outlined in the invitation. We are, as a class, informed that it is a enormous compliment to be invited to this event, and that this is the first time in over 100 years that our school has even been considered for inclusion. The entire rest of the course is dedicated to ensuring that every woman in the course is armed with the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect manners, the perfect face and hair... the perfect everything.
We are ready - as a class we consider ourselves unbeatable - mind you, none of us has any idea what the "competetion" element of this event actually is. When we arrive the manor house - yes, that is where it's being held - is gorgous, decked out in all the decor one could imagine, replete with footmen, doorment, butlers, maids, the whole army of servants. There is no seating chart, there are no placards anywhere, there is, in short, nothing to tell us which of the various and sumptuous seating arrangements is meant for each group, and our teacher has mysteriously disappeared.
I try encouraging our group to join me "up front" at a table where there are plush chairs and several surrounding tables, all populated with girls who were obviously together as classes, but half of the group believe that we don't have the seniority to sit so close to the front. They want, instead, to take a smaller seating arrangement - a collection of loveseats and arm chairs - further back in manor - not even in the room where the events are taking place. However, there aren't enough places for all of our group to sit gracefully in that area, so I convince them to come back up to the front with me. When we get there, other girls, from another school are seated in many of the chairs at the table, but there is still enough room for each of us. The nay-sayers, seeing that there are others at the table, say that it is obviously NOT where we are meant to sit, and return to the back of the room. The rest of us (including the one upper classman who took me under her wing) take the seats at the table and wait for the evening to begin.
A sumptuous meal is served, and while I enjoy every moment of it (including knowing which fork to use, and how to write the perfect thank you letter for such an enjoyable evening), but can't help but wonder how my classmates at the rear are managing such a meal with no tables.
The entertainment portion of the evening - a lecture on something demure - passes much to the delight of all the ladies in the room - and again I wonder how the ladies at the back can even hear what's being said. Finally, just as the "awards" (again, for what, I have no idea) are about to be delivered, I rise to check on my classmates at the back of the house. They are nowhere to be seen, and I can only assume that they've already been spirited away to a holding pen to accept their award, and I return to the table terrified that we will be found out and chastised for separating as a group.
Then there's an award for most improved, and a photo of me, as I appeard at class that first day, is shown on a screen at the front of the dining area. I can hear gasps all around me, and I can only wish that the floor would swallow me whole. At the podium - at the front of the room - are the girls who were with me at the table, and re-dressed in maids' uniforms are the girls who sat at the back. There is a short speech about how I had changed, and not only into a lady, but a lady who knew where I should be seated, and what company with which I now fit, and blah blah blah... and they called me up to accept the award.
That's when I woke up.
I was in college again, but this time college happened like high school - complete with lockers. On the door inside my locker - as in all of my high school dreams - is a copy of my schedule.
I learned a long time ago that by forcing my dream to have a copy of my schedule, I won't have one of those horrible nightmares where I don't know where I'm supposed to be until it's too late and then I get there as everyone is leaving... this is as lucid as my dreaming gets, mind you.
At any rate, my schedule seems to be a bit like "college lite" as one of my classes is a "Social Correspondence" studio... it's part of my Women's Studies requirements... required of all women... yeah - crazy "college lite." Yes, I too would expect it to be a lecture, but no... it's a studio course. Having been, in real life, an art major (dual with English Lit) (and a minor in dramatic arts), I know that when one attends a studio course, one dresses casually, as they last for hours - typcially 3 - and are often labor intensive.
A lot I know... at least in dream land.
It's more like, when you attend a stuido course, you dress appropriately for the studio. When I finally made it to the classroom - after having been directed no less than three times down increasingly beautiful marble halls - I find that I alone am the only woman clad in comfortable clothes. Everyone else has arrived - ON THE FIRST DAY - with briefcases full of beautiful linen and engraved stationery, dressed in their "Sunday Casual" best dresses (though a few are even wearing short white gloves) and not a soul is there without discrete pumps, and every head is covered.
*I* - on the other hand - am wearing a pair of red thermal underpants under a pair of red and white boxers, and topped with a huge white polo shirt bearing the name of "Chip", in red, across the left breast. I am wearing pink ballet slippers and no hat. This was my all-time favorite outfit in real-life college, and thus makes sense that I would wear it in my dream-land.
Needless to say, I'm miserable, and expecting the BEAUTIFUL woman who is teaching the class to send me back to my room to collect something suitable to wear (not that I have anything suitable to wear back at my room). She doesn't, however, and I notice the extreme grace with which each and every other student in the room ACTIVELY ignores my inappropriate dress. I am even more miserable.
After class, I'm instructed by one of the upper classwomen that if I arrive like that ever again, I will be publicly shamed before being kicked out of the class (a required course) without another chance of entrance. Noting my obvious chagrin, and guessing at my utterly deficient wardrobe, she takes me under her wing, and - get this - organizes a "second-hand-drive" among all the girls in the school to get me some decent clothing. Before I know it, I'm burdened by more of "last year's styles" than I ever thought could be designed, and advised by one or two of the less affluent students of how to make modifications to them in order to bring them "up to standard."
I hear, as I'm walking away with the (obviously) kinder of my classmates - "that is assuming she knows how to sew" followed by "you mean you think she even knows what a needle is?"
As the class progresses day by day - did I mention this was a DAILY class? - so too does my manner of dress, my ease with needle and thread (in the dream I did not, in fact, know how to sew - entirely unlike my waking self), the fluency of my pen (fountain pens ONLY were allowed in the classroom), and the haughtiness of my person. By this point in the dream I am, I suspect, the snob that many of my brief acquaintance consider me.
Then, it gets worse. There is to be, I am informed, a formal event, in which each of the local schools participates, and during which the utmost of social graces is to be demonstrated at all times. All of the women from each of the schools are to travel together, "as if on a guided tour of some romantic European country" and there are penalties for those schools whose girls do not conform to the etiquette outlined in the invitation. We are, as a class, informed that it is a enormous compliment to be invited to this event, and that this is the first time in over 100 years that our school has even been considered for inclusion. The entire rest of the course is dedicated to ensuring that every woman in the course is armed with the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect manners, the perfect face and hair... the perfect everything.
We are ready - as a class we consider ourselves unbeatable - mind you, none of us has any idea what the "competetion" element of this event actually is. When we arrive the manor house - yes, that is where it's being held - is gorgous, decked out in all the decor one could imagine, replete with footmen, doorment, butlers, maids, the whole army of servants. There is no seating chart, there are no placards anywhere, there is, in short, nothing to tell us which of the various and sumptuous seating arrangements is meant for each group, and our teacher has mysteriously disappeared.
I try encouraging our group to join me "up front" at a table where there are plush chairs and several surrounding tables, all populated with girls who were obviously together as classes, but half of the group believe that we don't have the seniority to sit so close to the front. They want, instead, to take a smaller seating arrangement - a collection of loveseats and arm chairs - further back in manor - not even in the room where the events are taking place. However, there aren't enough places for all of our group to sit gracefully in that area, so I convince them to come back up to the front with me. When we get there, other girls, from another school are seated in many of the chairs at the table, but there is still enough room for each of us. The nay-sayers, seeing that there are others at the table, say that it is obviously NOT where we are meant to sit, and return to the back of the room. The rest of us (including the one upper classman who took me under her wing) take the seats at the table and wait for the evening to begin.
A sumptuous meal is served, and while I enjoy every moment of it (including knowing which fork to use, and how to write the perfect thank you letter for such an enjoyable evening), but can't help but wonder how my classmates at the rear are managing such a meal with no tables.
The entertainment portion of the evening - a lecture on something demure - passes much to the delight of all the ladies in the room - and again I wonder how the ladies at the back can even hear what's being said. Finally, just as the "awards" (again, for what, I have no idea) are about to be delivered, I rise to check on my classmates at the back of the house. They are nowhere to be seen, and I can only assume that they've already been spirited away to a holding pen to accept their award, and I return to the table terrified that we will be found out and chastised for separating as a group.
Then there's an award for most improved, and a photo of me, as I appeard at class that first day, is shown on a screen at the front of the dining area. I can hear gasps all around me, and I can only wish that the floor would swallow me whole. At the podium - at the front of the room - are the girls who were with me at the table, and re-dressed in maids' uniforms are the girls who sat at the back. There is a short speech about how I had changed, and not only into a lady, but a lady who knew where I should be seated, and what company with which I now fit, and blah blah blah... and they called me up to accept the award.
That's when I woke up.
07 April 2005
Already a note...
Ok - so this book(A Round Heeled Woman) is great. And amazing. And risque. And funny... I could go on.
Amazing in that I can't believe my mom read it, and then recommended it to me! It has naughty words, adult situations, and an sparkling sense of humor regarding sexuality. At the same time, it's very touching... not so much because of the subject matter but because it's the candid story of a real woman who is funny, and brave, and vulnerable, and seemingly pretty wonderful.
Today I read this bit, and I knew I had to include it here:
It's no real secret that in my pre-mother years I used to "live the life." I am no stranger to a good bottle of wine, or a night of drunken world walking nor enjoying an impromptu conversation with the guy at the end of the bar. This book speaks to me, at least so far, and I cannot wait to talk back!
Amazing in that I can't believe my mom read it, and then recommended it to me! It has naughty words, adult situations, and an sparkling sense of humor regarding sexuality. At the same time, it's very touching... not so much because of the subject matter but because it's the candid story of a real woman who is funny, and brave, and vulnerable, and seemingly pretty wonderful.
Today I read this bit, and I knew I had to include it here:
Everybody should walk the world drunk. Or in love. Or both.
People smiled. People were pretty, they moved sweetly, spoke softly, and
no one seemed to mind when I drifted from one side of the sidewalk to the other.
It's no real secret that in my pre-mother years I used to "live the life." I am no stranger to a good bottle of wine, or a night of drunken world walking nor enjoying an impromptu conversation with the guy at the end of the bar. This book speaks to me, at least so far, and I cannot wait to talk back!
P.S.
It's Thursday, it's Thursday, tra la la la la la...
It's been one of those crazy weeks.
Monday - giddy and happy to be working
Tuesday - knee-deep in making things happen
Wednesday - crazy busy and wondering where Tuesday went
Today - giddy with the thought that tomorrow is Friday!
Wonder what tomorrow's mood will be!
It's been one of those crazy weeks.
Monday - giddy and happy to be working
Tuesday - knee-deep in making things happen
Wednesday - crazy busy and wondering where Tuesday went
Today - giddy with the thought that tomorrow is Friday!
Wonder what tomorrow's mood will be!
DONE
That's it.
I'm done with the sailor. I'm done with the sea. I'm done with the rotten little 13 year old brats.
This is definitely one of those times when I should have trusted my instincts and put the darned book down before I wasted any more time on it. Ugh.
Don't want to spoil the ending for anyone even remotely inclined to read the book, but the ending sort of spoils itself.
Grrrr.
Next up: A Round Heeled Woman
I'm done with the sailor. I'm done with the sea. I'm done with the rotten little 13 year old brats.
This is definitely one of those times when I should have trusted my instincts and put the darned book down before I wasted any more time on it. Ugh.
Don't want to spoil the ending for anyone even remotely inclined to read the book, but the ending sort of spoils itself.
Grrrr.
Next up: A Round Heeled Woman
05 April 2005
More from ...The Sea
Ok. I'm pleased to anounce that now that I've gotten in over my knees, The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with The Sea isn't all that bad.
I'm almost done with it and have finally come to have at least a peripheral interest in the characters.
This is not at all how I usually read a book.
Typically, I can (and do) associate deeply with at least one character, actually giving a damn about what decisions they make and whether or not they follow through on them. With this book, I am very much the spectator, watching these known-strangers move through their motives with about the same interest I begrudgingly afford a police officer issuing a speeding citation on my way from work to home.
I'll be glad to be done with it - probably tomorrow - and to wash my hands of this sea.
I'm almost done with it and have finally come to have at least a peripheral interest in the characters.
This is not at all how I usually read a book.
Typically, I can (and do) associate deeply with at least one character, actually giving a damn about what decisions they make and whether or not they follow through on them. With this book, I am very much the spectator, watching these known-strangers move through their motives with about the same interest I begrudgingly afford a police officer issuing a speeding citation on my way from work to home.
I'll be glad to be done with it - probably tomorrow - and to wash my hands of this sea.
Touched
The craziest things "touch" me these days.
On my drive in I noticed a truck hauling a potentially dangerous load of steel rods and pipes of varying diameters and immediately thought, "one slip and we could lose ourselves forever." Then I noticed how carefully the operator of that truck was driving and I was moved by his caution.
Once here, I remembered that there were some things I wanted to look up on the net... home remedy things... and I thought, "how wonderful that I live in an age when I can research home remedies that maybe my home would never have known of if it weren't for the diversity of culture, history, and ideas available to me on the internet."
<>
On my drive in I noticed a truck hauling a potentially dangerous load of steel rods and pipes of varying diameters and immediately thought, "one slip and we could lose ourselves forever." Then I noticed how carefully the operator of that truck was driving and I was moved by his caution.
Once here, I remembered that there were some things I wanted to look up on the net... home remedy things... and I thought, "how wonderful that I live in an age when I can research home remedies that maybe my home would never have known of if it weren't for the diversity of culture, history, and ideas available to me on the internet."
<
04 April 2005
Blue (sky) Monday
Unlike many, I rather like Mondays.
It's the one day at work that I'm guaranteed to have lots to do, and often on Monday, by the time I look up for the first time, it's at least time for a lunch break.
Today is extra-special fun, as my first task is a project for my manager's manager.
I'm waiting for feedback right now, so I'm not exactly slacking.
It's also an extra special day because I got a love letter from my husband in my e-mail box at work.
As far as I'm concerned, that's a great way to start a pretty awesome day.
Add to all of this that the sky is disarmingly blue and the weather-folk mentioned something about temps in the 60's and I usually get home well before the afternoon has worn completely into evening, and
yippie-yah
what a great day for me!
It's the one day at work that I'm guaranteed to have lots to do, and often on Monday, by the time I look up for the first time, it's at least time for a lunch break.
Today is extra-special fun, as my first task is a project for my manager's manager.
I'm waiting for feedback right now, so I'm not exactly slacking.
It's also an extra special day because I got a love letter from my husband in my e-mail box at work.
As far as I'm concerned, that's a great way to start a pretty awesome day.
Add to all of this that the sky is disarmingly blue and the weather-folk mentioned something about temps in the 60's and I usually get home well before the afternoon has worn completely into evening, and
yippie-yah
what a great day for me!
01 April 2005
Floundering
I'm trying - desperately trying - to make my way through The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea. It's not like me to struggle through a book, but this one is particularly beating me up... especially considering my mom told me it was a quick, if unfulfilling, read.
What do I do instead?
Mostly knit-whittling. It's the only word I have for it... I'm like an old man with a piece of wood and a pocket knife, only for me it's two sticks and a piece of string... put them in my hands and I can sit happily and quietly for hours.
I have already been wondering how to teach my 11 month old how to knit, because of this. One CAN hope...
Somtimes I cook / bake.
Sometimes I even go so far as to clean house, just to avoid reading this book.
And no, I can't even CONSIDER just putting it back and not finishing it... that's admitting defeat, to a book... and a book considered by many to be a classic no less.
I knew I should have started in on Moby Dick instead...
What do I do instead?
Mostly knit-whittling. It's the only word I have for it... I'm like an old man with a piece of wood and a pocket knife, only for me it's two sticks and a piece of string... put them in my hands and I can sit happily and quietly for hours.
I have already been wondering how to teach my 11 month old how to knit, because of this. One CAN hope...
Somtimes I cook / bake.
Sometimes I even go so far as to clean house, just to avoid reading this book.
And no, I can't even CONSIDER just putting it back and not finishing it... that's admitting defeat, to a book... and a book considered by many to be a classic no less.
I knew I should have started in on Moby Dick instead...
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