purposeful purposelessness

I'm at work. Yes, I'm on vacation this week. Don't worry; I'm not working. I'm just using the Internet access.

I stopped by today to take a co-worker out to lunch. She's the only editor on my magazine working this week. If it were me, I'd be close to certifiable. It's so quite in the office. Almost everyone's gone.

And one of my plants is about to wilt into non-life. Sigh. I give it another spritz with water before I go.

All this time away from work has been disorienting for me. Life without a computer. (I have 150 work-related e-mails wating for me.) Life without an inbox. Life without deadlines. It almost feels like a life without purpose. And I'm okay with having a purposeless life for another four days.

a day with mom

I'm at home today, my parents' home, spending the day helping my mom go through her closet. She's run off to the store, leaving me to type. Chester, the big grey cat, is sleeping in my lap with his cold wet nose pressed against my forearm, making typing a bit of an ordeal.

My mom has been on this organization kick, which means that every time I visit this feels less like home. The silverware is kept in an entirely different drawer, and my bedroom is no longer even mine. I know that I've only spent about seven-months' worth of time in this house in the last five years, but I'm not quite ready to let that idea of "home" go.

My right foot is about to fall asleep. It has that cold tingle. But to move it would disturb the cat. I'm going to chance it. Darn. The cat's now up and sitting in front of the monitor. Ah well.

warmth in a cold front

My ex-roomie came into town for the holidays, and she brought her cold Minneapolis weather with her. But she's leaving today, and warmer weather will return.

That's not to say her visit wasn't pleasant. I got to spend a lovely day with her and her nephew. I miss her spunk and her ability to talk me into doing wild and crazy things.

gmail, gmail, get your gmail here

The friendly folks at Google saw fit to give me a handful of invites for Gmail accounts. Let me know if you're interested.

scratches and markings

I'm in that lull of editing. I just ran my pen through an article. My scribbled writing, corrections, and notations fill the pages with color. It looks so scattered. Next, I begin typing all of that seeming nonsense. I’m always amazed what my crazy thoughts look like when transferred to the computer. Somehow a thoughtful, complete, organized story emerges. It’s just the coolest thing—or maybe I’m just high off of the ink fumes.

news bites

Book Update: Author JK Rowling has said that the next Harry Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince will be published on 16 July next year. (Source: BBC News)
COMMENTARY: It's about freakin' time!

Web poll: What factor more often leads to getting ahead at a company? 44% said "connections"—in other words, family ties and other close relationships. (Source: Inc. Magazine)
COMMENTARY: Duh.

Single's Ad: SINGLE BLACK FEMALE seeks male companionship, ethnicity unimportant. I'm a very good looking girl who LOVES to play. I love long walks in the woods, riding in your pickup truck, hunting, camping and fishing trips,cozy winter nights lying by the fire. Candlelight dinners will have me eating out of your hand. I'll be at the front door when you get home from work, wearing only what nature gave me. Call (404) 875-6420 and ask for Daisy, I'll be waiting... (Source: The Alanta Journal)
COMMENTARY: Apparently, more than 15,000 men found themselves talking to the Atlanta Humane Society about an 8-week-old black Labrador retriever.

a life well-lived

a life
well-lived
is a
beautiful thing

One of my dearest friends sent me a card with these words when my grandfather passed away.

They seem right, now, too. My favorite writer, contributor, advisory board member, and thought igniter passed away over the weekend. His struggle is over. His lessons will guide my path for years to come.

Thanks, Don, for sharing your wisdom.

challenging myself

Yesterday I told my boss that I didn't feel like much of an editor anymore. So little of what I do seems to involve editing lately and even less is the intensive, down-and-dirty editing that I love.

Her answer: It only gets worse.

Yes, yes, I know this, but that's not my point. My problem isn't that I have lots of clerical, filing, and organizational work. It's that I don't feel like an editor; I feel like a glorified office assistant, and that's boring. I want to feel inspired. I want to feel connected. I want to feel something other than boredom. I want an editorial challenge.

I want to be happy at work.
I want to be happy away from work.

I want to go out for drinks with my co-workers this evening and not spend two hours bitching about work. I want to laugh over funny stories and debate the silly and pointless.

I want to be open to life. I hide; I know it. I like the safety of the old. The new may be better, but the old is safe. I keep safe; I avoid new.

my early christmas present

It was waiting for me in my chair at work this morning—a signed copy of one of my co-worker's new book, A Murder of Taste.

To my favorite all-time reviewer!
Happy Holidays—Sally

It seems she found the review I gave of her book on a Web site for her last book. A Murder of Taste is her second Queen Bees Quilt Mystery. The first, Murders on Elderberry Road, provided me with the homey feel of Lawrence, Kan., during a slightly homesick day in Singapore.

I loved that book, and I'm itching to read this one. (Yes, Jack, I'll finish the Fortress in the Eye of Time first.)



A Murder of Taste
A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery
by Sally Goldenbaum
Kansas City Star Books, 2004

It had to be resolved, to stop before it started. Right now. Tonight. Or a whole, careful life would be ruined, snuffed out in a single second. Everything lost. And for what? A whim, a faulty anger. A foolish indiscretion?

(I plugged her son's album release on my blog, I thought it only appropriate to give the same attention to her book.)

back to work

I had to climb my way to my chair this morning. My little cubicle was filled with boxes from UPS, USPS, FedEx, and more. What could they all be? Early Christmas presents? Not quite. They were 15 new entries for a design competition that I manage as part of my "assistant" editor duties. I hope to have as that many again greet me by the end of the week.

So needless to say, I got little done today that would qualify as editing. But there's always tomorrow.

I had a nice long vacation, a nice long time to have a lingering cold. Harrumph. Even with my little sniffles, I was able to enjoy some good family time. Every year I'm amazed at how every one has grown (in maturity—height would be asking too much), how much older my cousins are (the youngest can't be in college, that blows my mind), and how much we miss throughout the year.

My cousin's wife (who I absolutely adore) graduated from college this last year with a degree in education. My cousin had been working as a youth pastor and music director (and had another job that paid money). They decided to pull up the stakes, sell their home, and move to southern Oklahoma. Now they devote there time to caring for up to 10 Native American teenage girls attending school. My cousin-in-law's sister and her husband are in the same complex watching over the boys.
I can't imagine.

One of my aunt's brought a small loom to work on her weaving, and I'm reminded of my desire to make. Be it by loom or needle or ink or some other instrument, I want to create.

cleaning for the holidays

For one week I'll be gone from this little cubicle, gone from my work, gone from my computer.

The good: I have five days of freedom before traveling to see family for Thanksgiving. The hard: I have just five days to expel every curse word from my vocabulary and wipe all impure, unclean thoughts from my mind. One mustn't let the family know when one's lost sight of the straight and narrow. Five days should be enough time to find that dang path, right?

damnit don

Yesterday, I sent an e-mail to Roger, a long-time advisory board member. This morning, I received a reply. That began off topic:

Side note: I spoke to Don --- last night. He said that as long as there was Spring I would make it if I continued writing. I think that is one of the greatest compliments a person can receive and wanted you to know that I feel the same way. As you know Don has been my friend for many years and the one who has ‘pushed’ me to write for ----- more than anyone. AND for him to hold you at that level of esteem warms my heart.

So my eyes are getting a bit blurry at this point. And my vision worsens as I try to write a response. Then my boss comes out of a meeting and forwards me a message she'd received from Roger. It ended like this:

We discussed the back page. I told him I would think about it if we couldn’t find someone who had a more ‘refined’ sense of sarcasm than I do—he liked that. He suggested we have Spring ghost write the back page—I thought you might pass that on to Spring—What a compliment.

On to the full waterworks.

I'm deeply touched. As an editor my job is to be invisible to the reader. It sometimes makes me feel small. And Don is one of the famous elite in the veterinary profession. He's their practice management guru. For me to have even hit his radar—I'm profoundly touched.

My boss said that they've had to put folding chairs in Don's room for all the people coming to visit him. He says that he's been able to get more done in a week than he had been able to in 30 years. Nobody disagrees with a dying man. That's so Don. Refusing treatment, but continuing do as much work and living as he can possibly fit in.

I'm honored, and I'm sad.

quarter century

It's my roomie's quarter century birthday on the 18th. To celebrate, we'll be gathering at the Fiorella's Jack Stack by lizalou42's home. But don't come on Thursday, we won't be there. But we will at 7 p.m. on Saturday. Afterward, I believe there will be merry making of some kind (and, I hope, a merry Mary).

Cheers!

crush

I'm an editor. I edit lots of different writers. I play favorites. My favorite is Don, a 70-something management consultant, who's contributed to our magazine for longer than any of us can remember and been a treasured member of our advisory B\board for almost as long. He's humorous, he's funny, and he's old enough to get to say whatever he likes in his back page columns. And I get the pleasure of editing them. It's my favorite edit of the month. I get to play up his sarcasm and his loving admonishments. And when I send him his edited article for approval, he always calls me within the hour. He tells me that, when he reads his column, he laughs. "A writer really shouldn't laugh at their own stuff. You did a great job with this," he'll tell me. He always gives me too much credit. But it feels good to know that he appreciate the care I give his writings. I really do little. Mostly, I allow Don's personality to shine through wherever possible. It's my favorite call of the month.

But this month it was different. I didn't get a call the day I sent him his column for review. The next day, I wasn't at work when Don called. He left his comments and changes with my boss. Last week I sent him an approval for another department I was working on. He called. He said it looked good. He coughed and said he thought he had the flu. It wasn't the flu. My boss told me today that when Don went to the doctor yesterday, he was diagnosed with a rapidly progressing form of leukemia. The doctors said he'd be lucky to make it to the end of the year. The doctors said and my heart hurts.

I've broken probably every one of our copyright rules, but here's his July column.

Listen to the best or fail with the rest
In the 40 years I’ve observed and worked with this profession, there hasn’t been much improvement. And I look back with a certain regret. There was a time when I thought I could do more for the profession than I have.

Sure, some of you make a very good living and enjoy a fulfilling personal life. And although it’s somewhat comforting to know that I’ve helped a few, as a whole I think veterinarians and their teams are still grossly underpaid. Perhaps I was naïve to think I could help you all earn more money and enjoy a better life.

In the past, I’ve tried to encourage you gently, avoiding any hint of sarcasm. However, this approach hasn’t worked as well as I hoped. Because of the urgency of my task and my limited time remaining, I’ve decided to take a new tack. So enough kind, gentle, political correctness. Let’s talk about the real cause behind the dismal state of this profession’s economics.

You were taught to fail
Both success and failure are learned behaviors. Successful veterinarians were taught to be financially successful. Underpaid practitioners were taught to fail. It’s as simple as that.

For example, some mentors taught that clients don’t want or won’t pay for topnotch care. They used statements like, “This is good to know, but of course you won’t use it much in practice,” or one of my favorites, “When you’re new in practice, you’ll probably do more diagnostic testing than is really necessary, but you’ll eventually acquire the experience you need to do fewer, more-specific tests, saving the clients money.” What a crock.

However, before you blame your teachers and mentors, you need to acknowledge your involvement in the process. When you were told, “You’ll never get rich practicing veterinary medicine,” did you ask why? If you did, did you challenge the answer you received? Did you point out that some veterinarians do succeed financially?

Now learn to win
I’m not suggesting that you question authority, but I am strongly suggesting that you question those who claim to be authorities, especially if they have nothing positive to say about a situation. The fact that someone’s done something wrong for more years than you have doesn’t make his or her strategy right.

You learn to win from winners and you learn to whine from whiners. So choose teachers and mentors who provide positive guidance and thoughtful answers when you challenge them.

The hard truth: Your current career and life are the result of your past choices. You based those choices on information you received from teachers and mentors. So the first and most-important choices you made were who and what to believe.

Here’s my advice: When an instructor talks about practice, as kindly and gently as possible inquire about his or her success in practice. Learn medicine from people who teach medicine and learn to practice from successful practitioners. Question authorities, especially self-proclaimed experts—even me. And in the future, please pay attention. I don’t have that many more years to nag you, and I might not always be so gentle.

what the frell?

So Moore trouncing Kovach like the little overly conservative bug he is was nice. But the rest of this picture is looking pretty darn gloomy to me. More Bush to suffer through. And 11 states passed constitutional amendments to ban gay marriage (some even went so far as to ban same-sex civil unions and lay the foundation to prevent same-sex partners from receiving healthcare benefits—and that's just gay hate). Why don't they understand this isn't the solution? I'm sorry, but marriage is a religious institution that we've dressed up in the clothes of legality—the same way we've done with almost every moral issue. On the news this morning, they said that the biggest concern for voters was moral values (22 percent). And of that group, two-thirds voted for Bush. No surprise, I guess. But my point is that this election wasn't won because we're in the middle of the war. This election wasn't won by the candidate based on his strong economic record. This election was won by the man who was protecting moral values.

Moral values. What does that mean? It seems to mean anti-gay and anti-abortion. Now, I'm not going to touch the rightness or the wrongness of either of these issues, my point is that Kerry is being judged as immoral just because he's not fighting the conservative Christian cause to protect the sanctity of marriage and the unborn in government. And the passage of those 11 constitutional amendments show just how afraid we are. I grew up believing in a country that my mother explained was created by men of strong faith (read: Christian faith) who didn't want separation between church and state. I saw no divide between the moral, ethical, and legal.

Preventing same-sex partners isn't going to protect the sanctity of marriage. Straight couples are already running it into the ground on their own. The issue is simply a smokescreen. It takes our focus away from the true issues that degrade the value of marriage in this country, and, more important, it gives politicians an avenue of diversion away from the present issues. Why discuss the messy, harsh realities of a draw-out war, crumbling social security, patchy healthcare coverage, and failing schools when there are such polarizing, cut-and-dry issues as gay marriage and abortion?

I have no close to this rant, just simply frustration to end on.

Ugh.

reason no. 472 to quit my job

Time to fill out your self-evaluation. Remember, if you don't answer these asinine questions and sign your name in blood, you won't get your crappy 2 percent raise.

1. List significant goals and achievements that you accomplished in 2004.

I finally found the guts to apply for a new job

2. Describe the behaviors you have exhibited in establishing, reaching, and exceeding business goals and making a positive contribution to the success of your department and the company. How can you improve next year?

I'm doing all that I can do, but that will never be enough, and I'll never be rewarded or recognized for my efforts.

3. Describe your success in establishing positive relationships with customers and anticipating, meeting, and exceeding their needs and expectations? Customers may either be internal or external.

They love me! The advisory board members and authors I work with rave about me. And I answer every single reader question that comes into this place no matter how inane.

4. Describe the techniques that you use to stay positive and "solutions" oriented. If you have a tendency to focus more on “the problem” without taking ownership for the outcome, what can you do to improve?

This is most definitely a trick question. My answer will either confirm my incompetence or that I'm a liar.

5. What are your strengths and weaknesses in terms of communication, adaptability, flexibility, time management, and technical business skills?

My boss thinks I'm a fuckup. What more do you need?

6. What positive or negative attributes do you exhibit in taking responsibility for continuous improvement, admitting and resolving mistakes, and honoring commitments? What could you do differently?

So far, my only response has looked like a big fat turd.

7. Suggest two 2004 business related or professional developmental goals for yourself that would either enhance your business knowledge/skills or directly contribute to the success of your department or the company.

A raise would do wonders and maybe a little appreciation. I'd be a much better worker with them.

8. Add any additional information that may be beneficial to your manager in completing your 2004 performance appraisal.

Ugh.

i demand a recount

I lost the Halloween costume contest at work. Apparently my handmade winged ensemble, though comparable to the Victory of Samothrace, cannot compete with a dog wearing a crown and a king's robe.

For reference, here's Victory of Samothrace and my competition

vs.

And of course, at my work, the dog took home the crown.

We also had a pumpkin carving competition.
It was a close race between

and .

But in the end, Kerry took it. (Don't hate me; I voted for Bush on this one. Don't worry, it won't happen again!)

A small, personal victory: I applied for a job. Not that I'll get it. Not that things won't work out here. But I did it. I gave myself an option.

crystal ball

I finally stepped outside of my petty problems. I immersed myself in my roommate's sister's wedding (with a little cookie baking on the side).

I've been trying to force my future. I've been trying to predict what lies ahead.

And as I watched two loving parents walk their young daughter down the aisle, I was reminded of how uncertain the future remains. Will they make it? Will they beat the odds against them? I hope so.

Then, this morning, my lizzy lou sent me a picture that brought my thoughts together nicely.

If you believe that your destiny is decided, then most likely, it's decided. If you believe that nothing is decided, then most likely, nothing is decided. —Yoko, xxxHolic

blindness for sore eyes

Heavy. The load feels heavy. The world feels heavy.
The big events crush me.
The many little ones cripple me.
What gets me by is holding on to the random little nothings.
They're slipping through my fingers.
My grasp is weak.
My spirit is tired.
I'm begging for the world to stop, for time to halt, just for a moment, just so I can get my bearings.

And I feel so petty.
My worries are so small, so insignificant.
And yet there is little more substantive in my life, so my little worries cast enveloping shadows.
My world is small. My thoughts revolve around me. Selfish.
I worry. I sabotage my efforts. I sabotage others efforts to help me.

All this to say, I'm a little down today as I was yesterday as I probably will be tomorrow.

american tv

Text message from a friend:

Oh my god. They r showin the fifth wheel on national tv. Never thought I would see tt show again after leavin us. – mayb I will have hope for tradin spaces.

The Fifth Wheel? Good grief, that crap couldn’t get a legitimate time spot on a network in the United States and that’s the show the suits who control Singaporean TV chose to bring over. Sigh.

mock debate

ring, ring
KERRY: (picks up phone) This is John.
BUSH: Hiya there, Johnny, how ya doin'?
KERRY: Fine, thank you. I hope you and Laura are well.
BUSH: Just dandy, thanks. Hey, look, about this debate thing tomorrow…
KERRY: I thought our people had worked out all of those details already.
BUSH: Well, yeah, they have. It's just, um, whadda planning on wearing?
KERRY: Excuse me?
BUSH: It's just I can't decide. I've been staring into my closet, and I just can't seem to make up my mind. Everything just goes kinda blurry like, ya know?
KERRY: Actually, no, I don't believe I'm following you. (pause) Have you asked Laura or your daughters help?
BUSH: Naw, the gals are out shoppin' and stuff.
KERRY: Alright, maybe we can help each other out on this. We'll both wear black suits and white shirts. Now, as for the ties, my aids say metallic colors are in style, but I did want to wear one and it clash with yours. I have both a red one and a blue one. I was going to wear the red tie and then if you showed up wearing a red tie, I would change mine to the blue. Instead, I'll send the blue one to you.
BUSH: Well that's mighty kind of you, Johnny, but I was hankerin' to wear a red tie. The red tie is a bit stronger and authoritative and stuff.
KERRY: Well, how about if after this debate we trade, and I'll wear the blue tie next week. And we can even wear those little American flag pins on our left lapels.
BUSH: Geez. That sounds peachy, Johnny. And, no offense, but this is the debate that I least need the red tie. I'm my best and strongest when it comes to this international stuff. Like, I was just talkin' wid Putin earlier today—he's such a good guy that Putin. I'll get him to come around one day.
KERRY: Right, good to know. Look, if there's nothing else—
BUSH: Naw, nothin' else, 'cept what shoes you plannin' on wearin'?

what day is today?

It's Saturday.
But where am I? At work.
Yes, I know, I'm doing too much.
But I must finish this article. It has too much potential for me to just let it lay in mediocrity.

breaking the mood

"How can you live with such a tiny purse?" a co-worker, asked as she held up my new little pink purse, which, for the record, is larger than what I was previously using.
As she held it my cell phone began to ring. I cringed. I’d left it on loud, and we have almost a dozen outside visitors in the office today. Not the professional atmosphere that we try to fake when we have guests.
I grabbed the purse, and pressed the silent button on the phone.

It’s 9:30 a.m., who'd be calling my cell?
I didn't recognize the number; had telemarketers finally found me?
"Hello?" I whispered.
"Hello, this is officer so-and-so," said the voice from the unknown line.

Officer? What had happened? Had my car been stolen? Had I done something wrong? I may have technically run a red light on the way to work, no, that couldn't be it …
"Your apartment manager contacted me," he continued. My apartment manager? What’s going on? Then slowly it dawned on me.
I called my apartment manager this morning to let her know that there was a substantial amount of broken glass from beer bottles in our parking lot (substantial as in the parking lot was covered in glass).
At 2 a.m. I woke to the loud crash of breaking glass. I jumped out of bed and peeked through my blinds. The cars in the parking lot looked unharmed. I didn't see any signs of tampering. My car was fine.

Since I was wide awake, I went to the balcony off of the living room for a better view. Again, I didn't see any one in the parking lot, but I did see a large group of people on the balcony of the complex next to mine.
I’ve watched the boys that live in that apartment. In that fancy "we have garages and pay lots in rent" complex, I usually only see people leaving or returning in their cars. But these boys are about the only ones who I’ve really ever seen in their apartment. They keep the balcony shades fully open and are often on the balcony. Some one's always there.

All that to say, I wasn't surprised by the mass of people. One of the guys must have thrown down a bottle, I assume, and went back to bed.

According to officer so-and-so, the rear car window of the couple that lives above me was shattered. Yikes. I told him what I knew. In my mind I saw the clear trajectory of a dark beer bottle flying from the balcony across the parking lot and heard the loud shattering of glass.

Funny that the trouble came from the swank apartment complex and not mine. There’s that perception that the nicer the complex is, the safer it is. Bullshit. You only pay more money.

well, well, well

I am back at work.
I am back to life.
I am back to me.
I am well!!!!

My horrible sickness has almost left my ears, nose, and throat.
(We’ll see if we can encourage it's full exit today.)

To those of you who've had to put up with the complaining, picky little snot that I was last week, thanks.
I had an ass-spankin' good weekend, mostly thanks to lizzylou and co. thanks for playing host over the weekend. Oreos, milk, 12 kingdoms, and you girls make for a great Friday night.

Okay, this is the big week.
I’m going to have to talk with my boss this week about the future.
I’m going to finish my resume and portfolio.
I’m going to search for "associate editor wanted" lines.
I’m going to kick butt at work.

hair pulling frustration

so i have this job that i've been doing for a while.
and the girl in the position just above mine won't be returning after her maternity leave ends next week.
and i want this teeny little thing called a promotion.
and i think my boss was beginning to come round to the idea that i was ready.
that i was capable. that this could work.
then i found out two other more experienced editors may be vying for the same job.
don't they know this is my job?
and then i got this edit back.
too much red.
not good.
and i'm in a rut on my news blurbs.
and ugh.
i reeeaaaalllly want this.
my fear is that if my boss hires someone else, then my chances of being promoted on this mag are zero until someone leaves again.
then my only option would be to try for a job in another department or at another company.

ugh. ugh. ugh.

news bites

A scientific study of 12 men and 12 women who fell in love (we never knew that science was involved), found that the men had lower than normal levels—and the women had higher levels—of testosterone. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: See, women really do love girlie men.

A recent report from Express Scripts, which runs pharmacy programs for managed care companies, says that antidepressant use among 2 million patients under age 18 went from 1.6% in 1998 to 2.4% in 2002—and that the rate of increase in antidepressants was highest among kids under five. That’s f-i-v-e. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: My 5 year old is smarter than your 5 year old. Oh yeah? Well my 5 year old can beat up your 5 year old.

Following the trail …
Christopher Pittman said he remembered everything about that night … when he killed his grandparents: the blood, the shotgun blasts, the voices urging him on, even the smoke detectors that screamed as he drove away from their rural South Carolina home after setting it on fire.

Now, Christopher … faces charges of first-degree murder. The decision by a local prosecutor to try him as an adult could send him to prison for life. While prosecutors portray him as a troubled killer, his defenders say the killings occurred for a reason beyond the boy's control—a reaction to the antidepressant Zoloft, a drug he had started taking for depression not long before the slayings.

In recent months … the federal Food and Drug Administration has been examining data from clinical trials indicating that some depressed children and adolescents taking antidepressants think more about suicide and attempt it more often than patients given placebos. The findings varied between drugs. …

Pfizer, the maker of Zoloft, has helped the county solicitor who is prosecuting Christopher Pittman. Plaintiffs' lawyers from Houston and Los Angeles, who between them have brought numerous civil lawsuits against Pfizer and other antidepressant makers, have signed onto the defense team. (Source: The New York Times)
COMMENTARY: My 12 year old is smarter than your 12 year old. Oh yeah? Well my 12 year old is on enough antidepressants to kill you 12 year old.

Pulp fiction: What does it mean when the orange juice carton says “Some Pulp.” How much is that, exactly? The box doesn’t say. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: And how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know.

latin stories

conferencing in latin
written by theCallowQueen

I was talking with this cute redheaded guy at a conference. I wanted him to see how intelligent I was, so I thought I’d show off my Latin.

“Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre,” I asked him

He mumbled something that sounded like, “Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure.” But I doubt that I had heard him correctly. (I asked him: Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me? He may have mumbled: I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.)

It was at this moment that a woman rushed up to me, pushing the redhead out of the way.

“Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem (stand aside, little people! I’m here on official business),” she demanded.

Her hair few in wild directions. I wanted to ask her, “Quomodo cogis comas tuas sic videri (how do you get your hair to do that)?” But I decided to hold my tongue.

“Who’s responsible for this?” she said gesturing with a wave of her arm to the entire exhibit hall.

I gave her a questioning look.

“It’s hot in here. This is unacceptable. I paid good money to be here. Do something,” she demanded.

I tried to explain to her that non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat (it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity), and that I had no control over the situation. It seemed that telling her, “Ita erat quando hic adveni (it was that way when I got here),” didn’t help the situation.

“Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert (frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn),” she replied. Then she leaned toward me and said in a hoarse whisper, “Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem (in the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags).”

That’s when the redheaded man steped in, turned to the Medusa-like woman, and said, “Vacca Foeda! Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris (stupid Cow! If Caesar were alive, you’d be chained to an oar.)”

She gave him a vicious look before turning on her heal and stomping off toward the restroom.

Just when I though I could get back to my discussion with the cute redheaded guy, I noticed old man staring at me. I asked the old man if he had any questions or was looking for something in particular.

“Neutiquam erro (I am not lost),” he replied. “You are.”

I told him that I knew exactly where I was.

“No, you are lost. You are ignorant,” the old man insisted.

I was beginning to get a little irritated.

“Answer me this,” he said, “Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari? (How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?)”

“I haven’t a clue,” I responded truthfully.

“Ahh, I will show you the way. Come with me and learn the truth,” the old man said reaching out a long bony hand to me.

I stepped back and firmly said, “Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione (I’m not interested in your dopey religious cult).”

Security finally dragged the old man away. I turned back to the cute guy just in time to see the Medusa woman fling a cat in his direction. He ducked, and the cat landed on the counter behind him. I picked up the cat, and it dug it’s claws into my arm.

“Feles mala (bad kitty)!” I exclaimed and shoved the viscous cat into a nearby cage.
I then called security to take the crazy woman away.

“Is it always like this?” the redheaded guy asked me.

“No, this year has been a little more taxing,” I explained. “Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare (I think some people in togas are plotting against me),” I said with a wink. “You want to get out of here?”

“Tuis pugis pignore! (You bet your bippy!)” he smiled.
~Finis~

(Here's where I found these Handy Latin Phrases.)

driving in latin
written by he intern who’s cubicle is next to mine. It’s kind of a prequel to my story.

I was heading downtown, 14th and Broadway to be exact. Cars were whipping past my white Jeep Cherokee. Suddenly a lone veterinarian making his way to Bartle Hall for the annual CVC shouted “Sona si latine loqueris! (Honk if you speak Latin!)” A million honks screamed from Broadway street and I was frightened. Who were these people?

“Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione! (I’m not interested in your dopey religious cult!) “ I cried. No one listened and the honking continued. It drove me crazy making me miss my turn for the the Barney Allis Parking Plaza. I tossed my Mapquest directions aside and looked around to figure out where the garage was located.

Just then a homeless man approached. His B.O. burned my eyes and made them tear, but to my surprise the man wasn’t homeless. It was Dr. Swift wearing purple balloon pants.

“Are you lost, my dear?” he asked.

“Neutiquam erro. (I am not lost.) But you forgot to give MC Hammer back his pants,” I said driving off.

“Eureka! (I found it! but that isn’t Latin.)” I cried pulling into a dark, underground parking garage. I pulled my car into a stall next to a maroon Pontiac. A perky editor stepped out.

“Whew, it’s a hot one today,” Spring said.

“Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat. (It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.),” I said. “Just look at what it’s doing to my hair! Di! Ecce hora! (God, look at the time!) Peggy will kill us if we don’t get inside!”

Just then commotion broke out a few stalls away ...

“Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem. (Stand aside, little people! I’m here on official business.)” Greg said, his head skimming the ceiling of the garage.

“Well, shall we join the merry CVC goers?” I asked.

“Tuis pugis pignore! (You bet your bippy!),” Spring exclaimed.

And we set off towards the sun!
~Finis~

news bites

BARTLE HALL--On Monday, CVC registration volunteers (or more accurately, forced laborers) saw a sharp decline in the number of retarded monkeys (attendees) asking stupid questions. The decline was a welcome relief to the volunteers, who had spent the last two days fielding a bunch of stupid questions from attendees who could not, for the life of them, form a single-file line in the booth clearly marked "On-site registration, slash information."
BY: FORCED LABORER #32 (one of my co-workers)

SOMEWHERE IN LENEXA, KS--Recently released hostages from the Central Veterinary Crisis were taken to a nearby Sonic for treatment. After a revitalizing meal of fried cheese and jalapenos, former hostage Po Stewart remarked, "Gee, that wasn't so bad." Fellow inmate Sally Golden promptly hit her with a 200-lb ream of copy paper. Stewart is in critical condition at Johnson County Mental Health Inpatient Unit, but doctors expect a full recovery.
BY: RELEASED HOSTAGE #3 (another co-worker)

AVHC, LENEXA, KS--Murmurs of a possible revolt by prisoners at a small publishing jail fell silent after hearing from their warden. With her words, "Thanks everyone for your hard work. You all did a great job," the jailed primarily female population seemed to forget their rage and demand for less strenuous work and better living conditions and went calmly to eat their gruel and mush.
"This happens every year," the warden says. "But they seem to calm down when they hear a bit of reason. So don't fear, this jail and it's iron bars haven't been broken yet."
BY: PRISONER #14 (theCallowQueen)

crazy conference confessions

so i'm done with the conference.
i'm done with the preconferences.
i'm done with the room service.
i'm done with the fake smiles.
i'm done with the time laughter.
i'm done with the forced enthusiasm.
i'm done with the maroon shirts.
i'm done with the 9 o'clock bedtime.
(though i still fall asleep before 10.)

truth is i enjoy parts of the conference.
i enjoy a room service meal or two (especially the desserts).
i enjoy talking with authors and veterinarians.
some of the laughter was real.
and the smiles with that cute redheaded guy were very real.
(his business card is burning a hole in my workbag.)

but i'm tired. i'm glad it's over for another year.
thank you to my friends and family for supporting me.
especially my roomie, lizzy lou, and my new neighbor.

So, today, the quotes are my own.
Here are a few things I wish I could have said,
but withheld because I can be a semiprofessional at times.

To a co-worker: No. I'm tired. I'm going to go home. I know this conference is your life, but it's not mine.

To another co-worker: Your not in charge. Your title means nothing while you're working this conference. Your new to this company. You don't know how things work. Let her do her job.

To an attendee: Read the damn sign, Stupid!

To an exhibitor: I'm not actually falling for your act. I see right though your British accent, old man. Don't believe my smiles and nods.

To an advisory board member: Shit, with that beard you look like my ex, just aged 30 years. And you demeanor and crude jokes are like his too. Thanks for the reminder of why I'm not with him, but, um, would you mind shaving? You're really creeping me out.

To the same board member: Although the complement I just gave you is mostly true, I'm not telling you that I'm completely reworking the last article you wrote for us. Exactly how much smoke do you want me to blow up your ass?

To a nonexhibiting exhibitor: You know, you're really cute. I love your red hair. What state are you from? Are you married? What are you doing for dinner tonight?

To a veterinarian: Okay, were those smiles and that brush against my arm a come-on? If it was, it totally worked.

To a new co-worker: Meeting you has made me feel much better about the future of this merger. I used to think your magazine was crap. Now I think it is the manure from which a brighter future may grow.

To my editor: Listen to all of these freakin' compliments about me from our authors and board members. You need to give me a promotion. You need to give me a raise.

word of the day: callow

callow n. lacking in maturity or experience
An example would be, the callow young editor will, with time, recognize when she is under editing and over editing.

callow fumblings

okay, i'm having one of those weird in-between moments days.
i'm in transition.
okay, i'm always in transition.
but it's more marked right now.

transition is tricky because it requires tentative steps into an unknown sphere.

it's not just the conference, though i have the nervous churny feeling in my stomach everytime i think of my new responsibilities and everything that conference takes out of me every year.

i'm having one of those bigger life-questioning moments as well.
after a talk with a friend this weekend, i was reminded that the me i believe i am and the me others experience are different people.
this, is frustrating as hell, because of course, i think the former is pretty good. but i'm sometimes disgusted by the latter.

so, perhaps, lizzy lou, you should ignore me. perhaps you should ignore my previous ramblings.
i thought my philosophy seemed to work, at least for me, at least with some people, at well enough.
but maybe it's time for me to move beyond.
it's at least time for me to reevaluate.
ick.

so today i'm feeling my callowness, my immaturity.

the friend monster

Guilt. I hate it. Yet, I know I can be the queen of the guilt trip. It's disgusting really.

LizaLou, you're completely right about those people who make you feel guilty for not being there when they want you there—in that limited window of opportunity they provided. But the thing is, few of these people will be ever worth your time, worry, or effort. These are people you have to accept as they are and that your relationship with them will probably not progress any further. Given that it won't go any further, this is usually the point where I turn my focus to relationships that will.

You're not that unsociable, my event-going numbers are pretty similar to yours:
80% of bar-visiting invitations declined
80% of dance-club invitations declined
40% of regular party invitations declined
85% of college party invitations declined
but
95% of gatherings with my close friends accepted.

I am just that sociable.

These percents are right in line with me and what makes me happy. I care little if I miss the wildest party or best dance music ever. But I care a great deal if I miss the best joke my best friend has ever told or the evening spent together talking and being comfortable and happy.

We're not much different on this one. I think we'd both prefer that afternoon spent doing random errands with a close friend or spending an evening in a dear friend's living room even though you have no particular plans rather than at a large, social party filled with people who you'd have to make an effort to know, who'd probably prove at least mildly interesting but you'd probably not see again until the next big party.

Time is valuable. Time is limited. Why do you care so much if a acquaintance pouts a bit because you won't booze it up in a smoky bar with guys trying to rub up against you?

You know that I hate to tell people no. you know that I like to make people happy. I don't like for them to pout. Slowly, slowly, I'm learning this process of just flat out saying, no. It's hard. My tendency is to try to placate them. "Oh, that might be fun." "I'll see what my plans are." "Maybe I'll go." Bullshit. And then I let them down later because I back out at the end. It's rude. And I've decided that it's disrespectful. I have to respect the person and myself by being truthful and honest from the start. Damn that valuable decisiveness. I hate making decisions. (They seem to be easier when I'm telling others what I think they should do though.)

Sometimes I wish that all those other people, all those peripheral friends and acquaintances, would just go away—even the nice friendly ones—so that I wouldn't feel guilty for not spending time with them, so that I can spend all my free time with the people I feel matter most. Then I remember that if I did that, I wouldn't have put in the effort to become friends with you. I wouldn't be friends with my roommate, either. And I sigh. Stupid relationships. Stupid relationship building.

my friend

You've heard my ramblings on friendships before, so I won't repeat it here … or I'll try to tackle it from another direction at least. (Yes, LizaLou, these thoughts are in response to you.)

Few, I think, stay really close to their high-school friends. I'm truly close with only one of mine; the others I see from time to time, but that's really only because my roommate writes them. Quite simply, I don't make the effort because I feel we've drifted into our separate lives. Still, I'm glad my roommate arranges a social visit from time to time. It's just surprising, considering how reserved she is and how social I am.

But I'm not surprised that I'm not close with most of my high school and college friends. We were but social friends. Our closeness was developed from time together and activities. So once the time evaporated and the activities faded, there was little to keep us connected.

Now, I think it's because they never knew me, and I never knew them. Yes, I was the gregarious, out-spoken, sometimes mindless me that you know. But I kept a great deal hidden; I was afraid of their disapproval. They too, kept themselves hidden from me.

The friends that I have now who will be my friends in twenty year's time are the ones who accept me as I am. It's not about the time we spend together or what we do as much as we simply enjoy each other.

There's a huge difference between being social friends and being truly bonded to one another, though you might not be able to tell at the time. My measuring tools: Do I hesitate to speak my thoughts or make a move because he or she may disapprove of me? And does it seem like they hold back with me? If the answer to either of these is yes, then it's a social friendship. But most close friendships must begin as social ones. I hate that. I stink at social friendships.

Those bonded friendships are treasures. Neither of us is required to share our innermost thoughts, but we know that we can say or do anything and sill be completely loved and accepted and welcome.

word of the day: kerfuffle

kerfuffle n. disorder; commotion.
also written as curfuffle, kafuffle, gefuffle.
an example would be, this morning, there was a kerfuffle as my editor and i tried to figure out how to spell "kerfuffle."

the highway through the hills and valleys

Life, this journey, it never stops. Even if I were to plunk down and refuse to budge, the landscape around me would. When I think about resisting change, I always think of Dr. Seuss and his north- and south-going zaxs.

South-Going Zax said:
I'll stay here, not budging! I can and I will
If it makes you and me and the whole world stand still!

Of course the world didn't stand still. The world grew.
In a couple of years, the new highway came through
And they built it right over those two stubborn Zax
And left them there, standing un-budge in their tracks.

So often, I'm a zax. I get so wrapped up in my goal, so focused on the path that I've decided to take, that I just stop at the first roadblock. The roadblock is usually tiny, insignificant, but all I see is that it has broken my path. I allow a little stone in my path halt my way. I stop and the world keeps going around me. I'm lucky, and often someone coming along accidentally bumps into me, pushing me over or around the stone. But it's too late. The path has already changed.

Perhaps this is one of those ramblings where I should end with, "it's not the destination that matters, it's about the journey." But all I still see is the destination. The path is still a means to get me to that goal. But what is my goal? Don't I really just want to get there so that I can stop? So that I don't have to travel on these paths anymore. So that I can sit and be? I feel like if I just get there I can stop and the world will stop with me, and I and it can just be.

One of my former co-workers, Danny Goldenbaum finished his CD, "Hills & Valleys." So I'll end things off with excerpts from the title track:

The other day you caught me thinking and you asked me what was wrong.
I said that life must keep on moving, and it's time I moved along.
...
So then I linger on, across the meadows. I climb the hills of time.
And when the day has come and thing get better, you'll be by my side.
The other day I saw you sitting. It looked like something was on your mind.
Could it be that you were thinking about the loneliness inside?
...
You can't deny that I have waited for a better life, a better friend to make it clear what I got.
Life was hard, but I refuse to let them run me down,
if I climb the hill, a valley always comes around,
if I listen to the words of a wiser one,
just maybe I'll, just maybe I'll be—just maybe I'll—be.

august radiator heat

It's hot. Lots going on. Lots to do. My grandma's moving on the 14th. My friends are moving on the 14th. Then there is the convention and 12-hour work days in horrid maroon work shirts. But first, I must tame the mammoth stack of manuscripts that has grown on my desk and piles of paper haphazardly climb higher and higher. How much longer until the towers fall?

I have a little fan by my computer desk. It whizzes and whirrs air in my direction. My left arm is cold. the heat is outside in the august sun. the heat is inside in those piles on my desk.

This is it. This month I cannot be behind. I cannot melt under the pressure. This month it is crucial that I shine from a job well done and not from the glistening of sweat from stress and strain.

I will be so happy when august is over.

Okay, "Amelie" is my favorite movie, so a friend of mine showed me an earlier movie by the same director. It's the "City of the Lost Children," and it's dark and confusing and stunning. So today's quotes come from the Krank, Miette, One, and a clone. The tie in with my August stress/heat wave? The lessons learned, of course, including:
I am the original me. Those others are just inferior copies.
People create their own heat and can share. But I mean that in a completely platonic way.
Stupid people really shouldn't speak. They should eat more vegetables.
Don't judge others' abilities by their size. Some short people can jump really high.

Clone: C'est moi l'original! C'est moi!

Miette: What are you doing?
One: Radiator.

Krank: Quiet! You vegetable!

One: Miette too little.
Miette: Not that little.

brand spanky new

So my friend's car used to do this thing where it would stop at a light and not go when the light turned green. That wasn't good. So she got this new, cool car, and I'm all oohhing and ahhhing. And then she says, "You'll never guess who LizaLou and I saw." I hadn't a clue. "Spanky, and she was driving a new Accent."

The back story: I was parked in front of this same friend's home eight months ago when a girl rear ended my car.
Her license plate: SPANKY.
My license plate: SKO 966 a.k.a. TRASHED—my poor car.
Perhaps, with the new car her mommy bought her, she also received a personal driver named James so she wouldn't be tempted to go careening down side streets anymore.

A big thanks to LizaLou and YellowDancer for breaking me out of my funk yesterday. I was so tired. Perhaps the drain was emotional as much as physical, or maybe the emotional upset the physical, which caused my intense desire to pull the shades to block out that freakin' bright sun and crawl deep under my duvet, even though sleep refused to visit with me. My thoughts that day were like that sentence, long, jumbled, and hard to read.

Thanks to you two, Benjamin and Sophie may just survive. (And maybe Sophie should be Southern. Say, Benjamin, real slow like.) But hey, even if they don't survive, at least now they won't go down in flames nameless anymore.

Today's snippet comes from YellowDancer21's Witch Hunter Robin FanFic, Libera Me:
A haze swam across his vision suddenly, accompanied by a sense of nausea and he attempted to regain control. He must have been allowing his emotions to affect him physically, which was a weakness he abhorred even more than his weakness in feeling the emotions in the first place... It was both unnerving and damned annoying. He detested this feeling of teetering on the edge of losing control. (You can read more at FanFiction.Net. You know you want to...)

news bites

Unfortunate but true headline: "Penis and testicles removed without consent." (Can't imagine the patient saying, "Yeah, okay, doc, just cut 'em off.")
When urologists removed a patient's cancerous bladder, they believed it was an aggressive tumor that had spread, so they took out a couple of other vital organs while they were at it. The penis turned out not to be cancerous. The inevitable malpractice suit that followed was settled out of court for and undisclosed amount. (Sources: WHIP, Contemporary Urology, in press)
COMMENTARY: Last night my aunt told us about a guy with prostate cancer who went to some special hospital in texas for surgery. The surgery, a success, was performed by a robot. My dad says that there was probably a doc remotely controlling the robot from a hospital in a different city. (FYI: my dad is a biomedical engineer at a Midwest hospital and a prostate cancer survivor.)

The Orthodox Union has granted kosher certification to Triaminic cough syrup, the first over-the-counter medication to earn that distinction. Certified products carry an OU designation (not to be confused with Oklahoma University). The Union, which says it's the world's biggest organization determining what's kosher, expects to approve more over-the-counter products.
Novartis, which changed some flavorings to earn kosher status for Triaminic, says that Maalox is next in line and awaiting its kosher moment. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: What's it like to be a Kosher kid with a cold?

The world's longest non-stop airline flight is now one that starts in Singapore and ends in Newark (9,788 miles, 18 hours in the air). Special bonus: You can airdrop your list to Santa as you fly over the North Pole. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: Sign me up, Scotty!

povitica

Monday night a friend called me up. "have you finished dinner yet?" he asked.
"Just finished," I replied.
"Good. Then you come on over. We have povitica."
Then there was the clatter of a phone being dropped, a door slamming, and the rumble of an engine as a car pealed out of the parking lot. I don't have to be asked twice!

I know few people know of the wonders of povitica, but for some reason I still receive a shock when someone says, "povitica? What's that?" How could they not know the wonderfulness of povitica? Note: If you ever do eat povitica, it's wonderful if you spread a little butter over the top of you slice and pop it in the microwave for a few seconds. You won't be disappointed!

Oh, what is povitica? It's a Croatian sweet bread. It's kind of like a cinnamon roll, except replace the cinnamon with walnuts or cream cheese and make the bread dough really thin, so the swirls of bread and filling are hairline thin and keep winding round and round like the rings on tree stump. Only it tastes amazing.

My grandma learned to make povitica from her Croatian mother-in-law. And I grew up helping my grandma roll out the dough so that it stretched to cover the entire table. It was so thin you could see though it in some spots to the table underneath. Then we spread on the filling. I believe she altered the traditional walnut recipe and used pecans. This too, we spread super thin. And then we started at a wide end and rolled the dough and filling into a four-foot roll. My grandma then cut the roll in bread pan sized widths. As she placed the rolled dough into the bread pans, I took the two small bits left at either end and filled my own tiny little bread pans. Then we brushed on some sort of buttery glaze on the top.

Mmm...
I need to get that recipe.
but it takes so much work to make povitica. My grandma would only make it once or twice a year. They kept quite well in the deep freezer.

So, imagine my shock when I show up at my friends house for a slice of povitica and find his parents had bought me an entire loaf! It was poppy seed. Very good. But remember that part about it being time and labor intensive to make this bread? That means this stuff ain't cheap.
and they bought it for me because they remembered how much I loved povitica.
My heart.
They've been so good to me. They've welcomed me like family. How do you thank people for that? Maybe you can't.

even when i am not new

Last night I read through the journal I kept when I was 14 and 15. Journals should be sealed, burned, locked away, or at least plaster a warning label on the thing.

WARNING: READING CONTENTS MAY STIR UP MEMORIES CAUSING INTENSE EMOTION IN READER, ESPECIALLY IF READER IS ALSO THE WRITER OF THE CONTENTS. KEEP OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN. DO NOT INGEST. FLAMMABLE. CONTACT YOUR ROOMMATE IF YOU FEEL STUPID OR IMMATURE AFTER READING.

I had no idea how much influence my mother had on me. I didn't get along with her when I was a teenager. We had horrible fights. But when I read my journal, my thoughts mimic hers and not my father's. Why?

Why did I worry about the pollution of my mind, body, and soul after watching True Lies? (By the way, that was the first rated R movie I ever watched on VHS. I was 15! My first rated R in-theater movie experience would follow later that year, Dangerous Minds. I told my mom that I saw the Little Princess.)

At 15 I had already decided that I would only date someone who I could see myself marrying. And, of course, at 15, I couldn't picture myself married at all. That was my mother inside my head. That was my youth pastor. That was my timidity. I wanted an excuse to hide. I found it, and then I couldn't be rid of it.

So 10 years of self struggle later (goodness, 10 years. I feel so old). Here I am. I still shy away from opportunities to date. I still expect extremes of all or nothing rather than dealing with the shaky middle ground of uncertainty.

But I've changed, too, of course. Often, I don't give myself credit for how much I've changed. A few weeks ago, I was thinking through some issues of the heart. I rarely share these with my family. I think they may have thought I was a lesbian for awhile because I never dated, never spoke of boys. I'm sure god heard a few prayers on the matter. But I've begun to say a bit more. Maybe I'm just more comfortable with who I am. Maybe I just like to rile up my mother.

Anyway, I said something. Her advice: you should date him. Why not? It's the only way to find out if he could be someone you could spend your life with. I was almost surprised, my mother was pushing me to date, but then she continued: Just be careful not to get too emotionally involved or physical. It's hard to end a relationship after you've become attached like that. There's the mom that I know and love. And no, this isn't just keep-your-legs-crossed advice. The kicker: Don't kiss him.

Date him, but don't kiss him! Great advice from my mom on how to find your true love. Right. This could work. I could see how well tested this advice was. Sure, this could work for my cousin the youth pastor and his wife. (They didn’t kiss until they were engaged.) But, I was having trouble seeing this one working out in my life. I got up the nerve and actually told my mom that if I did date him, I would kiss him. I don't need to date him to get to know him. I already know him. So, it would involve emotional attachment. And, yes, I would kiss him. Geeze, I've entered my mid-20s and my mom's best advice for me is to date but not kiss. I decided that it’d be best to wait to tell her that I don’t think people have one person they’re meant to be with forever. That kind of commitment is a choice. I also decided no to tell my mom that I might not marry and that she might not have grandkids. I'll save that for her birthday or maybe Thanksgiving.

I think I've been going crazy enough not dating and not kissing. I don't think I could date and then not kiss. That's just perverse. I stopped there for my mother's benefit, and I will for yours, too. I must be completely out of my mind to post this, considering the only three people that read this thing know me. Oh well.

My value system was faulty. I put so much value on not doing certain things that I kept myself from experiencing life as fully as I could have. So, today's tie-in are lyrics from one of my favorite songs, F.N.T. by Semisonic.

Fascinating new thing
Get beside me
I want you to love me

I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're lovely and you're perfect
And that somebody wants you

I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're priceless yeah you're precious
Even when you are not new

I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're priceless yeah you're holy
Even when you are not new

son of a bush

It's my new phrase, though my mother musn't hear me use it.

There's been a snow storm in my little salmon-colored cubicle! Actually, I've just become a huge paper slob. I have reference papers, job jackets, and final reads scattered and piled on my overflowing desk. My only option: on to the floor. My chair is encircled in a fan of white. Besides, sitting on the floor is a good way to break up the day and resist conforming to the professional identity.

My phone rang, I thought it was the veterinarian I had just gotten off the phone with.
"Good afternoon, this is [me]," I said.
"Hellooo [yooou]," replied a fakely deep voice. Weird. "It's [your ex]," he continued.
My thoughts: Why are you calling me at work? Hello: e-mail, my cell phone.
"Hey, what's up," I said in a semifake cheerful voice.

my paper blanket

My life is paper chaos. I've decided that paper is to blame for everything that’s off kilter in my life. Paper is my security blanket. They’re my reference, though I can rarely find what I need. My books are a source of escape. My journals and writings are the crazy insides of my brain splurted out on paper.

So, needless to say, I have a crazy obsession with books and papers, and I am extremely protective and private with them. Last week I brought home two boxes of books that I'd left at my parents house for safe keeping when I moved. I was heartbroken. Half of the books, my precious books, the pages are mildewed and warped. I'm sorry Nietzsche, Elliott, and Uncle Remus; I've failed you. I didn’t fight hard enough to save you from being moved to the basement.

Then, I got a call from my mother. I was in the middle of a crazy, hectic day at work.
“Hi, how’ve you been? Are you busy? I'm sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to talk on Sunday.” she said.
What’s the point, mom? Get to the freakin’ point, I thought, but replied, “Yeah, Mom, I'm really busy right now. What's up?”
“Would you be able to come by the house after work and go through some of the stuff on the back porch?” I think she could hear the cogs in my brain working to find a way out. Then she threw the punch, “I left the windows on the back porch open last night during the storm. I tried to soak up as much of the water as I could …”

I'm sure she said more. All I was thinking, my papers! My work! Most of my stuff that my mom had relegated to the back porch was of little importance to me. But there was one box that I cared about. It had my papers, stories, and writings from my teen years. My first story on the school newspaper. My first fiction writings. The work that I was proud of.

My dad was there when I got home. Mom wasn’t, and for her safety, that was a very good thing. I went to survey the wreckage, it wasn’t horrible, the papers are warped and the ink has run on some, but on the whole it was OK. I thought I could forgive my mom for pushing my belongings to the far corners where she wouldn’t want hers. Then, I saw my high school journal. It wasn’t wet. It wasn’t damaged. But it was out. Three important notes: I'm very private with my writings, my mom’s a bit nosey, and our relationship in high school was far from good. She would not like what is written in there; I'm afraid to even look to see what is written in there.

Back in the house, I saw that my mom has been “rearranging” some of my other belongings, belongings that I had already arranged in logically in boxes. Did I mention that I'm extremely private with my writings and belongings?
“That’s it,” I said to my dad. “Everything goes in my car.” And with that my dad and I loaded whatever of mine we could find into my car and his truck. My dad is amazing. He puts up with so much from my mother and me. Thanks, dad, for all your help.

No, I didn't have room for it all in my apartment. Yes, my ultra-clean roomie could become very annoyed with me. But I no longer cared. My possessions are now fully in my possession, and out of my mother’s range. She can now find something else to blame the clutter on. Sorry, Dad, you’re next.

My roommate and I unpacked box after box of books. I had forgotten just how many books I own. (I have even more, my favorite childhood books wait safely in my dad’s closet.) After unpacking: categorizing and grouping! I'm sick; I love organizing, and over organizing.

Sorry for the rant; I'd just forgotten how much I love my books. I used to be a crazy reader. I read as if I had a hardcore addiction to the ink fumes. What happened?

Today’s tie-in quotes are from the Read or Die OVA:
Nancy aka Ms. Deep: In real life, love takes a different course than from books. What do you think? A love that you want with no future or a love that you don’t mind with a future … Which one is better?”
Yomiko aka The Paper: “I have an answer for the question you asked earlier. Umm … I think true love is much more wonderful. Although there may be painful things, no matter what kind of love it is, you can be the heroine.”

legitimate, lucrative work

I’m pretty sure there's a law about it somewhere.
I can't get a hold of any sources. Without experts to quote, I have no articles that I can finish.
At lunch a co-worker reminded me that we had Monday off work.
I knew this. It’s written on my calendar. Yet, I’d forgotten, making Monday now like a gift.
I have no plans. Nothing is expected of me. I have nothing that I must do, no task that I must accomplish, no one whom I’m expected to see.
I can sleep in. I can write. I can laze around.
But first: birthday, dancing, dim sum, fireworks, another birthday, and then more fireworks.

"Did you hear the queen died? Died last night...the poor bitch," says Nev in Nine Dead Gay Guys, a movie I hadn't expected to watch, a movie I didn't know even existed until I knocked on my neighbor-friends’ door last night. It’s about two guys from Dublin trying to make booze money in London. And it’s surprisingly funny.

just trust me

Yesterday afternoon...
"I immediately knew it was you," said one of my co-workers. My face turned bright red in front of him and my soon-to-be ex-boss.
Is my personality that well known for being that brash?

Earlier that morning...
"I don't trust you," I said looking straight into the eyes of the CEO of our company.
You can imagine the heaviness of the silence that followed.

This was the first time our group had met the CEO. He was meeting with the minions in the morning and the managers in the afternoon.
He had asked me, "Who are your co-workers."
"You want me to say everyone in the corporation," I replied. My tone indicated that I felt otherwise. I explained that the people outside of our little office were unfamiliar to us. Before the acquisition, our former owner left us alone. We had to rely on each other. We trust each other. We are all committed and focused on the same goal. But I don't know--and therefore can't trust--the people in the other offices in our new company.

Mr. CEO looked straight at me, "Do you trust me?"
Shit.
"I don't know you," I replied.
"But I'm the head of this company. I’m in charge. Do you trust me?"
"I don't know." I knew that I was cornered. If I said yes, he'd ask me why.
"Do you trust me?"
"No, I don't trust you."

This is craziness. I’m crazy, certifiable crazy.

"I don't know you. Why should I trust you?" he asked.
Shit. Another trap.
"Yes because you acquired us for a reason. You can look at the work we do, the effort we put into it," I replied and then added, "I didn't say that I shouldn't trust you. I just don't yet."

His point: We have to push beyond our insulated little group. We have to reach out to our new co-workers. He’s right. I never disagreed with what we should be able to do. We just don't yet.

Later, he returned to me.
"Your instinct not to trust me right away were good," he said. Did the floor just drop from under my feet? He went on, "It shows how much you care about your product, that you don't want anything or anyone to come in and hurt your work."

Whew! Saved by the fact that this man seems to be as crazy as me.

Today's tie-in quote comes from the first season of Gilmore Girls:
Luke: "You look like you need pie."
Rory: "I do?"
Luke: "Violent pencil tossing usually signals the need for pie."
Rory: "What if I'd thrown a pen?"
Luke: "I would've brought you a trout."

splash of cold water

My mental clarity varies by extremes. I often fault my lack of sleep when I’m in a mental fog.

It usually takes me an hour or so to fall asleep.
If I don't have trouble getting to sleep, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night.
If I wake up in the middle of the night, I’ll think about some petty worry (e.g. what I need to accomplish at work tomorrow, that guy that it seems like I’ve liked forever, the books I need to retrieve from my parents' home, the pile of random papers at the foot of my bed, how I’m awake and I need to be asleep, how long I have until my alarm goes off)
If I begin thinking some petty worry, I won't be able to fall asleep for several hours.
If I sleep that little, i have a terrible time getting out of bed.
If I have a terrible time getting out of bed, I’m late to work.
Although I’m often late to work, sometimes I call one of my bosses' voice mails at 4 a.m.
it goes something like this, "Hi, um, it's me. It’s 4:03 a.m. and I’m not asleep. I wish I were, and it doesn't look like I will be in the near future. If it's okay with you, I’d like to take the morning off to try to get a little sleep. If it's not okay, give me a call, and I’ll roll my butt into work. Um, yeah. Thanks. Night, um, morning. Bye."

All of this equals fog brain on the job. And my bosses thinking I’m a nutcase.

So it had me worried.

Then one of my bosses called me into her office the other day. Effective immediately I would be working for her full time. They got permission to have full-time assistant editors on both pubs.

After the shock, the lightning bolt, the splash of cold water, and once my feet were reassured that the earth was still solid beneath them, I cried.
Perhaps it's weak. Perhaps I’m silly. But I cried.

Yes this is good.
Yes this is a step up for me (even if not in pay. Cheap 'tards)
Yes it means the editorial assistant gets a well deserved promotion to the job she should have had when she graduated last year.
Yes I’m not stuck working late on deadlines two weeks a month.
Yes I can finally take a vacation.
Yes I can focus more time on editing and writing.

But it means leaving behind a publication I’ve been honored and proud to be a part of.
But it means leaving a trio of fabulous, wonderful editors.
But it means i didn't conquer my time-management issues. I never quite got the balance to work.
But it means leaving the one of my two bosses in who's eyes I gleamed.
But it means change.

On another note: did a little Alias watching last night. Here’s a bit of a tie in with the above entry:

Sloane: Marshall, would you please go back to work?
Marshall: Just to clarify, I'm not being fired?
Sloane: Back to work means not fired.

cracked open

Yesterday I was reminded of a lesson i never want to learn the hard way.
I wish I were reminded by a "this is your brain on drugs fried egg" commercial.
Instead it was in the form of tears streaming down the face of one of those dearest to my heart.
"She’s so smart," the congested voice said to me, "how could she be so stupid to mess up her life?"

The simple answer is the scary one: you and i at some point in our lives have done something equally stupid.
The only difference is we were lucky and didn't feel the burn from our actions.

So I’ve watched and learned the lesson, right? This time I’ve learned it right? How many times have i learned this lesson and soon after forgotten it?

I didn't sleep last night; a song from Urinetown, the musical, running through my head.

Cladwell: But what of tomorrow, Mister Strong?!
Think of tomorrow, Mister Strong!
Our resources are as fragile
As a newborn baby's skull
With your actions
You would gut the child
And leave a lifeless hull!
Could it be you're so short-sighted
So insensitive, so dull?
Think of tomorrow, Mister Strong!

The Poor: But what of today?!

looking through a fool's eyes

i think
i shake my head
it goes woosh
i feel foolish
thinking my crazy thoughts