Three Things

1. Friday Night = Best Night of Local Musical Entertainment EVAR.

First, to St. Paul's Black Dog Cafe for Spaghetti Western String Company with the unparalleled Wars of 1812. Second, off to Stasiu's for some Jason Shannon and Kentucky Air and Conver Watts action. I can't say anything more about what kind of a night this will be, or I'll shed tears of joy. And no one gets to see me cry. It would prove to everyone that I do, in fact, have a soul, and that's a conflict of interest when you edit stuff for a living...KIDDING. But really, you should come. Both of you that read this.



2. I randomly found myself in White Bear Lake today.

I've lived in Minnesota for 16 years, and I can't say with certainty that I've been to White Bear before. I don't know that I'll ever have a reason to go there again. But, as I chatted with the lady I went there to meet, I heard the sounds of water lapping the shore. The breeze was warm. I was wearing business professional attire. The water was cold. When our interview concluded, I sat on a dock, removed my shoes, and soaked my feet. Submitting to that urge was a compromise I negotiated with my subconscious, which was trying to convince me that no one would look at me strangely if I showed up for my 1:00 meeting in a sopping wet suit.



3. If they look this old, am I old, too?
The reunion tour has been a bit of a joke (okay, HUGE NEWS) at the office lately. A couple of weeks back, I had a high school kid in job shadowing me, and a coworker came in to giggle about the latest NKOTB news. The high school kid proceeded to ask us who those guys were!

That's the first time in my life I felt really, truly old. It was tantamount to my mother raving about Donny Osmond. Wow. I'm turning into my mom.

BTW, Jonathan...wash off that makeup. You look like a streetwalker.

...see?

Habit and Darth 'Vator

The past two weeks have been the kind of extraordinarily busy weeks when I run out of time to see what's right in front of my face. You know, the sort of day when you leave the office so wrapped up in planning the next day that you find yourself halfway home before you realize you've been driving? That kind of busy. The kind where I get stuck in habit.

For example, the elevator. After I've hit the point in my day where I can justify going home, I toss my highlighter back in the pen cup on my desk, log out of my computer, grab my keys and purse, and head for the elevator. The whole process is so habitual that it requires literally no conscious thought. I wonder out to the elevator bay, press the down button, and go home.

Unless...

See, lately my subconscious seems to think it's funny to toy with me. There have been several recent occurences of my brain switching one habitual mechanism for the other. And for me, that's manifested in the elevator. In the morning, I completely habitually hop into the elevator at ground level and push the button for the fourth floor. Lately, my brain has found it funny to prompt me to push that fourth floor button in the afternoon, when I'm hopping on the elevator on the fourth floor, hoping to go down.

The result? I sit on the fourth floor until I figure it out, wondering why the elevator isn't moving. I've probably done this five or six times, now. You'd think I'd figure it out, but no. I have so much faith in my habits that I simply can't believe I'd do something wrong. Humiliating.

This all came to a head last week, when a tremendously windy day somehow created an enormous power surge in the building. The power had been flickering for the better part of the afternoon, and I was one of the last people to leave my office. You'd think that blinking lights would be enough to deter me from my elevator habit, and prompt me instead to use the stairs. Nah. Without even thinking, I pushed the down button and waited for my chariot to arrive.

I'm certain that I pushed the first floor button. The elevator went down, anyway. For two seconds. And then it stopped. I pushed the alarm button. Nothing. I was stuck.

Now, I'm blessed to work in a building with glass-sided elevators that offer a lovely view of the parking lot and freeway below. And, to be honest, after I stopped caring about the fact that I was stuck in an elevator, it was kind of awesome. I sat in the elevator, watching the streetlights sway in the wind. I played a guiltless game of iPod Scrabble. I just hung out, with nothing to do, for more than twenty minutes.

When the power came back on, the elevator developed a mind of its own. It zoomed up to the ninth floor, where it opened its doors. I flew out of the demon elevator as soon as it opened its drawers and took the stairs back down.

But I was grateful. For twenty minutes, my habitual life was completely different. For twenty minutes, I was aware of my life instead of blindly gliding through it. And I liked it a lot.

Manna from Heaven vs. Crap from the Sky

Why, Minnesota? Why? We don't need half a foot of snow in the middle of friggin' April.

It's another of those bipolar days that I seem to be having so often lately. I've reached the conclusion that winter isn't ever going to end, and I guess I've kind of resigned myself to that. Everyone from Al Roker to Lisa the daycare lady has been ranting about the weather all day, so I'll spare you my real tirade, but I have to at least acknowledge an observation or two.



Observation 1. This weather makes us diagnosably mentally ill. All of us. The diagnostic criteria for Bipolar I is "one or more manic or mixed episodes", and I think I observed that in my office thirty or forty times today. At one point, all five of the girls who work within earshot of me were howling with laughter at various conversations, either amongst ourselves or in our heads. It was a desperate, horrible sort of laughter that was funny in the "not-really-funny-but-I-can't-help-this" sort of way. We did horrible things, like reading blogs and listening to Michael Jackson songs from 1983 on company time. Then we all felt horrible about whatever we found funny, which led to collectively sitting in silence at our computers, really wanting to work but unable to do anything but stare disbelievingly out of our windows. Total shock. And the definition of a "mixed episode". According to the DSM-IV-TR, all it takes is one episode.



Observation 2: I'm not a very kind person. Once, I was very caring. I like to think I'd do anything for a friend, but the reality is that I'm out of patience. I used to be the kind of girl who did nice things for the people in my life, like bringing people flowers or putting extra post-its in their desk drawer before they ever realized they were running low. These gestures were by no means noble, but were intended to make a buddy's day. Today I realized that this season has broken me. Between my very, very, very, very, very, very busy schedule and the bitterness I feel toward Mother Nature, it takes literally all of my energy to keep from filling a moving van (or a pickup, or even just a box) with my belongings and disappearing to Maui. Now all I can do is spout unsolicited advice, nod a lot, and fill in conversational pauses with sarcasm. Not the person I want to be. The karmic debt is huge. Thanks, Minnesota. You've finally broken me.


There is a little bit of light in this hellishly cold tunnel, though. The heavens dropped me a new "mentee" today. She's 18-going-on-older-than-me, an excellent writer for her age, and a photographer to boot. Her stuff doesn't look like student work. I shall use her to write captions, pull research, and fact check her face off. My magazines may just survive the week.


That's all I got. I either have to go to bed now, or pack my crap for Maui. And really, I can't afford Maui, unless I find it in my soul to be nice enough to someone that they give money for airfare in gratitude. While being nice with such selfish intentions may not be great for the karmic debt, it certainly helps with the snow issue.


Besides, I'll have plenty of time to work on the unconditional kindness...when it's 70 degrees and sunny.

Cupcake Day, or Save the Werewolves

We celebrated all the April birthdays in our office today with cupcakes and ice cream, so already my day is better than yesterday. Fat+Sugar=Delight. I was thinking that "Cupcake" was a much better descriptor than "Tues", but I think it's probably forcing the issue if I rename a day that happens every week with an event that happens only once a month. Wierd stuff could happen. We might only get one full moon a year, and one can only imagine what that would do to the werewolf population.

I'm starting to realize that my metabolism isn't always going to be what it once was, and I'm really sad about this. After cupcake time, a lovely local company called Truffles & Tortes decided to deliver us some, well, truffles and tortes, so I ate those too. I mean, how can you NOT taste something that their menu describes as having "a hidden dome of creme brulee"?

But looking at the day's gluttony, I am suddenly becoming very afraid of my future. I'm gonna wake up sometime after my fortieth birthday, only to discover I've gained three hundred pounds overnight. And y'all will have Truffles & Tortes, and office cupcake parties, and the simple deliciousness of a good stout beer to blame.

This is what "Mean" looks like...

Today is Surly Day.

I'm officially banning the use of the term "Monday" from here on out. It might sound strange to you, but it's alright. While you weren't looking, I already changed "Thursday" to "Omelet Day" and "Friday" to "Pubday". Pretty soon I'll have taken over the whole week, and you won't even have suspected a thing. Trust me, it'll be great.

I'd love to tell you what your calendar will look like in fifty years, but I can't. Something as monumental as renaming days has to happen organically. It can't be forced, or you'll end up with "Pudding Day" or "Flower Day" in place of Wednesday, and nobody wants that. It creates the false impression that Wednesdays are for pudding and flowers, thus making Wednesday really disappointing if you end up with neither--and usually that's the way it works. Unless I start getting pudding and flowers every Wednesday, in which case it's only right to call it "Pudding Flower Day". Make sense?

So, for the time being, the week looks like this:

Sunday, Surly Day, Tuesday, Wednesday, Omelet Day, Pub Day, Saturday.

I am taking suggestions for the leftover days, as long as they mean something more promising and literal than "Tuesday". What the hell is a "Tues", anyway?

At any rate, it's Surly Day because I'm always, always, always bitchy on Mondays. I try to drink extra coffee, but it exacerbates the problem. I try to abstain from coffee, but that exacerbates the problem. Essentially, because it's Surly Day, exacerbations turn into exacerbations, thus exacerbating the f*** out of my every last nerve and leaving me in an involuntary State of Bitch.

So far today, I've griped at my coworkers, bickered with Lovely (Surly) Husband, and crabbed at my mom on the phone. I felt alienated, most likely because I've been doing my best to ruin every good thing in my life all day long. On the grounds that confession is theoretically good for the soul, I thought I'd take a lonely moment to purify myself via Blogspot, so I did a Google Image search, looking for a good photo of "Mean".

And the clouds parted, and a C Major chord played triumphantly, and God slipped a well-manicured hand out of heaven and handed me the ultimate Surly Cure.

There, on page 1 of my results, was a picture of Val's kitty. Tee-hee!

Movie Night

I've worked every day since February, with the exception of Easter Sunday, and for the last two or three weeks I've been teetering on the edge of burnout. This weekend I'm doing my best to make up for lost recreational days.

Because my lovely husband agreed to stay home with the squids so that I could enjoy last night's CD Release Party, I was able to drink a l'il' bit and stay out far too late for a dignified woman of my age to be out. Afterparties are lovely adventures. This morning I slept in until 10:30, which is unheard of when you've got a million children. I spent the afternoon shopping recreationally, purchasing myself a remarkable new hoodie, proudly wearing the hoodie, and reading a bunch of books. I've done nothing of merit. It's awesome.

Tonight, I embark on the pinnacle weekend experience: Movie Night. Thing 2 wanted to have a "scary movie night" because she saw a "scary movie party" on some Nickelodeon show. I was dead set against it, partly because I'm over-protective and partly because I absolutely cannot deal with violent movies, even campy corny ones. I have issues with death. And injuries. And meanness. They freak me out. I'd much rather live in my alternate reality, where white tigers skip with fluffy bunnies that poop rainbows as it snows gumdrops on flowery fields. I'm often forced to choose between naivete and nightmares, and when it comes to completely optional experiences like a movie choice, I'll choose naivete anyday. Scary things don't happen on my TV screen.

The lovely husband convinced me to budge a bit, though, when he suggested that the older squids would be able to handle Gremlins. I think he's right, and it's a lovely compromise. The girls get their scare on, and I get something cute. We all win.

And if I get scared, at least I've got a new hoodie to snuggle in.

Illusions of Grandeur

My lovely friend Lota Lee took this picture of pretending to be a badass. Note that Sheryl Crow has signed the lovely red Telecaster that I'm playing. For four seconds, I felt really cool. Then I remembered I'm a terrible guitarist.

Please to have the weekend? Now?

Wierd. Week. That's all there is to it.

Just over two months into my awesome new job, I'm finally starting to feel my serendipitous leap into a new career is working. It's not that I ever had any hesitations about the job. It's just that I was concerned that, well, the job would have hesitations about me. But it's good now. I adore my coworkers, I'm starting to get really confident that I can figure this strange new world out, and I think I'm getting a handle on the most difficult part of all--grasping the nuances of a new corporate culture.

At least, that's what I thought, until the infamous Second-Ever Spring Break party. Here's the rundown: costume contest, buffet-style nachos and buffalo wings in an Irish pub, staged photos, conga line. I work at Dunder Mifflin, for reals. It's not that any of it was particularly surprising. It's just really difficult to ride the fine line between "let loose and have fun" and "trying too hard", especially when you're the new kid. Here's hoping I'll have it all adequately over-analyzed by the Third Annual event. Or at least that I'll be secure enough in my position to drink more.

Happy note: The Wars of 1812 are hosting their CD release party at the Varsity Theater in Minneapolis tonight. I'm an unabashed groupie. In addition to being refreshingly interesting and inspired as a band onstage, the whole lot of 'em are interesting and inspired as human beings. They'll be playing with Chris Koza and Jeremy Messersmith. I can say with real conviction that this is a show that is not to be missed. Join me?