Writing Friday: Adventure

Give Writing Friday a try, it's tastier than poached eggs.

Nose held high to catch the scent
Ears flap, flap, flap in the breeze
Tongue, pink, licking chops smiling wide
On this adventure
In the car
On the way
To the park, or the store, or points unknown
All the same
An adventure for an eight year old beagle

Love

Oh, Sonic's Sweetheart Blast! I love you.

Normally, I am not a shake type of gal. They just don't do it for me in the same way a martini can. But when I first enjoyed this concoction of cherry and chocolate, topped with bits of what can surely be a ticket to college for my dentist's children, I melted. I am yours.

Now every moment of every day that I am away from you is miserable. I need you. Like a junkie needs a fix.

Oh, I tried to eat something else, anything else, to get you off my mind, but you keep creeping into my thoughts, you mischievous vixen.

Why must you taunt me so?

I'm not dead yet.

Dear Reader and Lurkers: I know who you are and I am dreadfully sorry for leaving you without my musings and bipolar rants for a few days. What's that you say? Yes, it was more like 6 days. Again, sorry.

I think you will be most proud of me for what I've done in these past few (several) days. Hee hee. I'm getting giddy just thinking about it! I acquired a few more clients who actually want to pay me money to do work, and a few pro bono clients that will pay brownie point dividends in the future. I'll say it again, hee hee.

I joined a few more networking groups, and, and, and, a leads group. Yes! Me. The one who is freaked out by leads groups. I told myselves that we just needed to suck it up and give it a try for a little while. If it's horrifying, I can stop going. It not like I'm paying for it. Wait. Yes I am. Hmm. I also landed a spot on the public affairs committee of a women's association. It's something I've always wanted to do but never had the nerve.

Also! Yes, there is more! I can hardly stand myselves sometimes! I, the shy and self-critical one, submitted to the THE Denver Post's Colorado Voices. What are these Voices? The DP has guest commentators every week from all corners of Colorado. Just regular people with something interesting to say. Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy. I hope I get accepted. I hope I don't, too. Am I making any sense?

Because I promised you more pictures of my office mates, here are Rocky and Samantha hard at work. Rocky is on the top, Samantha is the blurry one. Even though they nap 16 hours a day, it's hard to take a picture of them staying still.



Tell me when this starts to bore you. Now? Too bad.

Later... how the wild beasts protect me from squirrels, dogs a quarter mile away, and small children.

OMG. I forgot to tell you!

Rocky and Samantha go digital, baby!
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.

I can't believe I forgot to tell you The. Most. Exciting. News. Ever. Guess who got with the '00s and bought a digital camera?!

Rocky and Samantha, that's who! (They've always been a little more techno-savvy than I.)

So count on more digital documentation of the adventures of an aspiring superhero and her two trusty sidekicks.

Tee. Hee.

File Under: Sucks to be You.

Subfile: But great for me!

I just got off the phone with my former employer. Not only are they not filling my position, the only other "marketing" person at the company just gave her notice. My old boss is now up to his arse in holy horse crap. This is what we in the business world like to call "opportunity." But it's opportunity with an evil laugh while rubbing my hands together thinking of the future contracts. Think the Brain from Pinky and the Brain. Mwaaahaahaahaaa!

My apologies to Section 14

Dear Section 14,

On Saturday night, while my precious Pioneers tied the dastardly Badgers, I let my emotions get the better of me and for this I sincerely apologize. Especially if you are a young child. It was not my intention to use such words in front of young children.

But in the heat of the moment, late in the third period, after listening to the blathering of obnoxious Badger fans for 50 minutes, I couldn't keep it in any longer. How do these loudmouth jack-arses get seats in the home team sections anyway? There should be a test. And where did all these drunken idiots come from? Wisconsin is a long way from Denver. Do they drive here? Fly here? Live here?

I take some small comfort in the fact that, while we didn't quite sweep the series, we moved up in the PairWise rankings to #1 as of this morning. The Badgers are still ranked at #7. Har Har.

But I digress. I'm sorry I said those things about their mothers. And about their sexual preference for animals. And their sub-par intelligence. And suggesting they quell their First Amendment right to free speech. And suggesting they have inappropriate sexual relations with themselves.

Actually, I'm not at all sorry that I suggested such things, just that I did so in front of your children. You understand. Unless you're a Badger fan, and in that case, please feel free to have sexual relations with yourself.

Sincerely,

Helen P. McGookin

Writing Friday: Heartbreak

I thought I'd take a different approach for Writing Friday's topic, heartbreak.

Finally she found it. The Job. The one and only that would satisfy her working life. Demanding, long hours mixed with a small amount of power. It tested her abilities, made her think critically, bring people to together and make things happen. In the event planning industry, jobs like this were few and far between.

She’d start each day at 7 am. Eager to get to the office, she’d take breakfast with her, have a bagged lunch at the ready. For several months the flurry of activity kept her late into the night. It didn’t matter because her co-workers were funny, easy to talk to and respected her abilities.

Except one.

She planned and plotted, organized and ordered her way to the day of the big conference. It was a training conference for 800 volunteers. They would arrive from across the country. Vans, perfectly synchronized, would pick them up and drop them off at the designated times.

The week flashed by. At the last meal on the last day, the executive director told the crowd of over 800 volunteers that this wonderful person had planned the whole event. The crowd stood in applause.

Monday morning she breezed into the office. Tired, but excited to start another project. A young woman who never talked to her glared at her in the break room. The woman was shorter than her. She had one too many dates with the Donut Hut. She was also the executive director’s assistant. For the sake of harmony and all that crap, she tried to be pleasant, even toyed with the idea of taking her to lunch to see what her deal was.

She never got the chance.

A blond head poked in her cube. It was her boss, asking her to come in her office. She thought nothing of it. Her boss sat down behind her desk and motioned to take a seat. The executive director was sitting next to her. They were quiet while they waited for her to sit down. What she heard next would swim in her head for years later.

Packing her things took far too long. Her eyes blurred with tears and a nose ran with snot far beyond the help of tissues. Her boss stood at the cubicle opening watching her fill a box on the desk.

She somehow managed to get in her car and drive a mile or so down the road before hyperventilating. She pulled to the side of the road and shut off the ignition. Barely breathing, she reached for her cell phone to call her husband.

“Hello.”

“I... just...” sob, sob, gasping for breath.

“What? Are you ok?”

“...I... just... got...” one more gulp for air.

“What?! Are you ok?!” the tone of his voice began to rise in worry.

“I... just...” sob “...got...” sob “...fired!” At this point, any ability to speak coherently ceased. She hadn’t said it out loud until that point. Speaking the word made it sound real.

“What the hell!? What do you mean?!” he shouted into the phone.

sob... gasp... sob...

His voice softened, “Where are you? Do you need me to come and get you?”

sob...”yes” a small voice croaked out.

“What did they say? Did they give you a reason?”

Then her lungs found air, “I don’t know... they wouldn’t tell me...” sob “I asked and asked and...” sob “they kept saying I didn’t meet their expectations...” sob.

“What the fuck does that mean?!” he yelled into the phone.

sniffling, gasping for air, “...I don’t know... they just said I didn’t fit in.”

His voice calm, stern, “where are you right now?”

“In my car, down the street from the of... off of Revere and Peoria,” she barely squeaked out.

She hung up the phone and tried to process what she just heard herself say. As she fingered the paycheck they had handed her, she could hear the chorus of self-criticism start.

She didn’t fit in. She didn’t do a good job. She wasn’t good enough. She failed.

Things I saw at the fair.

I attended the first ever women business owner's conference in Denver yesterday. Sponsored by NAWBO and the SBA, it promised to be a hootin' good time. There were close to 500 women there, mostly business owners. If I were in the fashion consulting business, I would have had a heart attack. Instead, I'm left with plenty of snark material. The bad part was that I didn't have anyone with me to snark along side of. The good part was that by the end of the day, I'd met a few dozen neat ladies.

The day started bright and painfully early at 7 am. Seven-freakin-a-m. Keep in mind I had to drive from the ghetto to downtown Denver. My brain doesn't even start processing until 8:30 am. It's a scientific fact. I'm wired this way.

To get us jazzed first thing, they had a panel of women business owners sharing their successes and lessons-learned. People: a dark ballroom at 9:30 in the morning with a panel of noteworthy, but otherwise "calm," speakers is not my idea of a energizer. Sleepy. Sleepy. Of course the "reserved" tables for all the media sponsors were empty at this time. Hmm. Right.

Next were a series of fascinating (I'm serious here) seminars. I learned a lot. I learned (not for the first time) that I have a whole lot more to learn about bidness. I wish I could have split myself into four people to go to all the seminars at the same time.

But my loyal six readers aren't here for a recap of the women's conference of the year. They want the dirt.

Some women must be so busy running successful companies that they have no time to shop for clothes. I'd say they've been really busy since 1987. Shoulder pads died so, very, very long ago, ladies. Just an fyi.

Is big hair back? Did I miss that memo? When it's combined with a poufy-shouldered -power-suit, ala Melanie Griffith in "Working Girl" I don't think it's a "new" hairstyle. Might want to check that out. Maybe I'm behind the fashion curve.

Yes, yes, I went to a women's conference and all I did was snark. You would too if you saw what I saw. It actually is a pathetic attempt to mask my insecurities regarding networking opportunities. All the movers and shakers at the conference were beyond me. I ended up talking to a whole bunch of women just like me. Small business women, start-ups, amateurs.

I've got some work to do. But first I have to look into this shoulder pad fashion trend.

got blahs?

I've come down with serious case of the blahs. I'm not sad, depressed, unhappy or bitchy. I'm not happy either. I'm just in a blah state of mind. It's been around for about a week now. I need to snap out of it. Work to do, clients to smooze, lunches to luncheon... I've got a busy schedule. Last Thursday at 12:30 in the afternoon I had a massage. It was my reward for working so hard the month before. A massage. At 12:30. On a Thursday. Don't hate me.

But still with the blahs.

Then, out of the blue, yesterday the Denver Post "comments" section advertised for Colorado Voices. I'm going to submit. This should wash those blahs right out of my hair. Wait. Oh. No. This means I have to come up with original, or semi-original, or not-so-original-but-so-obscure-that-no-one-will-notice material.

Ms. Laughandpoint is ready to poke fun. Her long boney finger is uncurling, making its way from her housecoat pocket, rising in the air and taking aim... She's going to have to wait, because I'm on a deadline. I've got to write a "why me" letter and two sample articles by February 21. This used to seem a long way off when I lived in the Cubicle Village. Now time prances past me, mocking me with its quick step. I woke up this morning and it's February. By dinner it will be March.

Hi. Ho. Let's go. Mr. Benny Blahs and his trusty sidekick De Motivator will have to leave. I've got a column to write.

acting like a grown up

We bought life insurance. That's right. Life Insurance. I'm officially my parents. Except I drink every night.

Now that I'm in charge of my own fate, i.e., no big brother corporation is paying for life insurance, short/long term disability and all that stuff, I have nightmares about ending up living in a van down by the river.

We're also talking about investments. IRAs, SEP-IRAs, brokerage accounts, and a will are our nightly topics at the dinner table. This is how it goes:

me: who's going to take care of the wild beasts if we both die or are horribly disfigured in a rare hunting accident?

him: dunno

me: well my parents could take them, but they'd have to move to another state, and I just don't trust any of our brothers

him: mmm

me: what happens if we die and they go to a shelter, Rocky would be toast since he's such an arse-hole.

him: yeah

me: and poor Samantha, she'd be so scared.

him: right

me: that's it! we need a will, we should set up a trust fund for them

him: you have a trust fund?

Next stop: Bingo night at the VFW.