Rainy days and Mondays

It rained pretty much all day yesterday. I grew up in the desert, where rain is a luxury. So I love the rain. Love it. Love it. Love it. Just not on a holiday weekend. Not when I should be out in the garden planting. Manual labor is such a catharsis for me. I process all the big stuff that way. The little problems are solved on my morning walks. But the hard stuff, the stuck in the side of your head and won't leave problems are solved during a good weed pulling, planting or mulching expedition. It is in the methodical digging, turning, pulling and raking that all the worlds troubles fall from my shoulders. I don't even know what's going to happen at the beginning, but once I'm fingers deep in the soil, an idea, a solution, just jumps in my head.

I had some big issues to think about this weekend. Last week I took some time to look at my P&L for the first five months of the year. Granted, I have only been out on my own for five months, but as an over-achiever, OCD-ish, person, I expect more from myself. I expect perfection. So when I looked at my P&L (which was mostly profit since I am a service business), and it didn't match up with what I made last year at BigCo, I freaked out, um, a smidge.

So I starting thinking of what I needed to do to get to that level. I added up all the upcoming projects I know about. Hmm, still need a little more. Alright, a lot more. Hmm. What to do. What to do. I started pacing. Pacing helps, you see. What to do. What to do. Sell my kidneys? No, I may need those. Oh yes, remember that marketing plan you put together at the beginning of the year? Get it out from under the pile of DBJ's and crack it open. Wow, it's like you never worked a day in marketing.

But there is still a lot of thinking to be done. I need to review what I did for the last five months, and adjust my plan for the next seven. Yes, that's it. That's what I need to do. That's where the gardening comes in. But Ma Nature didn't want me to think yesterday. Instead she wanted me to spend three hours at Lowe's ordering kitchen cabinets and countertops, and another two hours at the garden center buying shrubbery. Yes. She wanted it. Who am I to say no to mother?

Today I may get that chance. After I work on a client project, take the pooch to the vet, and hubby comes home, we will plant those shrubbery we bought yesterday. We also have to dig up a dead tree to prepare for a live tree to take its place. All that digging is bound to produce outstanding ideas. Maybe even brilliant ideas.

I've got nothing.

Lately I've been dealing with unhappy people in business, personal and volunteer-wise. They really take it out of me. One time we bought this ginormous bottle of hand soap at Costco. They kind where you could wash the country of Chad's hands and still have some left over for yourself. We put this bottle under the sink in the spare bathroom. Thankfully there was nothing else under that sink. The Ughe bottle got a little tiny whole in it. So small that we didn't even notice it. A month goes by and I pull that baby out to refill the soap dispensers. It's leaked out, all of it, and flooded the cabinet with gooey soap. That's how I feel about unhappy people. People who have a slow leak. Toxic people. They slowly leach out and cover your world with gooey mess. By the time you figured it out, they're gone and you have to clean up the goo. And it never cleans up easily.

I told you about my house guest from hell, non? Well, I did. I'm not allowed to talk about her around hubby. He groans and then walks away, shaking his head, trying to forget. Most of the time I'm able to put the whole sad, pathetic, alcoholic-inducing event behind me. Until something comes up that reminds me of that unfortunate the nightmare.

Last week such a reminder came calling. A mutual friend called me on Thursday. Thursday! She was in town. For her brother's graduation. She wanted to get together. Great! Sounds great. She wanted to get together with said house guest from hell (HGFH) and myself. Oh. Not so great. As if that wasn't the last thing I would do before jumping neckid in a vat of boiling oil, she wanted to get together ONLY on Saturday. ONLY at lunch. Only the time I was teeing off on the 16th hole. Now, I'm not anywhere close to being what some people call "good" at golf. In fact, I stink. But I know golf etiquette. I'm nothing but a well mannered woman. When someone agrees to play in a foursome on a Saturday, she may not, unless the dead are invading the earth, break that agreement on Thursday evening. Especially to have lunch with someone who could have emailed you several weeks prior to her arrival and includes the above mentioned HGFH. Nah-uh.

So my friend is verrrry persistent. To this I think "she knows." I've never told her about said HGFH experience. I don't want to put her in the middle. I'm sure the HGFH told her how horrible I was. How Hubby and I were so mean to her. How we never made her clean the house. Or cook dinner. Or never took her anywhere. Or never made her shovel the g.d. walk after we'd worked all day and driven home in a blizzard. Or didn't want to hang out with her at Every. Waking. Moment. Yeah, it was all us. But, I didn't want to put this friend in the middle because she is a "fixer." Otherwise known as a peacemaker. She will try to "get us back together" anyway she can. But she doesn't know the secret. She doesn't know that the HGFH can fix it her g.d. self by simply saying, "sorry." Sans fake air quotes, of course. All I want is for her to realize how horrible she was to us and to say she's sorry.

But she won't, she can't. And I'm fine with that. Or so I thought. I told my friend that I was golfing, and couldn't make it. She told me to call them when I got done golfing and we could get together then. Oh yeah, I've just walked 3 friggin miles in 97 degree weather, but I'll give you a call. So I didn't call. Instead I called on Sunday and got her voice mail. She hasn't called me back. Perhaps she's now mad at me as well.

That didn't bother me. What bothered me was the dreams I started having. Clearly these are repressed feelings bubbling to the surface, trying to break free. In my dreams I'm screaming! Screeeeeaming at the HGFH. How horrible she is, how selfish, how lazy, how disgusting, how rude... and she's just sitting there. Then she yells back at me that I'm the freak and I need to get out. Get out?! It's my friggin house. And so it goes. I scream and scream and it goes nowhere. She just doesn't get it.

I'm not a screaming-type person in real life. I hate screaming or yelling of any kind. It makes me very uncomfortable. I was abused by my older brothers as a child, when they were on drugs and not aware of their actions. They used to scream and beat me up and I would cry and lock myself in my room. I learned to avoid screaming. I know how it feels to be yelled at. It's very demoralizing. So I never do it. But I think there has to be a balance somewhere between yelling at someone and locking yourself away. I've locked so much away on this and it's surfacing in my dreams whether I like it or not. I've avoided the HGFH and the situation for over a year.

It may be time for me to face it.

The Interview Game

My longtime six readers know that I never do memes of any kind. It's not that I'm too good for them, I'm just lazy. And weird. But I've been seduced by The Interview Game. Curses! Marilyn! So, here I go. De-laz-a-fying.

The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

My Q&A from Marilyn:
1) If you couldn't have a beagle, what kind of dog would you own?
Um... huh... that's a tuffy. I *heart* all dogs, except those yippy kind and the tear your head off kinds. I'd have to go with a Weimaraner. They are so perdy.

2) What's your favorite apre-ski drink?
I'm torn between a Ketel One/tonic and a hard cider. Nope, got to go with the Ketel One.

3) What was an embarrassing moment that turned out to ultimately have a good result?
What sticks out in my mind is the one and only time I've been fired from a job. Not only was it embarrassing, I had no idea why I was being fired. Sure, most people say that. They told me that there was no reason, only that "I didn't meet expectations." To this day I don't know what that means. But it taught me that I can't depend on an employer for security or a future. It taught me to stop taking a job so seriously. To stop putting work before my own happiness. I learned to depend on myself a lot more and not to get too attached to any one job. It put me on the path to starting my own business, which I've successfully done. It was a hard way to learn all of it, but I'm glad I did. I would have never taken the risks I've taken if I never got fired.

4) Heels or flats?
Heels. They make me feel like a "strong, confident woman." I wear heels to all my professional events like networking and client meetings and I really notice the difference in how I feel and act.

5) If you could publish your own magazine, what would it be called and who would be your first cover subject?
Someone already beat me to it. Modern Drunkard Magazine, published right here in Colorado! Or I'd do "Nap Times" with a cover story on best places to nap in public, at work and around relatives, without getting caught or fired. And no, that wasn't why I was fired! ;)

Who's next?

Unplugged

Yours truly spent the whole weekend unplugged. No email. No cell phone. No internets. How? Wha? Huh? How could you?

Yes, it's true. It was completely unplanned. Somehow between all the golf, drinking, napping, yardwork and more drinking, I forgot to turn on the computer or cell phone.

Friday night the only neighbors we talk to came over the fence for a rock and roll margarita party. They finally stumbled back over the fence at 2 am! Oh. Ma. Ga. Four hours later I discovered, once again, that I am, indeed, not a rock star when we had to be up for an early tee time. Ouch. Double ouch. I walked 18 holes for the first time ever. Then I paid for it with blisters and sunburn because it was 970,000 degrees in sunny Aurora. My SPF 900 melted off faster than I could drive my ball in a sand trap.

Somehow I mustered the energy to attend a potential client's grand opening on Saturday night. Alright, it wasn't much of a sacrifice. It was a grand opening of a day spa. They had free adult beverages, tasty food, and... a chocolate fountain! It took every ounce of energy to resist putting my head IN the chocolate fountain. Everyone needs a chocolate fountain in their home. This should be a law or something. Forget "homeland security" put in a chocolate mandate. They all should come with fresh strawberries, marshmallows and shortbread for dipping. I think it could pass easily in the House, but the Senate is a bit tricky these days.

The rest of the weekend was spent in a cool location with frrrrosty beverages and fans. The Mr. and I did a teeny project in the yard on Sunday. After our landscaping extravaganza last year, complete with trenching, tilling and laying sod, this one was a walk in the park. We installed some trelliseses, trellisi, trelli? and some clematis, which I'm told grows like a weed. Perfect for blocking out nosy neighbors. (not to be confused with the rock star neighbors)

It wasn't until late Sunday night that I realized I'd spent the whole weekend unplugged. Even with the sunburn, the blisters, the aching back and the 970,000 degree weather, it felt relaxing. A mini vacation from the stress of life. One less thing to think about. It was... nice. Don't fret, I'm not going all Laura Ingalls on you now. Trust me.

Flabby Abs and the Balance Ball of Death

My PSA for today: People, if you love your stomach and don't want it to come to any harm, avoid the balance ball of death. Please.

I've got 6 months to get in shape for ski season. It may seem a ridiculously long time away, but I have to account for the cake, cookies, and cocktails to be consumed between now and then. And the on-again-off-again exercise habits I have.

Good for my budget, but bad for my pain tolerance, I discovered our cable system has yoga, tai chi and pilates On Demand. Now I can torture myself to good shape in the comfort of my own home. I can even pause to have a sip of wine.

I gave it a try this weekend. Hmm, seems simple enough. Balance your tush on this ball, do a couple of arm swoops and in less than 15 minutes, you have a workout with little sweat. (I hate sweat.) But 24 hours later, oh my! My flabby abs sent a memo to the rest of my body. It had some rather rude comments about the brain. Things I will not repeat. Children could be present.

I say again: Stay away. Stay away from the Balance Ball of Death.

"stop buying beige"

A friend of mine suggested that I hire an image consultant. She pitched it to me with the ol' "don't take this the wrong way" line, which really means, you need some help and I'm too nice not to say you dress like a circus freak. On Friday, my own personal What Not To Wear consultant showed up at my front door. She was impeccably dressed, as she should be. She wore an adorable skirt suit in that trendy new fabric that I never would buy. She had lovely shoes. Lovely hair. Lovely accessories. I was wearing flip-flops, capri pants and a t-shirt. I think I might have taken a shower that day. I can't be sure.

We gabbed about our businesses for a long time. We figured out some good contacts for each other, passed some ideas around and figured out we knew a lot of the same people. I got the dirt on the worst dressed professional women. She told me that she's trying to get more lawyer and CPA clients because they are, um, fashionably challenged. So it's not just me. Ha!

Then we got down to the monster that lives in my closet.

Every spring and fall I spend a lot of time cleaning out my closet. So when Dr. Pretty Pants showed up, I had toned down the freakiness from the usual spectacle. Gone were the schoolmarm sun dresses. Adios to the shoes purchased in 1993. Buh-bye to the too-tight black skirts. Farewell to the 1990's oversized shirts. I thought I did pretty good. But she still had some comments. While she didn't make me cry like the woman on the show, she did point out that I have a lot of, oh god, I'm afraid to even say it!, beige. But it goes with everything! I said. I felt the need to defend my clothes, my friends, even though a few days before I stood there in my underoos cursing all of them.

She pulled out a few items, gave them the eye, and asked me, why do you have this piece? Um, my mother gave it to me..? It wasn't a question, but really an attempt to explain the long, straight navy skirt with light blue butterflies. Oh, she said with a funny face. Wait! I cried, frantically searching for her fashion approval. I can get rid of it, really! I can. She won't mind. She lives in another state. Good, she said with a stern look. It's got to go.

She pulled out another piece. A blazer from 1997. It's a cute little number that has the sweet '90s buttons. It's lavender. She gave it the once over. Change the buttons, she said, and you could keep it. Whew. That's a relief, I thought.

When she was done examining what she had to work with, I was told that we are going to work on getting more color in my closet. I think she was surprised by my lack of creative-type clothes. I explained that I worked in one drab office or another for the past 10 years. Now I'm on my own and need to develop my self-employed, creative, happy-go-lucky-but-pay-me-money, style.

She agreed to help me. I'm not too far gone, she said. She's coming back again next week when we will dive into my closet. Some painful cuts will most likely occur. She's going to measure. She's going to make me try things on. Then she's going to take me shopping. And I can't buy beige. Ever. Again. (wimper)

It's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to...

...or if mean people call me and yell at me. It should be against the law to yell at people on their birthdays. Really. Making people cry on their very special day is so wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Don't get me wrong. People have yelled at me before. But this was different. She was different. And it's my birthday.

A mean, nasty lady yelled at me. She is a nasty person. The kind that blames the world for everything wrong in her life. The kind that takes and takes and takes and then wonders - strike that, is furious - when people tell her to go away. This time she took it out on me. She called me this afternoon, furious, accusing me of things I said, confidences I betrayed. I quickly raced back in mind to what I had said and I knew what she was saying wasn't true. But it didn't matter. She was (is) mad. She is hurt. She feels that I betrayed her. I didn't know what else to say besides that I was sorry, that she misunderstood, that she acted in a way that made everyone think she didn't want to be a part of this.

The whole time she was yelling, I wanted to vomit. She made me feel horrible. She accused me of betraying confidences. I never do that. I'm not the kind of person to do that. She kept yelling and yelling, and I could feel the tears burning in the back of my eyes. I took a deep breath and swallowed. I tried to keep it together.

I think she wanted me to be confrontational. To argue. To yell. I just flat out refused to engage. I apologize for something I know I didn't do. I said I understood why she was upset. I said I didn't intend to hurt her feelings. The whole time I kept my voice low, deliberate. (In my head I was screaming at her, "it's my effin birthday. I don't need this today! Eff off!") My voice didn't waver. She was slightly confused by this approach. I don't think she gets that very often. She hung up after a very terse 'bye.

I did what any self-respecting, aspiring superhero, bohemian-at-large, small business owner would do. Hung up the phone and cried. I've been crying since she called. I called my best friend. She told me I did nothing wrong. This was a mean lady. I called another friend who also talked to her and got the yelling, he told me I did nothing of the sort, that she's a mean lady. I called hubby. He told me the same thing, she's a mean lady. He even offered to call and yell back at her. It still didn't stop the crying. Once the tears come, there's no stopping them.

Hubby came home with a pretty cake and decorations. Soon we'll go out to a fun dinner. I'll order a froo-froo drink with an paper umbrella and a pineapple on it. The hound dawgs will still love me. Their white-tipped tails will wag when I come home. Pink tongues will lick my face and wet, black noses will suction themselves to my pant leg to figure out where I've been. I'll wake up tomorrow knowing that I'm a good person.

But she, well, she will still be a mean lady.

shut down in 5...4...3...2...

I'm trying to update my website and blog at the same time. Trouble is, I ain't no rocket surgerist, if you know what I mean? Mixing frustration with complete incompetence, my brain is on the verge of shutting down. Why? I am Queen Procrastination today.

Motivation? We don't need no stinkin' motivation. This is a problem. I've got a wee bit of client work to do. Calls gotta get made, press checks have to be checked, and somebody set off a paper-grenade in my office. Spring is official here, and this can mean only one thing: OCD-style cleaning. I pulled out all my yucky old clothes from the closet and threw them in a pile, in the office, of course. Then I cleaned out some old files, about five years worth of pay stubs, insurance forms and gym membership papers that I no longer need. Either the devil dogs are moving around under the pile of crap, or we've got a bigger problem.

While I was whining the day away, I happened upon a swell blog that I want to tell the world about. Her saga makes my life look like a Princess Cruise. I think I'll be reading her posts, re-reading them, and then reading them out loud to myself when I start to feel sorry for my happy existence. Don't get me wrong, I've had some messed up things happen to me, but never like this. She gives me courage and inspires me to stop my bitchin'. Something we all can use, right?

As luck would have it...

I wish I could say I lived to tell you about my public speaking experience. I wish I could say that I was awesome and brave. I wish I could say that at the end, everyone gave me a standing-o for 20 minutes before the police came in to escort me safely away. I wish I could. But I can't. My speech was pushed back a week. Now I get to speak on my birthday. In public. To people.

Oh, well. It's a fantasmagorical day in the 'burbs. The grass is green and birds are a chirpin'. I have three estimates to do today, three press checks and then I'm free to languish in the splendor of a Friday afternoon. Heaven. It's so good to be alive.

And tonight! Lo! Tonight, hubby and I are getting gussied up and going to a fundraiser/casino night/drinking/debauchery event. Do you even know the last time hubby and I went out dressed in something nicer than jeans and a t-shirt? Um, try years... eons... decades... I feel so grown up, going to a fundraiser with other grown ups. Wearing grown up clothes. Playing grown up games. Yeah... that last part didn't sound right.

Tonight I will learn how to play baccarat, and maybe even craps! Ever since I watched Guys and Dolls I've wanted to play craps. Just not in a sewer for 44 hours. And definitely not with Big Julie from Chicago who is down 25Gs and wants his money back. But give me the young Brando and I'll call it good.

Luck be a lady, tonight!

Overwhelmed. Ack.

(running and hiding under covers) Leave me alone. Wait! Don't go.

I have that panic-y feeling again. It's a bubbling sense of fear. The fear starts whispering in my ear: "you are a joke. You will fail." I tell it to shut it and try to cover up the fear with too much work to do. Now I have too much work, and not enough motivation. I have no idea why. Well, that's a lie, I do.

Tomorrow I have a public speaking engagement. I repeat, I have to speak. To people. In public. The speaking in public part is not so bad on its own. It's the subject that has me doubled over in pain. Me. Yes. Me. I have to talk about ME. In public. To people. This, I am not so good at. I can talk about you in public. I can talk about color theory and how it relates to buying habits in public. I could talk about tomatoes 10 lbs for a $1 in public. But, me? No. I have nothing so say about me. Nada.

Instead of working on my speech, instead of working on tracking down 400 envelopes in Proterra Antique Kraft, instead of calling my outstanding A/R and asking for money, I do this. I blog. I read. I sign up for Photoshop workshops. I organize my piles of crap on the desk. I do anything but think about speaking of ME in public.

Case in point: I heard an acoustic version of a Social Distortion song on the radio that reminded me of someone, something, another life, someone else. It was driving me nuts. Not a very far drive, by the way. I could hear this song in my head that it reminded me of, but I couldn't remember the artist or song name. I looked through all my CDs. I even dusted off my old cassette tapes to find it. Still no luck. I was driven to find this song. So I Google'd the lyrics I could remember. Then I found the song. After that, I Google'd the song title and came up with the artist. (Fairytale of New York by The Pogues. Don't laugh. Please.) Thank you Internets! Then I went to iTunes to download it. They don't have it. Come on! iTunes, don't you know I am putting off something important by looking for this song?! Geesh.

Yes, I realize that Social Distortion and The Pogues have little in common, but something about the Social D song sent a obsessive search directive to my brain. Maybe it's the stress. Maybe I've finally snapped. All I know is that I can not rest until I have that song. Of course, it has nothing to do with the thing I will not speak of tomorrow. No. Not at all. Not one bit.

oh, good, golly...

Remember when you were in high school? Remember how everything sucked? Remember how weird you felt?

It all came rushing back to me yesterday when I met up with my niece. I was flooded with memories of pimples, heartache, crisis after crisis, mean people, and the awkwardness of it all. Uck.

Thank goodness I'm 30. Oh, sweet Jesus! Thank. Goodness. I. Am. 30.

The good news is that she is figuring out that she's got to make better choices, the bad news is that her "friends" have little to no ambition. Nearly all of them have been kicked out, dropped out, or just don't go to school. They hang at the mall. All day. Every day. Sweeeeet.

Not just any mall. Oh, no, no... This mall is something out of my high school days. Nothing like the new "lifestyle" centers that are popping up in Colorado. No Williams Sonoma's to be found. This was ol' school, 1980's style mall. I half expected to walk into a Spencer Gifts. Wait, we did. We also spent some time in the "knives and swords" store. She didn't seem to notice that I kept pronouncing "swords" like the Sean Connery parody on SNL.

She must of thought I was cool enough to introduce me to all her good pals. I think she was trying to shock me. Like, look how weird my friends are! Aren't they rebels? Ah, no. Not so much. Mostly just loooooosers. Capital L. I know these types. They are some of the same people I knew in high school. The same people are still living with their parents. The same people that still hang out at the mall. I kept that little tidbit to myself. She called them losers all on her own. She doesn't like one of the girls. She's a skank, or so I'm told.

When I had her alone, she was sweet. Cute. A growing young woman adjusting to life's changes. A little shy. Funny. Very observant. But clearly seeking out something, anything, different from her own life. I gave her a hard time for things. I was sarcastic, she responded. I told her I only get this way with people I like. Ask your uncle.

I took her into Ann Taylor Loft. I needed my summer t-shirts. She looked like she would pass out from the pastels. Then she suggested I get one of the purple shirts. When we were walking out, she told me one of the clerks gave her dirty looks. I told her in a most snarky way, well, I can't imagine why?! (all black, trench coat, purple hair) She laughed.

She took me into Hot Topic, thinking I would be shocked, shocked! I say. Nah. I used to shop at these freaky places. I used to dye my hair strange colors. Hang out with odd people. The difference was that I was also an overachiever. I got away with nearly anything because I had good, no, outstanding, grades. Academics came so easy for me. I did weird things on my own time.

We talked about anything and everything. She's into art, music, drama, and travel. She seemed surprised that my preset radio stations were the same as hers. She was impressed that I knew who her favorite bands are. I told her how I felt her pain, that I was once awkward, weird, out of place. Now I'm mainstream. I pay taxes and run a business. I walk my dogs and never have run-ins with the law.

We talked about her mom. They're on the outs right now. Her dad's trying to get her into an alternative high school. We talked about drugs, drinking, sex, tattoos, just about anything. Her candor was surprising. We talked about college, her future, the choices she needs to make to get there. The hard part is that she knows what she has to do, but like all teenagers, she is impatient to get there.

She jumped at the idea of working for me. I told her I would pay her real US dollars for her time, just once a month or so. (Anything to get her away from those losers at the mall.) Perhaps I was fooling myself, perhaps she was pretending, but I felt we had something going there. I felt that I could actually do something positive for her. She seemed to be reaching out, nearly begging for positive attention. I never had a sister. I wonder if this is like that.

After I left, I had this sudden urge to apologize to my mom for everything and anything that happened in my teens. It could not have been easy for her. I've walked in her shoes and they don't fit me that well. They're much too big.

Happy. Happy. Happy. Happy.

May 1. May Day. Mayday!

Six years ago, today, I became Mrs. S.

This photo was taken at the first Halloween party the year we were married. He was Frankenstein, I was his bride. Now, if he'd dress up like this for me, how could I not love him? Better yet, if he'd let me post this, how could I not adore him?

As the song goes...

"Happy Ann-i-ver-sary, Happy Ann-i-ver-sary, Happy Ann-i-ver-sary, Haaa-ppy Ann-i-ver-sary. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. (breath) Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-py. Hap-

Oh, shut it!"*

(*So I Married An Axe Murderer)