Happy, happy!

• I received official approval to book travel to Europe. There is now a chance that I'll turn 31 in London!
• It's snowing! I enjoy snow once it's on the ground but I'm happiest while it's falling from the sky. Forecast indicates it will be falling from the sky a great deal this week.
  
• It's Monday! The Big Bang Theory is on Monday (CBS. 8:30 Central). It makes me giggle.
• Chienne is sleeping across the room. I missed her. It's very comforting to have her home.
  
• I awakened at 5:15 feeling rested. I'm growing used to darkness that won't lift until I'm on my way to work. And I'm still happiest in the morning.
  

Ick

Being management in Industry feels a bit whorish at times.

For the most part, it doesn't bother me. But I don't mind being called and ordered to make nice with that group over here or listen to that guy over there. I'm dutifully charming at dinners. I sip drinks and laugh at jokes that aren't always funny.

I support the sale of high-quality products. And I'm fine with that.

But. Sometimes. There are some people. And they're stupid and wrong and do not deserve even a second of my attention. And it makes me moderately insane to have to pretend their requests are reasonable. To do what they ask without pitching a fit.

I do not like. But, with economic conditions such as they are, I do not have a choice.

So when I reply to an email or hang up the phone and call someone a whore? I follow that up with, "Oh, wait. That's me."

And then I curse. So much as I enjoy a majority of what I do, this part is still sometimes tough.

Too much

Standing in an enormous exhibit hall, I finally had a moment where I could check my messages.

“Katie,” PrettyHair greeted my voice mail (she said I had pretty hair the other day – it made me smile). “TinyFriend and I are in a cab going back to the hotel to get luggage. Then we’re catching the train. I, um, guess you’re taking the bus back home. I’ll leave the departure details in a text message.”

Her voice had been mildly guilty and I frowned darkly despite myself. The fact was that I had planned to take the bus back. There were a few options for coming home – a thing I desperately wanted to do since my head ached miserably – and people were taking various paths.

Now I rather like trains. Taking this one would have meant I could leave the show flow nearly three hours earlier. But while it was the more attractive choice, it was less sensible. The company sponsored bus was free while the train plus cab to where I’d left my car would have ended up being $100 or so. I also had meetings scheduled for later in the day so taking the train would have involved either excuses based on lies or an admission that I was tired and cranky and wanted to go home.

So I was going to stay late and take the bus. But I did not communicate that to my colleagues and I was, standing there surrounded by people talking and laughing in pairs or groups, furious that I’d been abandoned.

“Yes,” I answered my phone when PrettyHair called again. “I know,” I replied when she said they’d left.

“Well,” she paused, trying to think since I’m rarely that sharp with people at work. “I hope you get home safely.”

“Fine. Bye.” I replied, snapping my phone closed and reaching desperately for a sense of professional calm as I returned to questioning customers.

It was when I returned to the coat room two hours later that I began to feel sad. I mechanically tugged my suitcase from its spot in the corner and balanced my laptop bag atop it. I draped my coat over my arm and unclipped my badge from my suit jacket. I rode a couple of escalators, pausing to ask security for directions to the gate where my bus would depart, and got lost twice while trying to navigate the bridges and tunnels and endless choices of moving stairs. I had a snack at a table alone, pretending to read while feeling terribly isolated from people around me.

There were a number of buses outside when I found the properly numbered gate, the smell of exhaust nearly overwhelming. I looked around, knowing I was stuck in my head when I was unable to even imagine asking every driver if he could go to where I wanted. I looked around, feeling lost and confused, and pounced on the first woman who wore the same distinctive badge I’d removed from my jacket earlier.

“Are you going back to headquarters?” I asked, ready to burst into tears if she said no. She didn’t, smiling and motioning that I should follow her to one of the buses near the end of the row, offering to help with my luggage that I dragged behind me. I sagged with relief once I was settled in my seat, cuddled against my suitcase for comfort. I finished some email as we waited for more people to board, closing my laptop to embrace the darkness when the driver extinguished the lights and began to accelerate to join the flow of traffic outside.

“I’ve been reading,” I told one of the business leaders over fish and chips one evening, “and one theory is that depression is an overreaction to negative emotional stimulation.” This man, one I like and admire, nodded and nudged the malt vinegar bottle toward me. I nodded my thanks. “So when something bad happens, the brain responds more and longer than normal.”

“And that’s why you seem so sad sometimes,” he said quietly and I nodded.

“I just overreact,” I replied. “And though the medication helps, I still get lost in it sometimes.”

I felt overwhelmed there in the bus, sitting as I was in the third row, as far from the others as I could manage. There was a man behind me who would laugh now and again and something inane. It was all I could do not to turn and demand he stop. That he respect my pain and disappointment and feelings of abandonment and remain silent as we stopped and started depending on the will of traffic around us. I would tense each time he chuckled, gritting my teeth and closing my eyes and silently begging for conversations to cease.

I thought of the latest person to be done with me in a personal sense, smiling rather bitterly when I realized I’d thought I’d be the one to be done with him first. I do alienate people, I acknowledged, eager to make the break before they can decide I’m no longer worthwhile. But I’m sometimes inefficient. I grow increasingly skilled at keeping people at a distance and shoving at anyone who manages to get too close. When wondering if that was as horrible as it sounded became unpleasant, I let my mind go blank while I stared out the window.

I felt brittle with stress by the time we arrived at the building, stepping awkwardly from the bus while coaxing my suitcase down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. I waited for a woman to reach me, smiling weakly when she emerged.

“I’m sorry,” I said first. “My friends were supposed to come with me, but they didn’t and my car is over there,” I motioned and winced that it was more than a mile. “I could walk,” I offered.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s late and cold – I don’t mind taking you.”

I nodded, following her to her car and waving before throwing my suitcase in the back of the Jeep and tucking myself behind the steering wheel. I sighed, momentarily euphoric to be back in control of my transportation. I called my parents, spending my commute home catching up and asking them to bring Chienne back to me on Friday. The entire crew will arrive – Brother, his girlfriend, Little and Smallest Ones, Mom, Dad, Chienne and – if caught – Mr. Sprout. I checked my mood and realized I wanted them here. Pleased, I decided it might have been stress and exhaustion that made me react so strongly to taking the bus on my own. Not a big deal at all.

TinyFriend called just as I was pulling into my garage and I glared at the phone before answering.

“Hi,” I replied to her tentative greeting. “Did you need something?” I listened as she said she only wanted to make sure I’d arrived home. “Just now,” I answered, barely managing not to snap out the words. “I’m fine. Good night.”

Realizing I was furious and hurt once again, I came inside, only to wince when there was no happy canine to offer joyful greetings. I sat on the floor to unpack my suitcase, throwing laundry in a pile by the steps and leaving toiletries inside the bag to tug upstairs with me. Not wanting to analyze the day or my reaction to it, I said a quick prayer that I’d fall asleep quickly, turned the television on the lowest volume to keep me company and went to sleep.

It is a big deal, I thought as I drifted off. But I don't know how to change it so we'll leave this post sans suitable conclusion.

Thanks

I exited at the mile marked 50 and drove quickly toward home. I grinned when I saw the neighborhood remained littered with garbage bags and recycling bins and made a mental note to take my trash to the curb before leaving for a business trip tomorrow morning.

Last week, I turned down two lovely and local invitations in favor of trekking home with Creature Big and Creature Small. Creature Small found himself locked out of the basement and all three bedrooms upstairs first thing Thursday morning, showing his stripey displeasure by yowling at the top of his lungs while Chienne happily scampered toward the car and took her spot in the front seat.

“I know,” I told Sprout even as he yelled at me and dug his claws into the carpet as I lifted him into my arms. “You don’t like to go. But you’ll get lonely here all by yourself for a week. So to grandmother’s house you go, buddy.”

We made excellent time, finding few fellow travelers on Thanksgiving morning. My plan had been to make the trip on Wednesday but I got stuck at work on the day I’d officially taken off and was headachey, irritable and exhausted upon arriving home. So I decided to wait a day, and, as I sped through the gloomy morning, was rather glad I did.

I arrived home to find tight hugs and pies baking. As Chienne offered frantically loving greetings to my parents, I broke off a piece of pie crust sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and poured a cup of coffee before perching on the couch next to Mom. We talked, catching up on personal stories and watching local and national ones on television so we could offer expert commentary.

It was just after noon when I asked, still clad in stripey pajama pants and a t-shirt speckled with tiny holes, if we should get ready. Mom and Dad indicated they already were, leaving me to pad down the hall and slip into jeans and sweater. We packed up the pies (apple, pumpkin and cherry) and head off to Aunt and Uncle’s house.

“We won’t have enough,” Dad reported sadly upon walking in and setting the pies on the counter. “There are five of us and we only have 3 pies. So if everyone wants some, we’ll have to share. Like animals.”

Mom might have been abashed for her abundance if she’d been born to another family, but that’s just how we roll. On Thanksgiving, there are three kinds of pies. Also, Aunt began to remove dish after dish from the oven and refrigerator until the table was filled with corn and green bean casserole, rolls and a whole (though modest) turkey, stuffing and a huge green salad, cranberries and olives and potatoes – sweet and mashed.

After folding our hands and bowing our heads, Aunt said grace and we soon began to pass dishes and talk. Uncle is almost completely deaf but I soon remembered to keep my hands away from my lips when I talked and make sure he could see my mouth. We giggled and complained and ate and ate. Once full, I refilled water and wine glasses and began to clear the table.

I felt wonderfully relaxed and happy as I scraped ick into the garbage and rinsed the dishes before finding them a spot in the dishwasher. Standing there, mere steps from my family in Aunt’s open kitchen, I realized I didn’t feel miserable about being there alone. I knew Brother and my cousins were with their respective partners but felt oddly un-pathetic as we continued to converse.

I’m resigned to remaining alone, I realized and accepted the sharp pain that resulted in that acknowledgment. And though I still feel less than grateful that Thanksgiving triggers that for me, I seem to be growing out of the desire to sit alone and weep over my terrible misfortune. I can grow up and appreciate what is rather than wallowing in what won’t be.

I woke this morning, patted Chienne as she cuddled closer and wriggled out of the daybed to join Mom in the living room. Dawn was still at least an hour away but the Christmas tree sparkled in the darkness as I flopped down on the couch across the room from where she was curled on the loveseat.

“I was coughing,” she said and I nodded – I’d heard her. “I don’t want to go shopping,” she continued and I grinned and said thank you. She smiled back at me and we sat, mostly quiet, and stared at the lights and ornaments decorating our tree.

Ones – Little and Smallest – arrived in pajamas and sneakers at 8. They were dressed in layers a few hours later, all of us buckled in the van as we headed downtown for the parade. There’s something magical about watching tiny bemittened hands waving back at firemen on the truck. I watched Smallest One perched on Brother’s shoulders, her mouth forming the name of the red character that walked down the street, waving madly when Elmo glanced her way. Little One, pretty as a princess, watched quietly for the most part. She waved and smiled when I adjusted her hat over her ears. She curled closer when I sat next to her on the curb, only to pop up when the next band or float slowly moved past.

Little One unbuckled herself and bounced out of the van when we were safely parked in the driveway at home. She scampered off, leaving me to think she’s getting to be such a big girl. Smallest One, conversely, had worn herself out, remaining soundly asleep even as I unfastened the multiple restraints on her carseat and scooped her out to hand to Dad.

“Boppy,” she demanded sleepily as he carried her inside. “Boppy, PawPaw.” So while she curled up in the bed I’d vacated that morning, pacifier lying safely beside her and pink blankie clutched in her hand, Little One and I colored Christmas pictures in the book I’d brought for them.

I soon leaned over to give hugs and kisses, deciding to make the drive in daylight rather than fretting over deer fleeing under cover of night. Chienne stood next to my mom, her snout visible even in the dim light in the corner of the kitchen that leads to the garage. Once I backed out, I rolled my window down to wave at Little One and her grandpa as they stood on the porch to wave. Chienne and Mom waited inside the glass door and I sighed sadly before driving away.

I’m now home – just for the evening – and I hate it here without the animals. So I thought I’d distract myself with a blog post and finish packing before taking a bath and getting some sleep. While I hope I find time to post while I’m away – at least toss you some photos – I’m unsure if I’ll find time.

Musical Memory

In March, 2006, I was driving toward a friend's house. Deep in the throes of what turned out to be little more than a lengthy and ill-fated crush, I gave myself stern pep talks as I prepared to dial the object of my affection to talk.

I recall the way my cheeks warmed and heart raced. I vividly remember the way my attention split among desire to call and hear his voice, terror that I'd say something stupid and distraction that I wouldn't find Dave's house so that I could rest before heading back to post-doc city. It was dark and barely raining, my windshield wipers smearing the glow of lights around me. I stopped at Arby's, knowing I should be hungry at 8PM since I'd not eaten since breakfast, but found myself too nervous to order anything more than a soda.

There was music. I had my iPod plugged in and let someone sing at a moderate volume while I glanced and directions and sipped soda and gathered my courage.

In August, 2009, I remembered that moment in startling clarity, save one detail. While I remembered the laptop bag that rested on the seat beside me, could recall the MapQuest directions that I'd printed and scrawled notes on and found the memory of my knotted stomach and hopeful heart bittersweet, I was unable to remember who had been singing.

"Something about scars and acceptance," I murmured. "Sort of smooth and sexy and sad." Then I swore because I couldn't remember anything relevant - artist, album, enough lyrics to google a line. I just remembered the emotion.

And it Drove Me Nuts. Each time I picked up my iPod, the remembered music with forgotten titles tickled my consciousness. I focused - closing my eyes tight and wrinkling my nose in an attempt to remember by sheer force of will. When that didn't work, I relaxed, confident that my brain would eventually locate that pocket of knowledge and tell me what I wished to know.

It's now November. And I was no closer to hearing the songs again.

While I remain on my first iPod - a gift from my parents upon finishing grad school - it failed early this year and I had to wipe it before reloading software. Though I reloaded most of my music, there were bits and pieces that I didn't manage to transfer. When I noticed, I would find the pesky files and move them over.

I'd searched and missed it, knowing it was just like waking up first thing and looking for the toothpaste and, though I was looking right at it, it just didn't register. I tend to be mostly oblivious, assuming people and events don't require my attention unless they explicitly ask for it. But this - having known something and recognized my enjoyment of it and forgotten it - was too much to bear.

Finally, completely annoyed with my inability to trigger the memory, I got resourceful, searched old iTunes receipts and immediately found the files and began to listen. And in that moment of November, 2009, I was completely content.

Owning Your Actions

Corporate life has introduced a number of new terms into my lexicon. We speak in a way that is sometimes ridiculously self-conscious and awkward and I think we do it in order to seem important. Regardless, we speak a great deal about actions and owners and how the two of them lead to great progress (and preferably profit).

"Couldn't we work as a team?" PrettyHair asked, twirling a lock about her finger while I scowled at her attempt to escape another task.

"No," Adam noted simply. "I mean, you can and should work as a team. But I want a single person responsible for getting it done correctly and on time." Such a directive hangs on the wall (along with oft-ignored rules to start meetings on time and have clear objectives before demanding people congregate).

I rather like being assigned my tasks for a given time, having done an excellent job pulling together my play date. It gives me authority to demand help, power to revise as ruthlessly as necessary. With that comes the blame if it all goes to hell, but I'm pretty cool with that too.

"I'm not sure he's worth it," a friend said.

"How so?" I asked, always absently as I tried to get work done and wondered what personal drama I was to hear.

"Well, I could move up in the company. Go anywhere. Do anything. But he's making me give that up to be with him!"

"You," I scolded good-naturedly, "are revising history, my dear. I remember there being a man. Then he was a man who loved you and you loved him in return. They you got a job offer closer to where he lives and - with him reserving judgment - decided to take it. Now, I hope it works out. That you're blissfully happy forever and ever and that you don't miss this career path for a single second. But the decision was yours. And putting that kind of pressure on a relationship seems non-ideal."

She frowned at me darkly before nodding.

"I," I continued thoughtfully, "sometimes cry before bed because I never see this loneliness ending. Yet I don't put myself out there because I think there's more risk than reward. I am dedicated to my career because there's not a whole lot else going on with me. So I think you took a look at what I've chosen and selected that alternative. And that's wonderful. So embrace that and be excited and happy that you have this opportunity rather than mourning the path you turned down. Sure, be a little sad - we'll miss you. Some of your projects may not get done without you here. But focus on the happy, for goodness sake! You're starting to bum me out."

"Did you hire her?" I asked another manager as we sipped soup in his office.

"Of course," he replied, sulking.

"And you make the rules - assign responsibility, follow up, give her reviews?"

"Yes," he said, beginning to glare.

"Kiddo," I sighed, wondering why I've selected that as my term of endearment for men, "I fail to see why I should pity you. It seems you did this yourself and have all the power to fix it."

"It's hard," he sighed.

"Oh, sweetheart," I sighed in return, feeling pleased that I'd been around long enough to be simultaneously exasperated and affectionate. "I know it is. And I am sorry. But you can either stay gloomy or figure this out."

"Tell me how to figure it out," he grinned, reaching across his desk to steal a packet of my crackers. I reached to take a corner of his cookie and sat back in my chair.

"Aren't there decision trees for this sort of thing?" I teased. "I suppose you figure out what motivates her," I said more seriously, thinking carefully. "You stress accountability and set limits that you don't cross. And you need to consider your team - how her behavior affects them and how long you're willing to tolerate that." I eyed his cookie, having already finished the small section I'd taken. "I don't know," I finally sighed. "This is why I don't really want direct reports."

Threshold

When I glanced up and saw a colleague at my door, I barely refrained from saying out loud. Still, all I could think was "What the hell could you possibly want from me now?" It was shortly after I helped her that I packed up my things and walked out of the building before noon. I'd sent a short note to Adam that I was past my limit and needed some time to settle.

It's not been a terrible week, I thought as I headed to fetch breadsticks, hummus and chocolate. (I wanted them.) I had dinner with a friend one night. Worked on early and late teleconferences and did lots of tasks between them. I went for a meal with some visiting collaborators last night, doing my best to be peppy, charming and engaged with their stories. I enjoyed it - they were lovely, fascinating people who do interesting work - but barely stayed awake enough to drive home thanks to the single margarita I enjoyed.

So I picked up a paperback and some snacks and drove home. I took a nap and a shower (in that order). I read my book - it was mediocre - and relaxed. And I now feel capable of facing the last day of this week and the work that awaits me this weekend.

If I owe you an email, I'm sorry - I want to reply but I start sentences and can't think clearly enough to finish them. Thank you for your message and I'll be in touch soon.