Progression of Pretty, Part 1

"I would not want such a pretty guest to get lost," the man at reception said when I returned from my walk this morning and asked - albeit belatedly - for a map. I laughed because I looked thrown-together at best, having awakened before dawn but lazing until the sky started to brighten. At which point I threw on clothes and grabbed my camera so as not to lose the changes in lighting for such a beautiful place.

You'll likely have to indulge me several of these photo posts while I'm here. I like words - perhaps too much - but I find I don't have them when I'm so enchanted. So this is like me grabbing your hand of tugging your sleeve or slipping my arm through yours while walking so I could say, "Look... Isn't it bellissima?"

Avanti

There is a restaurant called Avanti's that we frequented when I was little. They had paper placemats that were printed with maps of Italy and tiny illustrations of the various cities. I vividly remember the leaning tower and the funny-looking boat.

"Those are gondolas," Grandma said. "Not like the sandwich they serve here, but these long boats they use in a place called Venice. They have canals instead of streets - like sidewalks filled with water - and people ride the boats instead of using cars."

I found that to be quite intriguing, though I've never been a big fan of boats. But I smiled when I realized I had a weekend in Italy - easily forsaking Rome or Florence for this city with water for streets.

It was meant to be hard to get here - I had planned to leave my hotel no later than 4:30AM to catch the first of 2 flights south. We'd then get a car, drive for an hour, take 3 hours of meetings and begin to repeat the process in order for me to reach Venice around midnight. And that was fine because I am here to work and I like my job, even apart from the fact that it sends me to Italy.

But when plans changed, I was shamefully thrilled that I could sleep late. I awakened feeling rested, showered and dressed, and climbed the stairs to the rooftop garden so I could overlook Bologna as I caught up on some work.

I shook my head between typing emails and taking pictures because who does that? Sits in rooftop gardens overlooking an ancient Italian city? It's just too wonderful.

My colleagues came to fetch me and I trotted out to the car, all packed and ready to complimented on how little luggage I needed. They obliged and we covered a couple of topics that required discussion before pausing to purchase a train ticket since the flight I'd booked from Rome wasn't going to do me much good.

"Now our priority is the lunch," one announced and I was pleased to agree as I'd not had breakfast. So we went to the countryside - over a one-lane bridge - to this little, old cottage that was now a trattoria.

It was at Avanti's where I took my first bite of tortellini smothered in meat sauce with a layer of melted mozzarella on top. I felt very adult that I didn't order pizza bread or a gondola. Today, I had fresh, homemade tortellini in broth - apparently a Bolognese specialty. And I felt like a child as I focused on nothing but tastes and textures and scents of this simply amazing food.

She then brought bread shaped like small pancakes which we cut open to place ham or salami or motadella inside. "We call this bologna," I smiled and nibbled again. "I've not had it since I was little, but it's delicious." And then I had one more.

"She likes the sweets," my colleague told the waitress in Italian and I nodded. I do like the sweets. So we had mascarpone with chocolate. And I drank a cappuccino. And I was full and happy and wishing for a nap.

Instead, I took a phone call at the office before catching a train and racing east. I followed my fellow passengers through the station and emerged at the top of some steps and caught my breath at the canal sparkling before me.

I just stood for a moment before reaching for my camera, thinking the life twists and turns a good deal. I wished fervently that I could take Grandma's hand and stare at the darkening sky and shimmering lights. Listen to the water lapping at the structures it bordered. And breathe in the smell of the sea.

In Bologna on the first day...

I s-l-e-p-t...

In Bologna on the second day...

I smiled back at the accordion player resting on the stoop underneath the porticoes. I'd given him 2 Euros on my first trip past him as I made my way toward the city center from my hotel. I supposed we were friends now and wondered if he'd offer sympathy when told I'd become terribly lost and had apparently wandered in a large circle. I had, you see, not planned to see him again but was grateful for the landmark, such as it was.

As an introduction to Italy, Bologna is charming. Smart and liberal, ancient and lovely, I wandered the flat streets on a gorgeous day, sweater fluttering around my waist as the hem of my skirt tickled the backs of my knees.

Despite the easy arrival at BLQ and quick taxi ride to my internationally-friendly hotel (with a giant bed and impressive view of the city), I could not get to sleep last night. So I awakened predictably grumpy and wishing I could sleep more and work less. But a huge breakfast - rolls, croissant, chocolate croissant, cheeses and ham and bologna (!), eggs, coffee and fruit so soft and sweet I closed my eyes to savor it - improved my mood enough to set off on a limited-time adventure before I was to meet a colleague.

I got lost, of course, because my sense of direction is the exact opposite of correct. Even knowing this, I possess this odd belief that I must be oriented correctly until I exist in a place far from where I meant to be.

So then I turn around.

But getting lost in the sunshine under either a bright blue sky or elegantly arching porticoes seemed not such as disaster. I was also carrying naught but my tiny bag and felt deliciously unencumbered after my Parisian trudge.

Finally deciding that Via Maggiore must go to Piazza Maggiore if I went in the correct direction, I did find Neptune ruling over his fountain. He was smaller than I expected, which made me smile. (Because he was naked.) (Never mind.)

I went to stand between the 2 Towers as per the plan and admired their slants, deciding I found the tipsy tilt adorable as I thought of weak foundations under too-large egos. And I waited for quite some time because Italian time apparently only has a loose relationship with actual clocks. But then we went for coffee and a sweet and I lapsed into silence while having a private moment with my tiramisu.

We worked and then I waited while she caught up with other Italian counterparts, stifling a yawn and sighs of impatience. I returned to my room to catch up on some email and freshen up before dinner.

"15 minutes?" I guessed when asked how long we spent eating where I live. "Maybe 30."

When my Italian companions looked shocked and appalled, I smiled and sipped some more wine before reaching for more bread and cheese (and pasta and vegetables and more pasta and other kinds of cheese).

"I'm sorry," I apologized 3 hours later. "But it's after 11. And I'm exhausted - just too Midwestern to handle it."

Still, I've loved to visit both these days...
And if you ask me why, I'll say...
Oscar Mayer has a way with b-o-l-o-g-n-a.

Baggage

Taxi and train rides away from the countryside, we emerged from the subway, my colleague and I, into Paris.

"Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame?" he had asked as we set off and I selected the latter without hesitation.

"I'll probably let you go independently though," I decided, casting a rueful glance at two bags filled with all my belongings. As convenient as Paris was, located on the way to the airport for my evening flight, I'll admit to wishing away my carefully packed and purposely 'as light as possible but still not light' luggage.

"Wait," I said as he headed for the open door before us. "Don't we have to pay? You can't just go in," I whispered urgently. But I blinked and followed when he did, sending a careful glance at the employee holding the door ajar. And then I stopped speaking. Not simply because the signs demanded it or respect was due, but because what is there to articulate when you're in the presence of such faith and grace and beauty?

Where candles flicker in the periphery as the eye drifts up. Where I sat and stared and felt peaceful and powerful all at once.

And that's the glory of Paris for me. Surrounded by unimpressive suburbs littered liberally with graffiti, there is this - this structure - that's simply staggering.

Even the ground - what I believe to be black and white marble - felt somehow soft under my shoes when I stepped off the carpet to steady my hand enough to take a photo. As if the very floor strove to be gentle and steady in such a place.

I emerged quietly, the only disruption to my experience the ringing of my mobile which had accidentally powered up in my backpack. I glared at it bitterly, resenting the intrusion before realizing work had offered me entry to Paris - both times - and forgiving my caller his ill timing.

I walked until I ached. Until even the sunshine sparkling on the Seine and contrast of bright blue in the sky contrasting with the elegance of Île de la Cité was not enough to mitigate my misery.

Drawn toward a flashing sign displaying a green cross, I obtained much-needed cough drops before deciding to stop at a cafe for a drink. Water required no deliberation, but vacillating between champagne and fruit juice exhausted me.

After the waiter departed though, I relaxed into my chair and watched the people and the place until my drinks were gone and money taken and clock ticking steadily toward evening.

Restored enough to carry on, I returned to my role as a pack mule and trudged across the street and down the stairs to the RER. I stood in line behind an elderly French woman unconcerned with the 10 people behind her as she argued with the ticket clerk endlessly. I rode a train, feeling like the 25th crayon crammed into an already-full box of 24. And I arrived at CDG and found a lovely place to sit just as two other flights were boarding and worked through some email until my battery died.

Then I read, removing the same iPad that had graced the table next to my water and cocktail on the streets of Paris, and feeling as eager for my next destination as I was pleased with my last.

I arrived safely and happily at BLQ and checked into a delightful hotel. But I can tell you about that tomorrow.

Pieces of Patterns

"Help me understand this," I stated, leaning forward with eyes squinted in as much concentration as my sleepy brain would allow.

And so he launched into another lecture and while I was charmed at how professorial he seemed - with the waving of arms and pointing at equations - I still wasn't understanding his request. "It's simple," he concluded forcefully and I sat back.

"I..." Letting my voice trail off, I glanced at the group around me. "I'm sorry if this is simple, but I'm trying pretty hard here and I'm not sure I understand." After which everyone admitted confusion and we tried (and failed) once again.

So I defined a plan and actions and owners and we decided to talk again in a week.

"How did you do that?" she asked and I raised my eyebrow in inquiry. "Not give him what he wanted without him getting mad," a younger colleague clarified.

"Practice?" I guessed, not completely sure. "I have to reject people at times and it's been everything from fabulous to catastrophic. So I've learned what works and how to listen and ways to encourage people to at least understand the decisions and how they're made so they have more influence the next time they need something."

Somehow despite the myriad of accents and the melodic babble of French I don't understand, the patterns and rhythms seem remarkably similar. There is often a sense of comfortable predictability even in novel environs.

Yet there are, of course, moments where I feel half a world away from the everyday routine. Where time is measured by television shows and dinner is picked up as I drag myself home from work to cuddle Chienne and smooth Sprout's coat and amuse myself until it's time to snuggle into bed.

The mattress is harder here - the headboard prettier. The television only speaks French I don't understand so I spend time catching up on work and reading and looking at recent photos. While my cat and dog are doing well without me, I do miss the clatter of paws on the tile floor or the warm cuddle of Chienne behind my knees. And there's dinner - not alone, but with a dozen others - across the courtyard for which I'll be late if not for an immediate departure.

Bonneterie

For reasons we needn't discuss, I have a pair of crotchless tights. I always end up traveling with them - the rolled eyes warring with the need for enough tights for 2 weeks until they end up nestled in a bag.

One would think (or at least I would) that it matters not whether tights have that particular scrap of material, especially when one wears panties.

So after a working breakfast, I pounced on my break-time opportunity to wander around the countryside in Île-de-France in my pretty striped dress and shiny black flats and admittedly-crotchless tights. They're my favorite brand in the correct size and so it all should have been fine - the walk, the meetings, the dining out.

It was not fine.

I was wandering along, breathing the air, seeing the sights, thinking 'who's in France? Katie is! Katie is!' when I noticed my tights were falling down a bit. 'No matter,' I thought good-naturedly and glanced around before tugging them back into place.

Apparently that middle part offers some vital structural integrity because I continued to blush and tug and mutter with increasing annoyance at the garment.

"I am not slutty," I told them in an angry whisper after I paused at a bus stop - charming as it was being wooden-framed and near a wall dripping with ivy - to yank at them once more. "Well," I considered, wanting to be honest, "not at the moment, anyway."

And after those wondrous displays of intelligence, maturity and grace, I returned to lead a meeting and attend 3 more. I asked questions and offered advice and networked with people I sincerely enjoy.

Between trips to the restroom to readjust my hosiery.

The Letter F

I parked under a sign at PIA - a white F on blue background attached to a tall pole in a sea of cars. Then I decided that the first day of the trip was brought to you by the letter F, a la Sesame Street, as a memory tool.

I sighed as I rode the shuttle I'd jogged to catch, remembering the carpet in my grandparents' house as I watched puppets and people, learning to share and listen and count to 6 in Spanish! How far we come, I decided, still a bit in awe that Smallest One had worked with Little One to learn all the presidents in order. I don't know all the presidents in order, but my 4 year old niece can rattle them off by way of a song. They're getting so big - changing so much - and I barely got to cuddle them before I was off to the airport, leaving Chienne in their father's hands.

Fiddle: To Mess With
I'm staying in Europe for nearly 2 weeks. I brought an overnight bag and a backpack full of electronics. That's it. Which meant I was organized to the nth degree - every single item strategically placed.

"We're going to rerun this," the agent noted of my pretty bag and I nodded, stepping off to the side to wait. And then he unpacked it. And ran it again.

"We thought we saw a pocket knife," he indicated and I graciously offered that I don't own one while I frowned over his repacking of my things, now shuffled all to hell.

He was perfectly polite and just doing his job, so I thanked him and went on my way, finding a quiet spot in the remodeled airport to repack my items as per the clearly-defined plan.

And off I went, enjoying a lovely Delta flight that was nearly empty to a connecting airport. I changed money, had dinner and bought both batteries and a pen. (I'd forgotten both and noticed as I repacked.) And as the moments counted down to my flight to CDG, I prepared myself for the lengthy - though certainly not overly onerous - journey.

Fail: What Air France Did
The captain was careful to point out - first in French, then English - that the ground crew damaged the plane upon pushing us back from the gate. So our early arrival time ticked away until we were nearly 2 hours late departing.

The plane broke.
We needed a part.
Someone went to get the part.
Someone installed the part.
Someone tested the plane.
A passenger got very ill so the paramedics came and removed her. (Poor thing - she had a migraine that she mentioned as I boarded behind her. Must have been miserable.)
Then we refueled for safety reasons.
Then we drove all the hell over DTW's runways.
Upon arriving (late) in Paris, we drove all over their runways because nobody had a spot for us.
Then we took a bus ride - bonus points for knocking people over! - to the terminal.
Then we cleared immigration (delightfully easy - well done, France).
Then I found a cab, deliciously relieved that I'd soon be able to drop bags at my hotel and use my pre-purchased ticket to the Palace of Versailles!

Find?: What the taxi could not do...
In all fairness, I'm staying outside Paris. I've been told taxis are expensive to hoof it all the way out here and gave the nice driver the instructions colleagues had recommended.

"Colleague?" I said when I called about 90 minutes later, knowing we should have been there 40 minutes ago. "When you took the tunnel, do you remember turning left or right at the end of the first one?"

"There is no tunnel," he replied.

"There's nothing but tunnels!" I cried in despair. "We've been going in circles - mostly underground - for nearly an hour!"

It took another hour and three phone calls to reach my destination. And when I offered my tale of woe, the nice receptionist gave me a balcony of my very own as part of a junior suite upgrade.

Fancy!
Deciding I was likely cursed despite my prayers through turbulence over the Atlantic, I came to my room, washed my face, put my hair in a twist and determinedly set off to use my pre-purchased ticket to see some fanciness at the Palace/Chateau.

And it is impressive. Massive in scale. Overwhelming in the ornate detail. And even with the statues covered in creepy/protective tarps, the gardens hinted at glory.

And because I offered a shorter version of my troubled travel, the guides let me linger as the time shifted closer to closing time. So I have photos of a nearly deserted Hall of Mirrors and got to gawk at the cathedral without being jostled.

Finally Finished
Day 1 tends to be rough on me. So I finished my tour and briefly wandered the city before finding a taxi - a local one this time - to deposit me back at the hotel. I've showered, put on the single pair of pajamas I brought and finished looking at my pictures. And now I sleep. For tomorrow is another day and - if we're lucky - another letter!

Kindness of Strangers (& Stupidity of Neighbors)

"Do you know this dog?" the delivery woman asked after I'd greeted both of them on my porch before scrawling a signature on the pad.

"There's a puppy down the street who's similar, but you're a bit more...distinguished," I decided, smoothing the grey on the dog's snout. "Where are you from, love?" I asked, noting the wagging of tail and friendly curiosity and lack of a collar.

"Should I call the shelter?" the girl asked and I frowned, thinking.

"No, I'll handle it," I offered and stood aside before inviting the strange dog inside.

"This is Chienne," I introduced my own wagging, curious pup. "She can't see." But she could hear, so she made her way over to the food dishes our guest was emptying. Once cat and dog kibble were gone, she sniffed around the floor, nibbling at the bits that Chienne scatters and leaves.

"Thanks," I offered with a rub of his/her head. (I don't look - I find it's impolite.) "I usually have to vacuum." So Strange Dog explored both basement and upstairs and ran circles around my main floor, frustrating poor Chienne to no end. I finally coaxed my hound next to me on the loveseat while looking up the number for our local humane society.

"I don't know what to do," I confessed. "We took a walk in search of home. Nobody was looking. And I don't know this dog." Feeling miserably guilty, I gave my address and waited for someone to come fetch Strange Dog.

"I'm sorry," I whispered and smiled sadly and tossed the tennis ball our guest had found.

Strange Dog ran from the woman who came for her, struggling in the leash she slipped on and beginning to drool in distress. My eyes filled with tears as I went to get the check so I could make a donation.

"They'll take care of you," I promised through tears and closed the door so I couldn't torture myself by watching them leave.

"I sent a dog to the pound," I confessed to my father moments later by phone. "I'm a terrible person."

"I am not watching another animal while you go to some foreign country," he replied. "You can't keep another dog - you did the right thing." When I continued to sigh shakily, he offered me Mom.

"I'm sorry," she soothed, more sympathetic, and told me stories about walks on beaches and collecting shells and befriending a pelican who lived near their rented house. "Think positive! The family will come home and find the dog gone and go to the shelter. Until then, it's in a safe, warm place."

"But I sent a dog to the pound," I cried. "I feel terrible." And I thought about that dog - nails clipped, well-mannered, obviously loved - all night and into the next morning.

"Ready?" I asked Chienne and she pranced to the door in preparation for our morning walk. "Careful," I warned her against tripping when I nudged the plastic ball out of the sidewalk and into the neighbor's perfectly-manicured yard.

Friend sometimes makes fun of me when I would pause and think my very hardest to puzzle together details. It's like when I'm looking for the toothpaste and getting increasingly frustrated and then blinking in shock when it's been in some obvious place in plain sight all along.

"Oh, no," I said as the pieces fit together. And older, brown dog who barked when the delivery woman knocked - a bark I'd heard multiple times before. Her perfect manicure that matched her perfect yard. Her affection for a tennis ball when her beloved plastic one rested next door. Her refusal to get on furniture - exactly as she displayed when I visited for dinner last year. "Oh, no, no, no..."

Realizing it was too early to knock and ask about Neighbor Dog, we finished our walk - Chienne remarkably unconcerned with my debilitating guilt and stupidity.

"It was Neighbor Dog," I told Dad - for it's never really too early to call him. "I sent my neighbor's dog to the pound! What kind of person sends her neighbor's dog to the pound?!"

He immediately gave me to Mom.

"I'm surprised you didn't realize it was her," she offered gently.

"Well, she never runs away!" I said. "And I thought she belonged on the court, not on the main street! I'm a terrible person," I concluded glumly.

I repeated that when I went next door later in the day, greeting Neighbor Dog and my neighbors with relief.

"We think she's having trouble seeing," Neighbor said and I wondered if I should just slither home like a snake. "So she must have been confused."

"I'm so sorry," I repeated. "I didn't realize. I would have kept her. I'm a terrible neighbor."

But she was safe - wagging her tail and trotting out to her yard to potty, bright collar and silver tag shining brightly in the sunshine. So all's well that ends well.

I guess.

Love...

How does one who is chronically single make Valentine's Day more fun?

I'm actually not sure, but I can tell you what made yesterday work for me.

• Booked a hotel. In Venice. Where I'll holiday for a weekend in March. (!!!!!)
• Made what could have been my biggest presentation in Industry. (And my voice only shook with nervousness a little!) While being projected on large screens globally from a local auditorium.
• Started to plan Paris, elsewhere in Italy and UK travel. Again - so, SO excited about this. It's been far too long since I've flitted off to Europe.
• Made a mental note to ask Jane where she teaches as I think I'll end up spending a day in the vicinity.
• Changed into new, super-soft sleepy pants upon returning home. And a too-large shirt that doesn't match them. Because nobody was going to see them and I was just going to sleep. But I get to dream about professional goodness!

Soft Skills

"Hello," we said in unison and wearing our friendliest smiles. Adam complimented her outfit while I cocked my head slightly in order to be adorable. And we politely requested a favor, made some requisite promises and set off 2 minutes later, goal attained. He put his hand behind him, palm up, as he walked back to his desk and I grinned as I tapped it with my fingers.

In truth, we often share gestures of victory within my group - we have little real power so we resort to charm and owed favors and pity when necessary to achieve that moment's aim. And it comes naturally to me much of the time. Few people actively dislike me (and I just avoid them) so I'm often able to finagle.

It wasn't until today - when I saw someone do every single thing wrong - that I made note of some important characteristics of a good meeting. (Note that we've already covered content.)

"Katie," a colleague said when I answered the phone. "I just got your meeting notification - what's this about?"

"Ah," I replied slowly, trying to think. "I've been working with a couple of scientists and they asked if they could show off their work. You know, since you're new and important?"

He laughed and my lips curved as his acceptance notification appeared in my inbox. "I appreciate it," I offered. "They're good guys and it's interesting work and they wanted your thoughts on current status and next steps. Should be painless."

It was not painless.

1. Arrive on time.

I came to their offices 5 minutes before our scheduled time and escorted them to our assigned conference room. Upon our guest's arrival, we had connected laptop to projector and reviewed the goals of the meeting.

Before beginning, we'd done everything right.

2. Be briefly social.

I once was the recipient of a presentation where the speaker - a lovely older man - had notes on a yellow legal pad. The first line - scrawled in pencil - said "thank them for time." I found it adorable.

I was there to perform introductions at today's meeting so that part was easy. I asked about my colleague's week and offered my sympathy that he was stuffy and battling a cold. The scientists, though, immediately jumped into their science without offering the proper introductions and background. In Industry, it's much like I remember my post-doc.

Example: "I'm Katie and I work for Adam, doing my job. I've been in this role over 3 years and have been working on this particular project for the last 3 months. I thought we'd walk through some background information before I get to my specific question/request unless you had another idea?"

3. Make eye contact.

This may be a pet peeve, but it freaks me out when people don't look up. I've learned it sometimes cultural or just a personal habit to not stare at the person across from you. But it engages your audience - especially when it's an audience of 1 person - and gives you insight into their reactions. Both are critically important.

You want 1) your listener to pay attention and 2) to adapt your approach if you're getting negative feedback. So look at the person - it totally helps.

4. Force yourself to listen.

I'll be honest - I like to talk. I'm passionate about many topics. And given a good topic and some time to prepare, I can happily chatter away as if I were a bird in a tree first thing in the morning. I tell you this because I know you're likely prepared and super-smart and you have an outline of all kinds of information you want to offer. And that's lovely.

But other people also like to feel super-smart and offer all kinds of information. It makes them feel useful. And helps them clarify if there are misunderstandings.

So talk briefly about a visual you've created that's mostly self-explanatory. Then wait. If you've done well, your audience will finish reading and look at you. If he's wearing an expectant expression, continue. If he asks a question or makes a comment, consider it and respond appropriately.

Do not (please, please, please) engage in this awful monologue where you're talking and talking and talking about the same image on the same slide for-what-feels-like-ever. If you're caught up in your material, you're not able to adapt to your audience. And - if you want something from that audience - that's bad.

5. Seriously - listen.

The dear, sweet scientists barely allowed time for questions. Between the two of them, there were so many words that I couldn't keep track. I finally stopped them to ask for a reaction.

They interrupted him mid-way through a thought. One raised a hand to quiet him. The other kept raising his voice until he was basically yelling. And I winced.

Because I like and respect them, I continued to force pauses. Asked questions of my colleague. Encouraged him to engage - offer insight, ask questions, suggest alternate paths.

"We've struggled with this..." I would offer. "I suggested a format like that for the output - does that work?" I'd ask.

6. Finish up.

Be respectful of time. If you asked for an hour, take 55 minutes. As you're monitoring how things are going, manage your goals appropriately. And gauge your requests based on how the meeting has gone.

If there are more criticisms than compliments, perhaps schedule another time to talk so you can regroup before asking for money.

If there were suggestions for validation that make sense, go do them and follow up in addition to asking for a recommendation for a particular product program or journal entry.

Know what you want and have back-up plans so you can make progress toward that even if you're not able to get everything. And if you have a Katie-like helper, let her know what your goal is.

She'll try to help - I promise.

Wishes

I saved the candle, plucking it from the mountain of white frosting atop my cake, unable to think of a suitable wish for my 33rd birthday celebration.

I saw it today - perched in a magnetic basket on the side of my refrigerator that rattles sometimes. I nestled a chip-clip next to it and briefly pondered lighting it, hoping for some residual birthday magic and making a better wish.

I don't know what I'd want though. I still feel a bit distant - separate - from both present and future.

"So when do people start jumping ship?" I asked Adam on Friday and he shrugged before shifting in his chair. He explained that the people in the group who were thinking of moving on would likely be unable to do so. Periods of transition, politics, priorities - all the right buzz words that explained why it's beyond their control or his control or anyone's control, really, for the good of the business.

"Oh," I replied, shoulders slumping and he laughed at me for wanting to be rid of colleagues. "No, no," I denied, smiling with him. "I just want something to change - new people, new goals, new...something."

I just feel stuck. And bored. And a little tired.

I dreamed I was pregnant - have this vivid mental picture of masculine hands smoothing over my swollen belly with absent affection as we sat together reading a book.

I was naming dogs during a different nap - there were 8 of them and I was letting them inside from a chaotic romp in the yard. And I wanted to call them something as I nuzzled and cuddled them, but all I could think of was Spot for the dalmatian and Honey for the yellow lab.

Given that there is no man or baby (or pack of dogs), I let myself perk at the thought of a trip to Europe. A new camera and good shoes and fabulous architecture do a lot to make a Katie happy.

It's not all bad, I scold myself. My lovely tax refund was deposited in my bank account and I had nothing to do with it. I transferred it into savings, wondering at steady progression from no debt to not living month to month to watching money accumulate steadily in an account that mostly gathered dust throughout my adult life.

I have a house I love in a place I have no desire to leave.

"I'm like a knowledge ninja!" I cried last week after neatly dispatching 4 phone calls with quick and easy answers or orders. My experience makes it easy - don't offend this person, tell the truth with that one, try to find a way to help here but ignore there.

So what do I want? And why don't I know?

Partially

"The right side of my head hurts," I told the pharmacist, having waited patiently at the small plastic stop sign that I assume protected the privacy of the non-existent patients before me. "I'm stuffed up. And it's aching in my ear and under my eye and in my jaw. I can barely turn my head because my neck hurts. What can you give me?"

"Sudafed," she replied

promptly. And we stared at each other for a moment. I finally blinked and asked her if there was a way she could wander over and get some of them for me.

"I need your ID," she requested. "And your signature that indicates you won't make meth with the pills."

"I won't make meth with the pills," I parroted dutifully and punched two of the red tablets through their protective foil immediately upon getting in the car. Then I sighed, hoping they worked quickly.

Apart from a nasty head cold, we've slept and worked while the snow around us slowly melted away. The neighbor girls got a pogo stick and I watched the older girl bounce upon it while I fetched

my recycling bins from the curb. Recent days have brought changes - the white car left, the truck windows shattered - but the net difference is reasonably small. Everyone's now home, all the vehicles parked in their typical spots.

"But I'm ready to go somewhere," I whined when Adam suggested I cancel an upcoming trip to points south so as not to rupture my poor eardrum. "I mean, you look rough," he said, giving a half-apologetic shrug when I glared at him.

I soon smiled, however, when he offered up a trip to Paris. "Decide where else you want to go while you're over there and get me costs."

"Paris in early springtime," I murmured, already pondering Vienna and Zurich versus Italy and Greece. I crave the work as much as the change in scenery. Novel ideas and opportunities to learn rather than endless meetings and the taking of notes while we wait in this in-between phase where no decisions are final and plans are nothing but tentative.

So I'll dream while I decongest.

Arcs & Drifts

I sighed upon opening the front door today and beholding the new-fallen snow. Fluffy and blindingly-bright, Chienne and I braved the winter weather and took a brief walk. We moved toward my interesting neighbor so I could peer down the driveway and see what was what.

The day after the kerfuffle over the locked car, the burly pick-up truck sat in the driveway, cab covered by plastic wrap that was twisted at the end and tucked under the door handle.

"Odd," I thought, "that the wife would threaten to break the car window, only to leave with Ryan. Then the husband comes home to break his truck window."

"Both truck windows," I corrected myself quietly to Chienne this morning as I observed the driver's side. I took a moment to wonder if he'd been enraged when she said that he cared more about the vehicle windows than he did about her affair, pictured the crunch the glass must have made when struck with something suitably heavy and dramatic.

I like drama, I pouted, thinking that if I didn't have to work (and nap and run errands and read...), I could have set up camp at my window to watch neighborhood events unfold. I offered a sad smile his direction when he glanced up from his work on his wife's car. He returned it as I glanced past him to the garage they use for storage rather than parking. There was an old couch and television in the corner and I wondered, moving through the snow after my silly dog once again, if he'd used the space to escape the females - wife and daughters - in his family.

And I wondered where they were now. And how he'd be if they didn't return - if having space inside the climate-controlled house might enable him to find someone who made him happier.

***

"I can't take it anymore," Mom has said. "He's always complaining. Always negative. With the comments and the jokes that he thinks are funny but actually are mean."

I feel badly for her at times. But I also remind her that she is also rather sensitive and dramatic - it runs in the family - and I'd really rather he not move up here with me if she makes him leave their longtime home.

I called them today, a little shaken after meeting my neighbor's sad gaze this morning, and smiled when Mom sounded so happy. They've escaped the frozen north to spend February in Florida and are currently en route to their rented cottage on the bay.

"We're at the welcome station," my snowbird mother chirped. "Dad's looking at brochures - that's how we found our hotel last night. They have coupons and descriptions and they tell you exactly which exit to take!"

"Wow," I offered before a cough interrupted my giggle. I have another head cold - it's flipping ridiculous.

"I found a welcome book," Dad disclosed when it was his turn on the phone. "We can use it to find a place to stay tonight. It's nice and warm - we turned off the heat when we were going through Tennessee - and we're on vacation now!"

"Maybe," Mom told me when they visited for my birthday, "when the girls aren't distracting me, I can pay attention to your dad and find out why he's so unhappy. If he just needs more attention."

"Maybe," I agreed, thinking I was sometimes happy to be single. To have fingers crossed for trips to Europe and Japan and Australia (first time for the latter!) this year. To be able to park in my garage and have a house to myself. And not have to worry about what happens next with a partner who's unpredictable and unhappy.

Drastic Measures

"Well," I said slowly, "she is a bit high strung. But then, so am I. It's not all bad." And I watched the people surrounding the table nod in agreement. And I was caught between vague amusement and insult, just as I was when a friend easily accepted my self-assessment of 'a little unstable but mostly harmless.'

"She's just not suited to that job," someone pointed out and I had to agree. Adam had teased me about applying for it and I'd giggled in response. Putting someone like me in a high-pressure, intensely political and painfully broken system would result in oscillations of terrifying fireworks and long periods of utter apathy. It'd be bad. And with someone who shares some of my qualities, it is bad. Poor thing.

I was considering it this morning when I stepped out of the house, an impatient Chienne leashed beside me, prepared to wander the neighborhood. My neighbor was speaking of something in a loud voice, which is not particularly uncommon.

She is also a bit high strung.

But I frowned as she snapped at her tiny daughter. She must be mighty-frustrated to scold a little one who looked more like a marshmallow than troublemaker. I glanced across the driveways at her, offering a wave in greeting as we moved past.

"How mad would you be," the woman said into her phone, "if I broke the window?" I raised my eyebrows and didn't tug Chienne along from her snuffles at the snowbank. I've never seen someone break a car window and was rather intrigued.

"All my stuff is in there! My purse and cash and phone!" I squinted to see if she what she was using to call if her phone was in the locked car, deciding it was a house phone. Then I ducked my head, forgetting I wasn't watching television and some discretion was likely in order.

"Thanks for not helping then!" she cried and I heard the phone bloop obediently when she hung up.

"Who's not helping, Mom?" her little marshmallow asked. "Who? And how do I get to school?"

"Your dad is useless," the older woman replied and I grinned, wishing I could add that I hated it when he parked his giant truck in front of my yard. Perhaps we'd agree that he was useless and annoying!

But I frowned when she said her friend, Ryan, was coming to get them. As her daughter asked questions about who Ryan was, a white vehicle pulled in and I heard my neighbor's voice change for the first time. It became light and happy, flirtatious and sweet.

And I sighed as we turned the corner, wondering if they were having an affair. Said relationships are ridiculously common in my adorable subdivision full of working dads and stay-at-home moms. I've actually turned down a request for an NSA tryst (No Strings Attached) (I looked it up.) (You're welcome.) with a man who lives not a 3 minute walk from my house. Because his wife had already cheated on him.

And it seems depressing somehow. That behind the perfect lawns that shame my haphazard mowing strategy and the warmth that glows out the windows when Chienne and I walk after dusk or before dawn and the children that play games and ride bikes and fill the afternoons with shouts and laughter, there is such unhappiness and boredom.

I came home early today, losing a battle with a migraine, and snuggled myself into bed before glancing out my window. The locked car waited outside an empty house, aligned neatly to the other residential structures on the street.

And I quietly congratulated that little car on keeping its windows intact for one more day.

Change In Progress

I thought Adam was moving on. (Professionally. To my knowledge, he's perfectly healthy.) I prepared myself for this in the latter part of 2011, mentally distancing myself, being more critical, looking forward to the fresh perspective someone new would bring.

It turns out that I was wrong. Many, many (many) things have changed at work, but Adam looks to be a constant. My first Industry boss will remain my Industry boss, even as the group changes around us and leadership ponders altering the infrastructure in ways that might be dramatic.

But nothing is certain.

I grow weary of exploring options. Gathering data. Various proposals. Tentative timelines.

We work, making progress toward some fluid goal that slips through our fingers when we try to catch it.

We try to do good, but when realizing that you can't please everyone, it grows increasingly difficult to muster the energy to please anyone. Saying no immediately starts looking more appealing than potentially saying yes at some point. And so it's routine to sign messages with 'thanks and apologies, Katie.'

"Pay attention to me," we all seem to whisper. "I'm smart and talented and work very hard." Eyes blink and heads droop when we're shushed. Sitting slumped at desks, tapping at keyboards and peering at enlarged documents on shiny monitors.

I keep reminding myself that I love my job. I freely acknowledge I'm blessed to have it. I sometimes lose myself in the work - start graphing data or focus all my mental energy on numbers that march across rows and down columns, telling stories I can decipher.

"This is a mess," someone noted after I told one such story.

"This is reality," I replied, too apathetic to get defensive over my poor, sweet project. "It's messy."

We stared at each other for a moment before he suggested I give it a bit more time and re-run the numbers after we'd collected more data.

"I can do that," I agreed, ready to end the meeting and pick up guacamole on my way home as a way to self-soothe. "Sometimes things go right in the end."

And I'm hoping that's the case with my career in flux.

T-3 hours to Age 33

Happy...

1. "Open this one!" Smallest One demanded as she handed me a bag stuffed with multi-colored tissue paper. "I picked it myself!"
2. A hug filled with laughter from Adam when I shook my head at his request for help on a project. I'd replied that I could make him a list instead and received a cuddle for my irrelevant offer.
3. "It uses a more standard cord for image transfer," I explained to Dad when he asked why I'd replaced a perfectly good camera with something new. "Plus, I had the money as a bonus for helping with an event."
   
4. "I'm buying my own," I insisted when Adam noted that - if I were patient - he'd likely buy the team new monitors for our laptops. "I want it in place for my birthday!"
5. "Aw," I said, smiling happily at my group around the table where we'd gathered for a birthday dinner. "You bought me tea and a pretty travel mug! Because tea helps me be more peaceful!"
6. Falling asleep to a new SpongeBob DVD while Little One snuggles on the far side of my large bed. "OK?" I asked. "OK," she replied. "Love you," I murmured and she repeated the words with a small smile before we nuzzled into our respective pillows to rest.
7. The remnants of snow angels made by nieces in multiple layers of snow gear.
8. $1 salad bar at work - with baby spinach and peas and chicken and chickpeas and broccoli and cheese. How people can complain with such an option is beyond me.
   
9. Homemade cake via Sibling. Store-bought cake (with extra flowers made of whipped icing for the girls) via Mom.
10. Singing (x2) from my family. Happy birthday, Aunt Katie...
11. Toasts (x4) from my colleagues.
    
12. A faithful canine companion who's just as happy to take a walk with me at 5AM as our typical 6:45.
    
13. My new fountain that perches on my new storage cubbies in my bedroom.
    
14. Recalling Little and Smallest helping my dad build said cubbies. Applying glue to dowels. Pulling the trigger on the electric screwdriver. Pounding nails with careful strokes of a hammer.
15. Newest's grin when he handed me the gift bag before dinner, admonishing me not to open it until after dinner.
    
16. Best stumbling over words when he tried to tell a funny story after our waiter opened another bottle of wine.
17. Sending email to a man and wishing hard for his reply. Even when he failed to deliver said email, it's a sweet reminder that there still could be someone who makes me breathless.
18. A pretty new blue dress and matching necklace for work tomorrow - the fluttery hem outweighed the deep v-neck that I decided I could cover with a sweater.
19. Finishing 1 task I've been avoiding.
    
20. Arranging to skip one trip in February while my parents are staying in Florida.
21. Snowflakes.
22. Photos of flowers.
23. Gas fireplaces.
24. Charming little towns that can host happy birthday dinners and sexy first dates.
25. Bounce fabric softener.
26. Coke Zero - I've nearly completed the transition from Diet Pepsi!
27. My pretty house that can easily handle family visits but seems to snuggle back around me when they depart.
28. Flats that feel like slippers but are dressy enough for work.
29. Cardigan sweaters - red and gray and pink and cream and brown and lilac and black.
30. Forsaking Facebook
31. Being an "expert" and having the respect of a large body of colleagues.
32. Cinnamon Toast Crunch
33. "I like your car," one dinner companion noted as I climbed in and started it. "Thanks - me, too," I replied. And I realized I'm actually rather fond of my life as a whole.
    

(A little) Dead inside

"I'm going to blow your mind," Sibling warned me over sushi this afternoon.

"Go for it," I replied, reaching for another piece of crab encased in rice with tempura crumbles and a creamy sauce on top. Had she asked me to guess, I would have hypothesized she was pregnant.

I would have been wrong. She announced she was leaving - both our group and the area - and I nodded and smiled at her before sipping my soda as I thought of what to say.

I had no such problems when I was in 3rd grade and my best friend told me her parents had bought another house. Her blue eyes brimmed with tears and I cycled rapidly through the stages of grief - my heart breaking at the thought of losing bike rides and Monopoly games and swimming in each other's pools.

"It's not fair," I protested, my brown eyes beginning to water as rapidly as hers were. "We're going to need a ride to see each other!"

"I know," she cried. "I told my mom I didn't want to move but my dad really wants this house." And so we cried - quite dramatically, of course - until our mothers came down the hall to where we perched on my bed, clinging to each other.

"When?" I finally asked as we caught our breath and wiped our eyes.

I repeated this question to Sibling as we sat across from each other and she answered me. So I nodded again and thought of my next question.

"You could visit me," she offered and I nodded with little enthusiasm. I could visit Chicago, San Antonio, Nashville. Paris, Milan, Zurich. I know and love people in all places, but I like staying home. "Oh," Sibling sighed. "You don't like New York City."

"I don't dislike it," I replied honestly. "I can see you being very happy there - you always wanted to get back to a real city. But I like it here. I'm staying here. So when it comes to long lunches or easy dinners, I'm fantastic. But long, focused visits aren't really my thing."

She nodded, telling me about her friends from college that were within an hour of NYC. I nodded and asked more questions and felt... not a whole lot. I tried to examine it and the best I could say was that I understood. Neither happy nor heartbroken.

It just made sense, I finally realized. People come and then they go. And perhaps I'm losing that naive capability to love someone new with everything. I read an email from Pete - circa 2006 - the other day. And found myself sick after sobbing - not for him, necessarily, but because I remembered - so clearly - what it felt like to feel that. The intensity of hope. The subsequent misery of disappointment.

I recall driving away from Friend - car full of belongings she'd helped me pack - and feeling crushed under the weight of grief. And I wonder if my heart now hides - only half-interested in life and those in it - so that all I feel is understanding when a dear friend announces her departure.

Flip Side

I scowled as I ascended my stairs, pulling a dress from my closet and rifling through my row of sweaters until I found the one I needed. The eyelet cream that buttoned completely, hanging neatly by the rest of the cardigans.

I'd purchased the cotton shift when Friend visited and it's rather adorable. The only problem is that it has a deep v-neck that is a bit slutty. For a second date. For work, it's inappropriate. For church, I'm pretty sure it's sinful. As I was going to church, I frowned at the garment and buttoned the sweater atop it. Yet you could still see a good bit of skin between buttons.

So I put it on backward, beaming proudly at the high "neckline" and deciding my pretty sweater would now cover my exposed upper back. Suitable demure, I set off for the pretty building perched on the hill where I worship.

(It was Epiphany Sunday. I think my pastor believes that a UFO led the magi to baby Jesus. And he was very sympathetic that they only traveled ~10-15 miles per day. And he's not a big fan of Herod. I also learned gold was given to kings, frankincense to priests and myrrh for funerals or physicians.)

I did not want to attend. I've not, in fact, gone to church in months and months and arrived in my too-short skirt and on-backward dress with a tight smile and clenched teeth. If, I decided, I felt this strongly about avoiding church, I clearly needed to be there. And through prayer and song and the quiet moments where the dozen of us formed a semi-circle at the altar to take communion, my heart softened and soul quieted. And as I shook hands with my fellow congregants, murmuring 'peace be with you,' I finally found some peace within me.

I stopped by Kohls (I love Kohls) to look for a particular stripey dress. I did not find it, but I did acquire new lingerie and a clearance dress (with a ruffled neckline - it's very cute) and impulse bought some Godiva chocolates. I saw a sign for sandwiches on sale and made a quick stop to grab one, gracefully buying the cookies the sale demanded. Because I like cookies and sales. So it all works out.

I returned home, lecturing myself that I would go on my date. I wanted to have my sandwich and watch reruns of Law & Order and perhaps take a nice nap with Chienne curled behind my knees. But instead I would go and meet a man for ice cream. With sprinkles on top. (That was my tentative title for the blog post.) Convinced that I was going and I was going to be lovely, I'll admit to a quick thrill when he canceled.

"Of course," I replied on the phone. "Postpone. Feel better. Get some rest." And I replaced the phone receiver to snuggle in the loveseat with only my faithful canine for company and relaxed into contentment. For I like lazy Sunday afternoons - time for sandwiches and naps and slipping out of a dress and into pajamas.

Sometimes changes in plans are gifts. And if I have the fleeting thought that being alone this afternoon is likely indicative of being alone forever? That's what Godiva chocolate-covered-caramels are for.

John 3:16

For God so loved the world
He gave his one and only son
so that whoever believes in Him
shall not perish
but have eternal life.

I am not one for memorizing Bible verses. I've nothing against it and I tend to remember things easily so it's a bit of a mystery as to why I avoid it. Yet Mom likes Max Lucado and I wanted to leave the book for her when I returned home so I arranged myself on the couch yesterday and began to read his exploration of this verse.

I finished it last night and recalled why I'm fond of Lucado as well - he has an approachable style. A gentle invitation to read and learn and think that I find both informative and soothing somehow. And woven into the hopeful stories and holy lessons were questions about the reader's reaction - my reaction - to this life and what comes after.

I believe in God, though my belief sometimes lacks passion. It's comfortable and cozy and I've ignored it more often than not of late. His love is a given. His mercy and grace absently taken for granted.

When Chienne's nails clicked against the floor in the hallway, my mom called for me to help her. Already awake, I rose and followed her down the hall, opening the sliding doors to the backyard and waiting until she was ready to return to bed. Once there though, I was restless. Unhappy. Afraid not of what comes after death but what comes next in this life.

So I came to the living room and turned on the light by Dad's chair, deciding I'd fill my glass with water before I continued to read the 40 devotionals at the end of Lucado's book. I grabbed a Cutie from the crisper with my glass of filtered water and returned to snuggle into the recliner and finish turning the pages.

While the book is quite focused, the end is a series of snapshots of Jesus life and it seemed somehow Christmas-y to page through them without pause (though I realize that's not the point of a devotional). I'd already made it to Day 20 and decided to eat my citrus fruit before finishing the text.

"Seedless, sweet and easy to peel," I murmured as I removed the rind, recalling the commercial for the tiny treats. Then I wondered why that message resided in memory while tracing my orange-scented fingertips over the embossed title of my book.

Life is seeming long to me lately. Like everything loops in this awful, depressing cycle while we do little but act badly and get frustrated and do more harm than good. Much as I enjoy the seasons of the upper Midwest, their endless rotation has begun to bore me. As blessed as I am to have my job - and I do know that I am - it seems like I'm helping few and spending most of my time spinning my wheels, lacking energy to do much other than watch television or play mindless games when I return home. We age - children grow taller and increasingly skilled, dogs lose their sight or hearing or ability to walk comfortably, my knee crackles sometimes and I've mostly stopped noticing the gray in my hair.

I believe - for me - a shift of focus is necessary. If I ignore the persistent cycles in favor of that which holds meaning, life once again becomes productive. I'm once again powerful - at least in my own sphere of influence - and can feel I'm doing something. My faithful canine hopped out of bed and clicked down the hall once again in search of me while I was writing. And I moved from my chair to the couch so she could curl up behind my knees. And perhaps it's that easy - getting up, taking a couple of steps to find a different spot and think from here rather than there.

If I sit with God - just dwell in His presence - rather than filling my life with noise to drown Him out... If I pray more and fret less... If I hum hymns rather than mutter curses... If I cling to hope rather than languishing in despair...

If I memorize a Bible verse rather than an advertisement...

For God so loved the world He gave His one and only Son so that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.

It's small, but it's something. And it soothes me enough to want to sleep again.

Peace be with you.

Merry Update

Dad, who looks not unlike Santa Claus, called to Smallest, mentioning he had placed his presents in his room. I believe this was meant to be one of those 'lead by example' moments.

Smallest, smearing pink polish on her tiny fingernails, glanced up and acknowledged his statement with what I thought was a rather regal nod.

He repeated it, stopping in front of her and blocking her light.

"Good for you," she said simply, looking up with eyebrows raised in challenge and tiny chapped lips curved into a smug smile. And her toys - the piles of boxes and stacks of bags - remained scattered about her feet.


"You can do that one," Little One directed when I emerged after the family had departed - partially in tears as someone had bossed the only boy who retaliated and all merry-hell broke loose until they put on coats and loaded cars. My eldest niece sobbed from her grandfather's arms - I'd hurt her tender feelings when I said she was being bossy. (But she was!) She'd eventually forgiven me (Mom interceded) and I was allowed to stick tiny gems on stickers.

So there I was - sleepily bedazzling a cupcake sticker - and I glanced up at her across the table, so much like me that my heart warms even as it worries. For all my good qualities - and there are some (really) - I'm bossy and dramatic and impatient and selfish and all those things that leave me wanting to warn Little One even as I cuddle her.

"Uh oh," I told her, my distraction causing a departure from our crafty plan. "I used the clear instead of the blue because I thought the clear were light blue." I let my fretful gaze meet her curious one and she shrugged and smiled, benevolent in her crafty leadership. "We can use the blue instead of clear on this cupcake," she decided.

So when she asked for ice cream - with both chocolate and strawberry syrup - I decided that I'd be a benevolent 'one tall enough to reach the freezer' and fetch it.

Chienne remained excited about opening gifts - she received a squeaky toy and some munchy sticks and tennis balls which she promptly shredded into tiny pieces that I'm still picking from my parents' carpet.

We've been mostly peaceful - apart from the coughing and blowing of noses and occasional squabbles. We played more games - electronic and board - had more food and learned how to use allowances on iTunes (after Little One's last spree cost her Aunt Katie upwards of $300).

And between the requests to fetch this or pick that up, there have been cuddles and kisses and snuggles on laps while reading books. Brother and I danced to Justin Bieber while his girls sang along - all the while helping Mom put together little keychains for a church banquet.

And I read 3:16, a gift from Aunt, that might finally be chipping away at the layer that seems to be keeping me from connecting with the world. Or so I pray.

No Place Like...

"Merry Christmas," I greeted my former sister-in-law, a woman I've never particularly liked or respected. Still, my laissez-faire (which sounds fancier than 'I just don't care') attitude of late enables me to feel gently, if absently, affectionate toward most people.

"It's a beautiful house," I complemented her, for she's done a lovely job at putting together a home for her and the Ones. Recruiting her parents to do most of the work, she'd put in new floors - shining hardwoods - upon which the two kittens she'd acquired as Christmas gifts pranced about. She gave me a tour, pointing out the colors she'd selected for paint and making me smile at the severe organization of the clothes in closets. I remembered visiting Brother and blinking in surprise at the neat rows and straight seams as they contrasted sharply with our more haphazard 'hang it up and leave it alone' approach.

We scooped up the girls, my mother and I, and drove back to my parents' house, parking next to my Jeep that had arrived - Chienne and I in tow - yesterday mid-morning. I had a sandwich - ham and cheese on Butternut bread - while my faithful canine carefully moved about the house, orienting herself rather rapidly to this once-familiar structure. We've not been home since last Christmas, I think, preferring for the family to come to us (with our many bathrooms and comfortable beds and convenient location next to work and shopping and restaurants). But Chienne quickly made her way around the house and past the maze of toys on the patio into the fenced yard. I was both proud and impressed. For a moment at least. Then I settled back into my 'eh' sort of mood.

We went to church last night (eh) and came home early as Mom coughed and coughed. She settled herself with a breathing treatment while I cinnamon-sugared biscuit pieces for monkey bread. Then we went to bed early and - for the first time in my life - slept past dawn on Christmas Day.

I awakened after 7, petted Chienne and praised her for snuggling with me all night - she normally paces the house to track its occupants - and we padded down the hall just as the phone rang to summon us to gather the girls. Brother had arrived before we returned home and the girls began tearing paper from presents before we had breakfast in the oven and coffee from the pot.

We cooed over presents and promised to play later and tossed wrapping paper away from piles of boxes and toys. I loaded my new belongings into the Jeep to help clear a corner as sun streamed through the front window. Little One read me books (So Cool - I love kids who read) and, having left my iPad at home, I helped myself to her Judy B Jones collection and - once I adapted to the style - quite enjoyed 3 of them in short order. (Little One - age 7 - was quite impressed with my reading speed. I also beat her at Connect 4. I think this means that I - age 32 - am awesome.)

Smallest and I made crayons - looking at each other in disappointment when the melted pieces failed to dump into the waiting molds.

"I put it together wrong," I said apologetically. "And now it's locked so I have to wait for it to cool and unlock before I fix it."

"Why?" she asked, frowning at me darkly. The crayon maker is a bit slow for a 4 year old Smallest. So I tried to explain that the crayon melter needed to be a bit forward - it wasn't meeting the tilting device. And I told her I was sorry.

"It's this thing," she decided and I nodded in understanding.

"So we blame Crayola?" I asked, smiling at her and she nodded before we both stared at the ticking timer on the new toy. (We did finally make them and they were pretty cool. Just time-consuming.)

Smallest joined me for a nap with Chienne and then we played Old McDonald before helping Mom make corn pudding. Little One and I played a variant of dominos and she finally won at Connect 4 and we read another story together (I liked Inside Your Outside - it's a Dr. Seuss series, apparently).

We had dinner, watched television and played more games. It was pleasant. It is pleasant - even as poor Smallest is struggling with a fever (which explains why she's been so calm and sleepy today). But I keep recalling the comment as I waited for my massage at the spa.

"Your heart chakra is blocked," my therapist noted after I'd selected some cards and then a scent. "You're struggling to connect."

"True story," I said. But the massage, facial, manicure and haircut failed to cure me. As did Christmas. I feel like I'm in a bubble - not painful or bad. Just distant.

Still, from my distant state, I'm wishing you much merriness as you celebrate Christmas (or simply yearn for the end of the holiday season).

Speeches for Elevators

I have a variety of items displayed in my office. I'm a cluttered person by nature and enjoy looking up at a framed scribble by the Ones or a family photo or an amusing cartoon Friend sent me with her living will. (I do not display the latter. Just to be clear.) I have sketches and notes attached to metal with magnets. Printed cover sheets from published papers pinned on a board.

One of these papers is a printed slide - we rarely have paper copies of presentations but when revising the important messages, we each bring copies and scrawl notes in the margins for consistency across colleagues.

Sometimes the printer gets overwhelmed - all the pretty colors and large images confuse the poor thing - and I blinked with moderately hurt feelings when Adam laughed out loud at one of my pages.

"Your summary could use some work," he offered with a wink, handing me a paper neatly entitled Summary and containing the following message:

LPLLL PLPPP !P

LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

PPLPPLPLLLLL !!!!!

"Well," I decided, "at least it's emphatic. If you're going to go with a crappy message, you might as well be passionate about it."

But as I listened to yet another bad presentation for yet another hour, I sighed and thought that persuading people to do what you want shouldn't be as hard as people make it. And though it still shocks me, I'm in a position to judge people's work based on how much they want Industry money. And - not infrequently - I can't figure out what you're trying to sell me because your pitch is so awful.

If people would answer these questions for me, we'd be all set. Possibly with extra time for hugs and kisses!

1. Why do I care? Seriously - what problem are you trying to solve?
   
2. How is your solution different (and better) than others available?
3. How confident are you in your value and differentiating characteristics?

Point 1
I'm sure you're very cool and smart. Awesome and brilliant. But this isn't like those homemade caramels near the cash register. (Though I do like those.) Tell me that I'm behind a competitor. That people are dying. That I can make lots and lots of money. Then - and this is important as well - connect what you're doing to that problem.

If you can't do this, you're wasting everyone's time. And I will spend the hour I've promised you wondering what color your mane would be if you were a unicorn. Because otherwise, I'll want to throw my shoe at you.

Point 2
I'm of the opinion that there are no original ideas. If I do have a problem, and if you can solve it, let's hear why you're the best solution. Why shouldn't we work devise our own solution for cheaper? I don't care about your publications yet - let's just pretend I'm buying a snowblower and we're putting your brand against everyone else. Give me the check boxes in those parallel columns. Are you faster? More accurate? More reproducible? More sophisticated?

How are you different? And why does that matter?

Point 3
So you can solve my problem. And do so better than others. Yay for you! Now - and only now - you can tell me about your awesome thing. I'll look at figures from your publications. We can chat about how Very Important People think yours is a game-changing idea. And I'll ooh and ahh and tell you you're pretty. And Brilliant. Incandescent with joy and brightness.

But if you're starting here - showing me publications from 1977 onward and describing how everyone else is Sick and Wrong in their approaches that have become common practice and how the rest of the funding agencies just don't get you? I'm back to pondering if your mane would be blue with green sparkles or purple with pink stripes and whether you'd trot or prance if you were a unicorn.

Lesson One

I used to play school in my parents' basement. I shuffle along the tiled floor in Mom's heels and write on my little chalkboard and grade papers I'd completed for all the students in my imaginary class. I would take attendance and record scores in my grade book.

I assisted with labs in undergrad as an overly permissive grader, wanting more to be liked by the silly freshmen than to have them learn much of anything. By that point - in my very early 20s - I'd realized I had no desire to teach. I wasn't all that crazy about people and it seemed much more efficient to think about topics on my own rather than to tell others what I'd already learned.

My graduate department didn't have TAs - we were all funded by our respective research groups - so I had neither the opportunity nor desire to lecture or grade or deal with plagiarism. Same goes for my post-doctoral research, leaving me to read blogs with an absent interest but no personal understanding of having stacks of grading or early classes or extraordinary students.

"So you want recommendations?" I asked several months ago when a friend of a colleague called. I replied when she asked about my background and was flattered when she said I'd be perfect. (I'm rarely perfect so when people are silly enough to believe I am, I tend to go with it pretty happily.)

Which lead to me saying hello to a group of people younger than me this morning as we prepared for my first of 4 lectures. And by 'prepared' I pretty much mean we stared at each other for a moment.

"So," I croaked, throat sore from a miserable cold I've picked up. "Hi." I shifted from foot to foot, decided I was incapable of standing in the front of a room for 2 hours and took a seat, demanding that we form a circle so we could chat.

I was positively exhausted after an hour.

"You're killing me here," I finally told them. "Listen, I don't do this. And I don't feel well. But ask some questions. Don't sit there with your eyes closed, though I do forgive yawns. Give me something to work with, folks."

I realized, near the end of my presentation, that there was a reason I felt like teachers often lectured directly to me. I have a habit of making eye contact and an inability to sleep sitting up. So - if my behavior today with the 2 semi-engaged individuals is any indication - that I may have been one of the few people who was 1) conscious and 2) not looking down at her desk. Because I just started talking to the people who looked at me.

Anyway, I did not enjoy it.

But at least I have no papers to grade.

Hmmm

"I'm sorry," I interrupted after taking a sip of the water that demanded my attention after I'd finished a sparkling little bellini. "Did you say you got laid? Because that would, I suppose, be a good experience with an airline."

"No," she replied, shaking her head for emphasis. "It's not that kind of story."

A chorus of disappointed sounds met her announcement and I innocently asked if she was sure it couldn't be made into that kind of story. Instead we heard about early boarding and free drinks and quick connections as I debated (and decided against) more sparkling wine.

In the midst of giggles and sips and snacks, there was a dark cloud hovering about one of our companions. I finally stood and slipped into another seat so that I was closer to her.

"So," I said with a gentle smile. "How're things?" And I listened while she talked about how good they were, how important she was, how much better it could be if people would simply listen to her.

I bit back advice - it's in my nature to boss people around - and cocked my head and asked about her ideas. And they're good ideas - not terribly original as all have been tried and failed, but they're reasonable and well-intentioned.

"I understand," I said. "They're good ideas - I've had some that are similar. And it's a frustrating problem." I paused, wondering what I wished someone would say to me as I struggled against the misery that sometimes becomes overwhelming. What might have made life better when it seemed so painful and difficult and unfair.

I wanted to tell her she was hurting her career. That getting hysterical in meetings was ill-advised. That one doesn't interrupt constantly and grow increasingly shrill when corrected by those higher in the food chain we call Industry. That criticizing one's peers in large meetings simply isn't done unless you want them to appear reasonable and sympathetic and you to appear picky and mean. "Take a breath," I wanted to say. "Think before you speak because you're self-destructing and doing so in a way that makes few people want to rescue you."

But looking into her sad eyes and the pinched way she was holding her mouth, seeing the anger and frustration and hopelessness, I said a quick prayer and wished we were close enough that I could have reached to hold her hand or offer a hug.

"I've been where you are," I told her softly. "If you want to talk or if I can offer suggestions or there's any way I can help, please let me know."

Upon her insistence that she was fine, I nodded and patted her shoulder before returning to my seat and my water to sip.

"She has mental issues," the woman beside me whispered, almost too softly to hear.

"So do I," I replied easily, smiling sadly and thinking of the large prescription bottle full of orange and gray capsules I faithfully swallow each night.

"Why so sad?" Sibling asked from my other side and I shook my head, saying it was a momentary lapse. Someone asked if I had a favorite airplane story and I wrinkled my nose thoughtfully before leaning forward to begin.

"On one flight, I saw a man I'd met before but didn't know well. I touched his arm and said hello and before I knew it, he'd arranged for his seatmate to trade me spots so we could sit together. We flirted through the flight - leaning into each other and when we landed, there was a hotel right in the airport..."

"Are you making this up?" PrettyHair asked suspiciously.

"Obviously," I replied, laughing when the waiter winked at me while refilling my water and wishing the girl at the end of the table had at least smiled.

When Time (and a shoe) Gets Away

"I get very flustered when I'm finishing something but know someone is waiting for me. I can't focus on the first thing without worrying about the second thing. It takes my fondness for being prompt and turns it into a nightmare of being rude to all people - by being inattentive and late, respectively."

So - when I was finishing one meeting and late for another and my phone rang to alert me to a third that wanted to start ASAP but couldn't do so without me - I was walking backward while wrapping up with my first group with the phone to my ear so I could - in just a second! - assure my admin that I would be there in 15 minutes. Upon finishing my 'great to see you/thanks so much'-es, I pivoted on one foot with the intent of propelling myself into an extremely brisk walk.

Instead, my shoe - an adorable black flat - slipped off my pivoting foot as it left the ground, going behind me in a graceful arc while I stumbled forward like an inelegant elephant. After three running steps - wherein my hands almost touched the ground as the hem of my skirt likely exposed my bottom - I managed to find my balance and get upright.

In the middle of a long corridor.

Across campus.

Where no less than 10 strangers looked at me with expressions that varied between sympathy and amusement.

I nodded at them, smoothed my dress and tried to walk with meager dignity back to where my shoe remained - upside down - on the carpeted floor.

"You lost your shoe," one woman offered as I moved back toward the erstwhile footwear and I turned to look at her - cheeks still wearing the stain of embarrassment - and blinked in surprise that she'd say something so obvious.

"No kidding," I replied, voice edgy and sarcastic. "You know, I believe I noticed that."

A woman standing next to her choked on laughter and complimented my recovery. "I would have fallen down," she said and I smiled my thanks at the better comment.

Deciding not to speak the "I hope you did not see my underwear" comment on the tip of my tongue to the crowd of men in suits, I put on my shoe, took a deep breath and walked away.

I just hope it's not prologue for December - the month of achieving goals and finishing projects and - with some luck - staying upright.