I was perusing the web today and I wondered, if I could have dinner and hang with five living people, who would I choose? Who would I love to sit and conversate with, listen to, watch interact ...?
Anderson Cooper
Oprah Winfrey
Jon Stewart
Bill Clinton
Tracy Reese
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In other news, work is going nicely. I'm not adjusting well to blitzkrieg that is my 6:42 alarm, but I'm coping. I work in a department of fellow women; there's just this one guy and he is a good-natured somebody ... I'm not yet sure if it's by design/necessity or if it's innate. I won't say I'm the youngest one because I'm no spring chicken anymore, but I'm on the younger side of this "red rover" clan.
The ladies, of course, are all in the lilac phase of life - not lavender, as they are not yet old old - pre- and in-the-midst of the great ol' change o' life. They get there early, they leave early and perhaps worst of all for me they eat early.
Noon?
Now I know noon is high for a reason. When you're working 8 - 5 or 8:30-to-5:30 (as this not-so-springin'-chick does), noon is like the mountaintop and this girl is all about gettin' over -- not in the power hungry sense though. I'm a Capricorn. We goats climb and conquer. Other people linger at the mountaintop, but not me. I get up, inhale the air and the scene and then work my way back down ... with all the C's I listed, complacency isn't one of them. That being said, noontime, to me, is the last leg of the climb. Now I'm just waiting for the tummy rumbles to affirm what I already know -- I'm almost over. Not done -- done is a totally different relief -- but over, fidna coast. I can't coast until lunchtime is over and I haven't eaten lunch at noon since like, 4th grade or something.
Eating at noon makes me feel older than I already am.
I realize my whole blah-blah about noon just now wasn't well-crafted or explained. Maybe what I'm saying is that I don't like having to eat at a certain time every single day with the same group of people. (Did I mention they all eat together?) Especially when I have little in common with the group, and their funny isn't the same as my funny, their topics center on what WeightWatchers and those other places are offering this week, their kids, their pets, their husbands. I feel that this adds to the aging process. It's already inevitable that I'm going to get older, as if the creakiness of my knees and the ankle pops aren't sufficient indication, but ... there's no break. I hear these women chatter all the day long ...
Today I didn't go in for lunch, in part because I was munching all morning and I wasn't hungry, I was involved in completing the task at hand (I hate leaving things unfinished before I take a break!) and I was grappling with the reasons that I'm now writing about. I just don't want to get pegged into the same routine with the same people in slightly rotating outfits. Work itself is enough of a routine - the drive to and fro is enough for me (more on that shortly).
I'm enjoying the work. It's totally new, I'm completely out of my element and that makes learning less of a chore and more interesting. It helps the time pass by easier because I'm actively engaged -- but you know how it is ... how many of us have stayed at a job because of the people.
I don't know ... too early to have any valid complaints, but you know I like to think ahead ... under, over, around and through ... every thing.
It's just that I'm in an industry where my preconceived notions led me to believe the people didn't have a sense of humor really, but so far there've been moments where the witty repartee has been rattled off with the same efficiency as everyone's adding machine paper.
(I like howmy manager questioned my choice of a simple calculator, seriously near disbelief when I balked at her mention of that adding machine. That machine that operates in the most bassackward fashion to a wordy one like myself.)
The dress code - thank goodness - is business casual, but business casual in an English Lit/English-England-inspired world is far different from business casual in a Mathematical-world. One lady gave serious pause to my outfit this morning - khaki pants, ivory wide-neck sweater under which I wore an eggplant tank top since strapless bras are ... well, they just aren't done for casabas like mine. Not with everyday wear at least. She goes, "You sure know how to put colors together. I never would put that purple with that brown like that, and then the ivory on top?! But you look real cute, and that necklace is real cute, too. I like how you sorta bring it all together because the browns and pearly colors don't exactly match, but it looks so good all together like that."
She had this smile on her face, like this would be the smile you'd get when she handed you the notice that you were going to be audited by the IRS.
(I also loved how that sorta sat in such a clever little place ... like it could've been sorta was taking the place of "um," like word filler, or she was telling me not-so-subtly that she didn't think my clothes matched. Chuckles for you, keeper of the navy blue.)
So I've got to get used to my co-workers. Isn't that always quite a challenge, tedious at times, annoying once you spot the ones with great annoyance potential, nerve-wracking because you're the new kid in the lunch room ... but at least at this place you already know you have a table ... it's like Cheers, but it's during work and there's no beer. It's accounting, so maybe it's more math inspired ... like ... I don't know ... Squares?
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Now for the commute. I'm not Jewish, have no ties to the faith that I know of, but I feel that living up North for a span of time and having to endure traffic, rubberneckin' tourists on feet, bikes and in cars, sorta gives you some leeway with their lingo. So with that and in regards to my commute I say --
Oy vey.
Crapshootin' with a clutch is what it feels like each morning. People say it all the time wherever they are, but I've now counted beyond my fingers and toes the number of people who vehemently attest to the lack of driving abilities found in this state. It's deplorable.
Speed up and slam on brakes. This is how they do. There's also absolutely no lane distinctions on any major roadway. Left lane is for passing? Why would I want to pass anyone, the red break lights say blinkingly to me each morning as my engine inhales and nearly chokes on some rapid 3rd gear downshifting.
So as I prepared to steel my nerves for the drive home, I felt irritated, but not a bad irritated ... instead it was I'd had a 4-o'clock caffeinated hot tea irritated. Anyway, L'il Jon spoke to me as I thought about how soon it was going to be that I'd need to have new brakes installed.
Because when I slam on brakes, it's like, What?!
... when I step back on the gas I think, Well okay!
... and when the opportunity for weaving permits itself to get forward I say, "Yeah!"
But overall, commuting is about goin' not-so-fast, so I give you a taste of "Get Slow:"
To the workplace!
From the home!
'Til my teeth grind down to the gum
Down! My speedometer comes!
Aw screech screech go my brake pads
Aw screech screech punch clutch ...
{some kinda verse}
From the workplace!
To the home!
'Til the next day I bash my alarm
Burn! that rubber 'til it's gone
Aw inch inch down the highway
Aw inch inch my last nerve.
{mo' verse}
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Work inspires posting. Real work, when I'm really tired - mentally and physically ... it seems that then I'm compelled to write. Probably because it's the most comfortable purge ... maybe not the safest ... but definitely the most comfortable.
I'm just anxious about being totally outside - color-wise, industry-wise, age-wise, diet-conscious-wise, marital status-wise, interests-wise (one lady seriously gave me a blank stare when I said I was going to watch Project Runway tonight). I stick out, I'm already running into dead-ends for ways to be "creative."
I'm just anxious about becoming too hip to be Square ... not that I'm exactly hip. More like hip-y, but in comparison, I'm not sure Huey Lewis got his news right ...