Writer's Block

I wake up at 6:15ish each day - and get things ready for the day - breakfasts, coffee, clothes, snacks and then at 7, I shower after Husband is out and down, and get myself ready and then I get us out the door.

And then I'm at work and I'm worrying about, oh, tons of stuff, and writer's block. It's with me everywhere. I'm worried at work. I'm worried in runs. I'm worried and irritable at home.

I leave a little after 5 and get myself home, racing through the door and cooking dinner, most often in my suit, and from there, I try to change and it's already 7:30, and the kids need to start getting to bed at 8, and I've fought the homework fight and we finally get them to bed and we come downstairs and it's after 9, and writer's block.

I have 45 minutes until I go to bed, but there's nothing on to watch (what the hell is wrong with TV execs?) and I go to bed.

During runs the thoughts don't flow anymore. I think about my feet pounding and pushing me forward and making the distance. I worry about relationships and people and work. Always work and what's next. What's next? And writer's block.

Words won't line up for me. They refuse - dancing just out of my reach. I have flashes before I fall into a fitfull sleep of the amount of things at work piling up that I need to get to that won't come - words finally aligning somewhat, but not in the way I want, but during the first half of the night, before a child wakes me, they slip away again, leaving me disjointed, and anxious and exhausted again at 6:15.

I'm running Saturday mornings. Which is hard, brutal, really, to wake up the first morning of the weekend for a growing distance, but then, I've got the rest of the day to hang out, and then Sundays are gymnastics, but at an hour that allows me to a) sleep in a bit and b) have a decent breakfast with the family before we head out. It might be the sweet spot. It's ok.

My neighbor came over a few weeks ago and asked me if I was training again - when I replied in the affirmative, she asked abruptly, "don't you think that's too much?"

I don't. Is it? Is that the thing that's wonky?

I yuv you ma-ma, MasterP says, I yuv you the moshe. (hee. awww. me too!)

Things are good. Really. They're ok. I'm ok. The trip to the Dominican was awesome, and I kid you not - resort weddings are fantastic. FANTASTIC.

I'm busy now, but what is the thing that keeps the words at bay?

I can't help but think that people are noticing by now, but I can't find them anywhere I look. And beleive me, I've tried. I've looked everywhere.

Can you think of somewhere I haven't?

Hey Universe?

So you know when there's something that wants to be written sitting at the top of the stack, keeping you from writing anything else?

Remember that time I wailed about wanting to be a rocker of boats? Yeah. About that. I'm good. Thanks. I'm good now.

I'm thinking what I'd like to wail about right now is a general lack of savings, and umm, ooo. The unfortunate dearth of chocolate peanut butter eggs in the Casa Valentine?

Lord.

Tonight was the work party. A holiday party for a whole branch full of introverted policy analysts, planned by the older colleague who likes to think of himself as a mad man, and who held as an ideal for the end of the evening the promise of some threats of sexual harassment complaints.

So instead of what you'd expect (and frankly, what you'd hope for), say, a gathering at a pub where folks can chat and have a drink or a snack, it was at a dance bar, with a really, really, really loud band playing British pop from the late 60s early 70s. So loud that all we could do was stand there with our drinks, surreptitiously checking our watches, which, unfortunately, still read 3:30 PM.

During the break between sets, my friend excused herself on a mission to the washroom and left me in the company of two directors. One wondered if there hadn't been some rule broken - a woman going by herself to the washroom.

I cast an eye around the room and said that I thought she'd probably be ok in this crowd, and then explained that a good part of the reason women go in groups is that as gazelles separated from the herd, we're much more likely to feel others' hands upon us - their eyes watching greedily as we walk past...

What? Said the other, Really? This happens? It's times like these I realize I've just not been doing my job as a cheetah. I mean, I'm just standing around like a giraffe. I've really got to step my game up.....

Hee. Awwww, eagerly feminist fella - that's ok. really. The Mad man would be happy to use up your share.

Turkey Day

It's Thanksgiving, y'all, and you're lucky I'm wearing pants. (If there were a shirt that said that, I'd totally buy and wear it.)

Ok, well, actually, I'm not wearing pants. I've got a tights, and knee high black boots.

Anyhow. You're lucky I'm not wearing really large amounts of fleece. And drinking. And planning how I'm going to spend massive amounts of money tomorrow. And basting. Lots and lots of basting.

But I'm here. Dressed and in the office. In a previously advertised funk (I told New Boss Guy that I really wouldn't be that effective today.)

The problem is that despite the fact that I do love them, boys aren't very perceptive. Or rather, them that’s I work with.

So as a general public service announcement: Dude. If I've got an ipod on at my desk, Quit Poking. Figure it the Hell out on your own.

It's the one thing keeping everyone here from crying. Ok?

Bedtime for grown ups.

And yet?

I'm sitting with my Berry, and sending emails from my home account. Why? Well, kids, there's a new boss in town, and I'm applying for the position of right-hand man. Go-to-girl. I gets his jokes and he gets mine. We crack each other up. That can only mean good things, right?

That, and there's this ridiculous briefing tomorrow morning at 9 with that previously mentioned ADM, and we have no idea of what to say. Ok, well, we've got a plan, but it's hardly detailed, and might just involve one of us looking pretty, and one of us yelling 'HEY! Look over there!' (maybe the same person) while we both run away. (Special note to Dr. Watson: THURSDAY may just come up.)

That and I may have received my very first work call on the Berry. After two years. (It's got a really weird ring.) So I'm betting I probably should at some point soon figure out how to access my voicemail. Right?

Sigh.

New Boss-Man has already noticed distinct lack of technological skilz, y'all - which has been long noted in all who know me at all (Janey explaining web servers "see, there's these little trolls that go and get your information" [p.s. shut up. I'll have you know that just today, I had a very lengthy conversation where I used the words "on-line job posting meta sites" and "wanted" and "crawler technology" to explain to a province how we would be addressing identified job vacancy gaps in LMI and MEANT it....] Wondermom and her step-by-step instructions on Facebook on just how to add fancy buttons to this here blog, Glidinglara on how to use Twitter [ok, that might not be just for me, but I know who you're looking at, and btw, I'm still not convinced that it won't take constant care, like a tamagachi pet, and I'm pretty sure I'd kill one of those. I've got kids, and cats and no smart phone, and I don't think I can do it on my Berry.]

But the Berry, despite having been a companion (not a partner like some I might mention, but a companion) for oh, probably at least 4.5 years is still pretty much a mystery to me. Sure, I can pin, kinda, and um, email, sure, oo! and IM!, and of course do my schedule, but for example, I only learned today that I can get to the top or bottom of my inbox by pushing a SINGLE BUTTON! (man, that's useful! Wish I'da known that sooner!)

What else am I missing?????

Ok, he says, looking vuaguely around his desk at post-it notes, I think that's about it...

Anything else you can think of? I ask

Don't think so?

Boss-Man's Boss pokes his head in. You acting? he asks me.

Yep, says Boss-man.

Well, I say, me and the pick-up guy.

Mostly Katie says Boss-man.

Exactly half, I correct him. For two of the four weeks.

Well, says Boss-Man's Boss, good luck. You've got big shoes to fill!

I know, I say, contemplating the pile on the floor, imagining shuffling around his office in them.

I've been here 18 months. My acting is by no means a new situation, so why the warning this week?

THIS should be fun......

soooooooo

I may be back. I'll try not to write in French, but am feeling very pleased with myself for having written a long and rambling email en Francais to Mrs. Maiden. Take THAT traductrice!!

Heh.

So, for those of you who may not have guessed, I'm off to French training for 10 weeks. 10 weeks of one on one, private French training. I speak it for hours every day, with someone nodding and jotting notes of errors down as I babble on, listing tasks, and responsibilities and making up a Departmental mandate. You know, which seems to be to help Canadians. Ummm, throughout their lives. Especially training. And maybe when they're old, but also, when they're young too.

I'm gonna rock that exam.

In other news, the real estate market is so hot that several days ago, I came home to the following note, addressed to the Valentine Family, and written on yellow lined paper in red pen:

"Dear Valentine Family,

Hi,

My Name is Peter Fisher.

Doris and I would like to

$BUY$

Your House at

(my address here)

Please call us at

PH# (presumably, his phone number here)

Thanks,

Peter"

I know it seems strange, and kinda creepy, but I'm tempted to find out just how much Peter is willing to $PAY$ for the Casa Valentine....

"Pro-comfort"

Dear o.b.:

I've been a user now, for well, longer than I haven't. Well, hold on, I'm doing the exact calculations, and, including pregnancies and what-not, nope, still, more on that off, if you know what I mean. And I know that you do. But enough about me and my age.

What I'm writing about is your recent change in packaging, and, if I understand correctly, makeup of the coating of your product. I, as much as any, appreciate something that would be more comfortable, I really, really do. What I'd really like to question, however, is the decision of your marketing team to describe your newly designed product as 'pro-comfort'. Given that I might have a bit too much time over the past few days to contemplate actions in the ladies' room, I'd like to enquire as to who, exactly, these 'pro's might be.

I must admit my creative and intellectual limitations when I say that I can only think of two broad categories of employment in which one would have greater than the normal amount of experience and could be construed as 'pro's in the action of sticking things up kittens - who's comfort, then, were you thinking of? Perhaps a physician? I can tell you from experience that they are not necessarily concerned with my comfort (speculum, I'm looking at YOU), and as such, I am less compelled to purchase your product on their assurances.

I can only, then, assume that you might mean the working girl, who, we might acknowledge, does have experience with the aforementioned activities. I can only imagine what that client focus group might have gone like. In most areas of my life, I would argue that the working girl might not be the best model for choices, but in this particular instance, would like to thank you both. I appreciate your hard work and selflessnes in research to find the best solution for us all.

Until next time - Katie.

updates...

So Wednesday night we met with the only other care provider we were offered. It was a this or nothing situation, so we really, really, really hoped it would work.

We walked in, and it was good. She was relaxed, and relaxing. MlleL was equally at ease, which is a good sign too - her being sorta a canary of stress.

We talked for a bit, and went to see the playroom in the basement (also very cool - not at all basementy and awful like they can be) and sat the three of us adults on the couch as we discussed the details of the care and watched the kids play.

Something about the way she said 'association' confirmed my suspicions without a doubt, and I lean in and asked her if she spoke Tagalog to the kids.

She leaned around me to look at Husband and said "I thought that's who you were - you look so much like your mother!! Is your dad feeling better?"

heh.

She really is all powerful, that Lola. And now?

If the new care provider crosses us, she will be forced to face the substantial wrath of my mother-in-law.

Drop offs at two separate care providers is going to be tricky, but we're back in business, and protected by the avenging angel.

Now if I only passed that interview today.... Third time's the charm, right?

my friend....

So I have this colleague at work who I've never been able to put my finger on just who it was he reminded me of, until I passed him in the hall, doing a 'hop-think.'

Heh.

http://myfriendrabbit.treehousetv.com/

Dear sub-conscious:

To note, I'd like to thank you for your recent suggestion regarding my colleague. I appreciate your interest and concern and will remain vigilant. While I would very much welcome it, I'd be pretty surprised if a situation arose such that I, that colleague, and the lovely Dr. W would be on a work symposium involving much introspection and what would appear to be quite a bit of shopping and consumption of alcohol (in a mall/hotel that resembles a very, very large grotto). That being said, I will do my best to remain alert. Additionally, I doubt very highly that my colleague drives a truck. (Although colleague is from the west, so maybe you're right. Hard to tell. I'd ask, but then I'd have to explain why.....)

I also thank you for your repeated reminders of what it would feel like to forget to wear a top to meetings and exercise classes. I can assure you that aside from that one time at Janey's house, this problem has never arisen, and I will strive to keep my record of (relatively) successful self clothing intact. And no, I do not agree with your theory that repeated trips to the locker room to don successive layers would result in less people noticing. If I ever do find myself topless while in cobra pose, I think I'll just put everything on at once and be done with it.

Looking forward to working with you again at your earliest convenience,

I remain,

Your body.

Swoonedy Swoon

Somehow, as I was discussing a file with a colleague and sat down at the teleconference table for today's fed-prov call, I looked to my right and found myself face-to-face with the ADM most recently described in the MacLeans blog 'Inside the Queensway' as 'adorably nervous' and nicknamed 'Young F'. He is, ADMly speaking, younger. He's also a blonde dutchman, so he's probably a little older than his features allow.

He's the federal co-chair of the fed-prov forum my team leads, so we work fairly closely with him, although, as I am only a lowly senior analyst, we rarely speak. And certainly, never, never during these teleconferences. I usually just try to appear alert and brainy each time his line of sight drifts my way during the conversation.

Half way through today's call, however, he shifted in his chair, leaned in, put his hand in the small of my back, and spoke in a low voice in my ear. True, it was to ask if I had written down the commitments of each Province in the round table in detail (which I had), but still.....

Coffee time

Standing at the elevators on our way to get coffee this morning:

Older Male Colleauge, squinting at me: "Did you get your hair cut?"

"nope."

"brows done?"

"uh-uh"

"Well, something's different, and you look nice today!"

"uh, yeah. Thanks. It's this rockin' sunburn"

"Well, it suits you."

Rules for early spring

The seven pound weight loss in three days caused by the horrible, horrible, horrible upper respiratory infection your youngest child brought into the house is, as you announced, unsustainable (even though you really hoped it actually was.)

The shingles on your nose brought on by the stress to your system will last longer than the weight loss. Ditto the sinus infection and post-nasal drip.

Don't listen to your mother when she tells you (in detail) how flushing her nose did such wonders for her that you should try it too. A) The details are disgusting - involving something that looked like a 'cockroach'. Shuuuuuuuuuder. B) What will actually happen is that the flushing won't be resolved through expected avenues. Instead, everything will be sent down the back of your throat, resulting in a wave of nausea that will force you to spend the better part of Easter morning in bed.

Sigh.

On the other hand, though, the long weekend was pretty awesome. And very inspirational in the potential for (if not the actual of) getting things done. We recuperated (for the most part) from the cold and from MlleL's My Little Pony Rodeo birthday party, did laundry, and bought groceries. She's officially 4 - all bony bummed and sassy.

The other day, she asked my why my underwear always gave me a fudge.

As in: tug, tug, tug....

"you ok there?"
"my underwear was giving me a fudge."
"Hmm?"
"you know, when your underwear...... Mama, why does your underwear always give you a fudge?"
"Well, I guess that's what underpants sometimes do?"
"No, yours. Yours are always in your bum. There's no....."
"Ahh. Well, I think the word you mean is wedge, honey. Fudge is that yummy stuff we eat at the Chicken Restaurant [Cora's]."

Yes, I did do my best to sidestep that conversation. I just can't think of how to explain avoidance of VPL to my 4-year-old, ok? And besides, I've already had this conversation with bosslady's boss, way back when. [Katie, she announced, having inspected (I can only imagine) the proof, do you wear thongs???] And it was just as intimidating then as it was last week.

A new spring, a new leaf.

Some of my favorite quotes of the week:

"Talk about a unitarian state!" The less-than-completely-engaging Dr. Academic, during a work presentation on sub-national units and international federalism, making a joke about France. (I didn't get it either. Don't bother explaining - I'll only be rolling my eyes.)

"I waxes him all the time." The replacement Leader, speaking of competing Wii-style with her husband.

Overheard in line at the very same meeting:

"Do you think she's from Newfoundland?" (If she's not, she's doing a most excellent job of faking it.)

"Use your instincts" Boss-man, describing how I should pursue my files.

It's amazing, really, how much one boss can affect things. I've been the phone a friend for so many - knower of strange detail - but for some reason, I've been having trouble bringing that same confidence and willingness to share knowledge and opinion (god knows I'll do it at the drop of a hat - even less than that - in a non-professional situation) into my work realm. It's just that it's so new (well, four months now) - this desire to hear what I think.

Dude. I got skills. I'm working on using them. I've got to dig the crazy out of the memory banks and strike out. Telling people what I think and why.

There's really no time like the present.

Wish me luck.

Conversations from the past 10 days

With Husband:
1. 1:37 AM
"Honey, I'm sorry, but you've got to get up. I need your help - there's a really bad flood in the basement."
"Ok. I'm coming."
"I really need your help - it's really bad."
"Yup, I'm putting my clothes on. Where's the flood?"
"In the basement. In the corners. In my workshop. Outside. You'll see."

2. 1:40 AM
"Ok. So the corners are a trickle. I put some towels down. I think we're good."
"It's out here - look - the water keeps filling the window well and leaking into my workshop."
"Ok, well, give me the bucket, and I'll bail it."
"I've been bailing for the last hour."
"Well, how about you let me bail for a while now."

3. 3:30 AM
"You get some sleep. I'll bail now, and then when the kids wake up, I'll go to Home Depot when it opens at 7."

Gaah. That was fun. And wet. And really, really, really cold. But at least the basement stayed dry.

With MlleL:
"I can take my dish to the calendar."
"Thanks, honey."
"I can take ALL the dishes to the calendar."
"Wow, sweetie, you cleared the table - what a good helper you are!"
"It's my pleasure."

Heeeee.

With Mrs. Maiden:
"So next weekend, I'm getting the level 2 healing touch training. You can do it long distance, you know - anything going on with you???"
"uh, well, I went for a run yesterday, so my hips are sore...."

With Wondermom:
"So, I've been thinking, you know how you wrote that post about your voice?"
"uh-huh...."
"Well, I've been thinking about mine when I'm writing. How do you do it? Did you decide on a voice, or...."
"Well, I do think about how I'm going to word something, but pretty much, I like to think that the way I write is the way I talk."
Wondermom: "......."

(hee. I take that as no.)

In a reunion of the dirtiest carpool:
"You know, for argument's sake, and if situations were different, I'd let that big boy in my life."
"Really??"
"Oh, yeah, I mean, private jet? Wherever I like? Seriously, it's kinda a fantasy, you know?"
"yeah. There's another one about a pool, where he says it's time to get out but you don't need to use the towel, just let it air dry - I mean, it's nasty, but I like it."

Yeah, baby. Are you sure you don't want to take a job back at Phase 4? I'm pretty sure I could figure a way to work the condo into my route.....

Wooooo Girls

Two male colleagues, one who's known me well for years, and one who's worked with me for a few weeks recently started conversations with me the same way.

Exhibit A: "Take what you will from this question, but try not to get too excited...."
Exhibit B: "Try not to get too excited, but...."

Hmm. (to their credit, my almost immediate response was heeeeeeeeeeee! So they might have had a point.)

Someone else recently told me that my Facebook profile shot looks fantastic, and that "I'm one of the smiliest people" she knows. Really?

Is that how people see me? Flying off the handle with cheering at the happy life news of colleagues?

Should I be renting a hummer now?

Or is this all more irrefutable evidence of my long-held claim??

I shoulda been a cheerleader, man. It's my calling.

Dudes.

I'm exhausted.

In a way that's hard to explain, the depths of the exhaustion. So much so that today's parking ticket almost made me cry, right there on the sidewalk beside yet another unsuccessfully plugged meter. But hopefully, the teeth will come soon, and transit strike will end, Christmas will be celebrated, the First Ministers' Meeting will happen in January, they'll think I'm doing a good job at the new work, and we'll all sleep better for it.

And also? Just a few lessons from a recent Friday night out.

First: Late night shopping without kids IS as fun as you remember it was. Especially if you're with a girlfriend.

Second: While shopping wearing the pink sock monkey jammies your mom bought you at Target for the three-generations-in-sock-monkey-jammies photo op, it's much easier to feel sane if you don't look down.

and finally:

If you are a teenage member of the 'style squad' - St. Laurent Centre, I'm looking at you - and you're tempted to treat adults wearing sock monkey jammies like crap, please remember that there's a much greater chance that adults will write to your boss to complain about your behaviour. Just sayin'.

More lessons in culture shock

Moving from the small office building of oh, somewhere in the hundreds in population to the office complex with somewhere close to twice the population of the town I grew up in is fun.

Really. It's fun. Especially for a people-watcher such as myself.

I've felt the need to create PSAs - for example, aimed at the lady last summer who was sporting the skirt that might have been from a few seasons back. It was apparently higher waisted than when she first bought it, and yet, the slit was in the same place it used to be, only, as you might imagine with the rise in waist, a corresponding, and truly, truly unfortunate rise in slit had happened. We could call that one "Madam, we can see your ass cheeks, or: Please consider boyshorts for the workplace"

Or for the lady with the unusual chunks of colour in her otherwise white hair "I'm not sure that you should let your berry-loving bird friend sit on your head while you watch scary movies"

But the PSA aimed at me? Well, it might be titled "there's a subtle but clear difference between the way ladies who are paid to organize and deliver things and ladies who are paid to be theoretical dress." Huh. Not quite as catchy as the last two. But probably an important one to watch. I mean, I wear boyshorts and don't let birds sit on my head, so I'm probably ok there. But it's a different aesthetic. Like cool boots but no lipgloss. Dresses but no eye shadow.

Sadly, almost a Daphne vs. Velma thing.

I'm doing my best to blend, but old habits die hard. Today, I used my wiles to bend my provincial colleague to my will and sign an MOU he had been stalling on.

Do you think he'll respect me tomorrow?

My bellybutton, exposed.

A friend asked me a while ago about my hobbies. I told her that a) I didn't have time for them and b) I don't really have any anyhow.

I was thinking in particular of my sad scrapbooking supplies after the plan of cheap and easy grandparent Christmas albums created three years ago during MlleL's infancy went so desperately awry. They were, in fact, neither of those options, and I haven't done anything since.

So I thought to myself, no, I don't really have hobbies.

A few nights ago, however, it occurred to me that I just wasn't thinking of the right hobbies. Because, in fact, I do have hobbies. Currently, I run and I write. Sometimes I do both at the same time, and then I trip for lack of attention to the first. And actually, there's a third.

It's hard to think of excersise as a hobby - particularly since a) I am not very fast, b) I cannot run for great distances, and c) I am, at best, sporadic in my achievements. Let's say once or twice a week. But really, I guess, that's a hobby.

And just because I don't post more frequently doesn't mean I'm not thinking about writing a lot more. Often, I'm worrying that I don't have the right voice - or that I'm not consistent with its use. I wonder if the nicknaming of my friends and loved ones is more annoying than good. I worry that my entries are not interesting enough - that the everyday minutia of working and momming and cooking aren't that interesting to the greater crowd. Or I worry about how to get more people interested. (Yes, it's about writing, but I'm goal oriented. It's numbers, baby. Numbers. Training dies hard.)

Sometimes I wonder about grammar, but then I reread to edit.

And then finally, I start to worry. I spend hours helplessly entertaining myself. I have a secret fear of Husband not coming home from errands. I worry for the kids. I think about you. Because, my dears, I really am Mr. Maiden all femmed up. I manage to restrain the general anxiety and worries for the future most of the time through careful inspection of the logical and statistical likelihood of occurance (no, crazy, it's extremley unlikely that Husband will be attacked in the bathroom of this backwoods gas station for being a brown fella - even if it IS in the middle of nowhere, and if he is, he does hold several black belts in various marial arts so he'll probably come out any second now), but when there's big change afoot, I'm a snappish, worrying looooonatic.

I'm sure it'll work out. It'll work out, right? They'll be nice there? There will be somewhere to make/get coffee? They'll think I'm doing a good job and that I'm smart enough? I'll get the commute worked out?

I mean, I guess I could always run. If I'm late, I could always write a note by means of explanation...