equilibrium-girl.com

Lay Low

NakedMarzi's most recent entry made me start singing "Chigger-what? Chigger-who? Chigger-what? Chigger-who?" in my head. Must stop listening to my Jay-Z: Unplugged CD...that I inexplicably found in The Governor's CD collection. Huh. It's true that his first reaction to song when he was a wee babe was to "Big Pimpin'". It's only a matter of time when we start have to start self-censoring our car music.

I'm at an impasse with my jewelry. I haven't made anything in a very long time. I started gearing up to contribute items to Craft Revolution's etsy store, but never got around to taking pictures of the items I'd selected. I just can't find a bead or style or combination that inspires me to create. I guess I'm just going to wait until this dry period passes.

Late Breaking News

ANYTOWN, USA--A dashing, blond Caucasian man with Conan O'Brien's facial structure was found weeping uncontrollably while sitting on the street corner, surrounded by chopped carrots. A 20-lb bag of Jasmine rice lay askew at his feet.

He was initially sighted shortly around dinnertime, wandering the streets, muttering "...fish oil...sesame seeds...fish oil...sesame seeds...," over and over to himself, his 6'3" frame hunched over silently as he fumbled with a rice spatula in his hand. Attempts to calm him proved fruitless.

When brought to the police station for questioning, he broke down and admitted to purchasing generic soy sauce, even though his grocery store's supply of low sodium Kikkoman was plentiful. He was allegedly lured to this unfortunate choice by bad judgment and promised savings.

"How was I know that the green cap and pungent soy odor was everything?" he exclaimed in a fit of frustration as authorities released him from custody.

His wife and young son could not be reached for comment, having run to the Asian grocery store to correct the misfortune.

Special Message from The Department of Mental Security

Important Safety Notice: The Inappropriate Crush Object Warning Level has been lowered from Red (Cheeks) to Orange (Highlighter Fiddling While Speaking). I spoke with him today for a while, and after my initial semi-hyperventilation eased and my heart dropped itself willingly from my throat, we had a very nice, friendly conversation. It helps when the buzz due to the blood rushing to your cheeks eases so that you can actually hear what the other person is saying . I was even enough at ease so that I could execute my speech-and-debate rooted pen twirling technique over the course of our conversation as close to flawlessly as I could. It still makes me kinda nervous to speak with him, but I'm kinda over it.

I believe we should be entering the nice, safe "eye candy" zone. You are free to move about the office with ease.

Perplexing

Coming home completely mortified and collapsing into complete sobs is simply not a good look for me. I will have to change that. But hey, when a senior VP who doesn't know you points you out to a crowd full of your clients, it can be extremely perplexing. If I wasn't so tan, I would have been purple for a couple of hours. After that happened yesterday, I cruised under the radar screen today and tried not to stir too much shit.

The Governor is making a good cross-examiner of daily situations I'd never really thought about until asked. "Why does your car only carry 4 people? Do dogs have blood under their skin? Does your car go faster than an SUV?," so on and so forth. I think Conan is a little exasperated by the constant questioning, although he has been known to deal in the interrogation technique quite handily. His own medicine (see "piece of"), indeed.

Present Location

I'm in this weird in-between land at work, and it's making me a bit lonely. I think people are a little reticient to approach me about some things, and when that happens, I start to ponder through all of the reasons why. I never realized just how much baggage I carry around with me until one of my mentors pointed out to me that I sound overwhelmed and under the gun a lot. I think perhaps I put myself there. I semi-obsessed about a comma that wasn't supposed to be in an email I sent last night, but that was left over from a sentence fragment long-deleted in my quest for legal precision. Ah, the irony. Hits you like a wet washcloth, making you feel droopy and unfresh.

Work is quite busy-if I wanted to, I could just put my blinders on and concentrate on just getting things taken care of and keeping my head above water. And I could do "just fine." But I don't want to do "just fine." I want to be a rock star, like the Remote Boss. I want to be known for clarity, creativity, and dependability. They don't call my position "counsel" for nothing. I'm supposed to counsel people, to provide assistance and knowledge and help them iron out their problems. But I can't counsel when I feel doubtful about my analysis. And I find myself doubting myself too often than should be necessary. I have to proactively start working my way out of this bog, because it's sucking me into ineffectiveness.

Sights and Smells

My mom makes this fantastic zucchini cake every fall, and it always made coming home from after-school practices with the cool autumn air still settled on our cheeks all the more pleasant. The baked, sweet, earthy smell coming from the oven always make the house just a bit cozier and warmer. I've never confessed to her that I could only stand one or two thinly-sliced pieces, but it was never the consumption that was really the great thing--it was the motherly ritual and the atmosphere that it created. It's not exactly autumn yet, since it's just past Labor Day, but the Halloween decorations and costumes in the store nudge me in the direction of autumn preparations. The magazines have cute and clever directions for turning miniature gourds into witches, apples into tasty baked treats, and cupcakes into martians. It's so very wonderful. I know why mom calls this her favorite season.

Shall I Pick Up Your Dry Cleaning On The Way Home?

Having clients with the same first name as your husband can sometimes create confusion.

When most clients call me at work, they do not usually like greeted with "Hi, honey." Er, at least they shouldn't. They really shouldn't.

Choices

"It's nice to have choices," they murmur when there is nothing left to say. I feel like I'm rubbing smooth a two-sided stone, looking at one side, and then the other, flipping it back and forth between my hands. There's only so much rubbing that can be done, and eventually I must choose what side I like best-and leave it alone.

The result of the nine-month project on which I'd been working, this two-sided stone is what I carry around in my pocket at work. I show it to my husband, and try my best to describe it to my son. "Look," I say, "and tell me what side you like best." My loving husband, calm and rational yet biased in his perspective, tells me what side he likes and provides an exposition as to why one side's smoothness and calmness appeals to him. My son, while he does not understand, shrugs and picks one, just because.

I made my choice, and I am comfortable with it. It isn't without some sadness that I opted for change. Not an overwhelming move, and not necessarily one that may end up making a huge difference in the long run, but it's definitely a change. I feel happy about it, but I can also hear doubt in people's voices. Still, I think there is room to grow. I like my new bosses. And I think I also have much to teach them as well.

Reminisce with Me

I've never admitted this to anyone, but I love document production. It's not necessarily the actual review of the documents themselves and the analysis of evidence that I enjoy so much-it's the actual process of marshalling the documents along their merry way and all that that entails. From the receipt of the request to the grilling of clients to see what they know to the identification of "relevant" documents, I can't say that I've felt as accomplished as I did when I led an orderly parade of burnt CDs full of email inboxes into the hands of a government investigatory attorney. But frankly, I consider document production to be somewhat of an art form--categorization of documents according to subpoena specification is largely a judgement call save for some clear cut cases. I love keeping Excel spreadsheets with neatly identified columns labeled "status" and "Bates Range." I can't tell you why. Perhaps it was they nifty color-coded keys, or perhaps the tangible work product of stacks and stacks of bankers boxes filled to the brim with paper or CDs. I'll really never know, but to this day, neatly organized privilege logs spark a certain nostalgia in my soul.

I Had to

I had this semi-extensive entry that bemoaned the lack of cute black professional handbags. I was working on it semi-dutifully, set to publish it so that it could meet & greet the rest of the internet.

And then...I had to send myself to the nearest shopping locale so that I could pick up a couple of gifts for my brother's birthday.

I had to park my car at the entrance of the certain department store whose name starts with an "N."

I had to pick the particular entrance that happens to be the one closest to the handbags section.

I had to to take a detour through that section.

I had to look at black handbags that I really shouldn't have been looking at, because we had given Conan's cousin some money (see below).

I had to find one that I really, really loved.

And after agonizing over it while I traversed the entire length of the mall...

I had to buy it.

Hello There!

Keep forgetting to ad this, but please welcome the newest member of the EG/SB family, a doberman-beagle mix named Hobie:

He came to us weekend before last. We've adopted him from the local beagle rescue and he has been fitting in quite nicely. It's been a little difficult for someone like me who has some personal space issues since Hobie is extremely affectionate, but I've been learning to adjust and just put the baby gate up when I want to be alone. Like the other two boys, I think he's kinda cute.

I ain't saying she a gold digger...

Conan has been spending a couple of hours each night doing research to help his cousin, who last weekend found out that his wife put their family in debt to the tune of half a cool mil. That's right, 500K-at least that's the figure for now. Apparently, she had falsified savings and checking account statements, never paid off their sons' tuition, bought new cars and furniture, and refinanced their new house at least a couple of times.

She was able to dupe friends that were notaries into attesting to her fakes of his signature. There is are a handful of federal felonies of which she is guilty. But the worst crime in my opinion isn't something that is contained in any federal or state criminal code--it's the taking of money from her three sons. She apparently dug into their savings accounts too--which to me makes her sad, pathetic individual and completely unfit to parent. She checked herself into a hospital, and I think she is perhaps hoping to dupe everyone into sympathizing with her. But how can you sympathize with someone who falsifies financial information, commits mail fraud, and steals from their own children?

Rambling Train-of-Thought Things

Excuse the lack of entries-between Katrina, happenings in Conan's side of the family, and finally having a little down time I've been on the introspective side these days. That's supposed to lead to journal ponderings on life subjects, a la life's true meaning and whatnot, right?

The big problem is that there's so much swirling around in this head of mine that I can't get it untangled enough to even start a consistent enough train of thought to even compel me to write it down. It's sort of like when you don't sort out your jewelry and your necklaces become this tangled mass of gold and silver chain studded with daisy charms and beads. You spy the perfect necklace twisted in with the rest, and while you start trying to pick it out with a toothpick inserted into the mess, you end up getting frustrated with the whole thing and pick out that standard pair of neutral go-with-everything earrings instead. Then, you just shrug your shoulders, look in the mirror and think "it'll go," and head out the door.

It's been like that, except I haven't felt entirely that great about my looks. I shouldn't have tried on that end-of-summer-sale bikini last night. I didn't look atrocious in it, but my body image issues took over in that sparse dressing room. Most days, I'm happy with my body, its post partum stretchmarks and all. Honestly, I could pull off a bikini-but when I look at myself in the mirror, the "I could stand to be a little more toned in certain areas," litany starts running. Don't love it, but it's been enough to start me being better at exercising lately.