Squeak!

Things were fun this weekend around the old HQ because my sister Rachel visited from Chicago.  It's always fun to spend time with her.  We look a lot alike, we laugh at the same things, and also, I get to tease her about sounding like a cartoon character.  In true big sister fashion, gentle readers, I have her convinced that I think her voice is squeaky but mine isn't -- even though in reality I know we sound exactly the same.

The question in my mind is "am I a genius or what?" but I'm sure the question in your mind is "why do they sound like cartoon characters?"  The answer is, I don't know.  Our other sister sounds perfectly normal and sings like an angel.  I suspect neither Rachel nor I paid attention when announcements were made in heaven about where the lines were forming to choose adult voices, so we got stuck with kid voices forever.

Yesterday morning I woke up with a sore throat, which has since developed into some kind of a virus.  I'm assuming this is because I spent all day Saturday with the little petri dishes my beloved nieces and nephew.  Now I sound like a cartoon character who's been a little too free with the whiskey and cigarettes.  It is not an improvement.

Pack In The Presence Of The Passenjaire

I don't even OWN any of these garments.

A lot of people have been asking me what I'm packing to wear in France, and it's really beginning to stress me out. You would think that after years of knowing me, my friends would understand the care and feeding of a neurotic person. Which, in case you were wondering, precludes things like repeatedly asking them what they are packing to go to Paris because said neurotic person starts thinking what you're really saying is that they look like dog vomit most of the time and will embarass the entire country with their hillbilly ways.

So now I'm dealing with a case of Packing Paralysis. I think about packing. But then I get nervous and jittery and find something else to do. Which brings me around to these:

My niece Katie wanted me to bring something representing her to Paris. I thought what could be better than Katie on a Steek? So I made a couple of them.

This one was a Halloweeen costume, but I thought it would give that haute couture look, especially since she looks exactly like a runway model: giant head and stick body. I think Katie on a Steek will enjoy having adventures, just like Catwoman does. I even have experience in this area as I have helped with a few Catwoman photo shoots.

Incidentally, I am bringing pajama pants but they are cute and have Hello Kitty on them and I plan to wear them to sleep in, not to wear out and about. I don't think they even have Walmart in France.

Words of Wisdom: P.G. Wodehouse

Act Now! Operators Are Standing By!

WANTED: Job for individual with such a high degree of fabulosity as to be almost unemployable.

Candidate possesses excellent organizational skills and the ability to pull miracles out of thin air (also known as the sport of Extreme Problem Solving). Able to get a great deal of work done while appearing to be engaged in nothing in particular. Candidate has reached a state of decrepitude where she can no longer do any heavy lifting, but she is still willing to do the odd bit of climbing to reach the desired objective. Well-versed in Microsoft Office applications, but may, at first, run screaming from the room if presented with an Excel spreadsheet. Can Google like a rock star. Plays well with others, provided the others are not marinating in unmedicated mental illness.

Special Skills:
• An encyclopedic knowledge of show tunes
• Spelling savant
• Drawing food cartoons
• Writing, drawing, and saying random things that make her co-workers laugh
• Large catalog of literary quotes to be deployed at various times
• Plus! Almost daily cat stories, absolutely free!

Paging Dr. Jung

I'm having recurring nightmares about spreadsheets. Endless, boring, soul-killing spreadsheets. I don't need a psychiatrist to know what that's about.


Do you want to drive a creative and conscientious person to despair? Give her a lot of spreadsheets. I mean, a lot of them. Make sure that some of them only she will ever look at - that they serve no purpose whatsoever - and then require her to keep them up to date.


Next, some spreadsheets should never add up because you have not given your creative and conscientious person the correct data. Change her data to correspond with the numbers she is not allowed to know. Berate her for the spreadsheets not adding up. Repeat.


Of course you, gentle readers, would never want to drive anyone to despair because that is not what nice people do. But I think it's going to be a while before I stop jumping like a cat on hot bricks every time I see the Excel icon on my computer desktop.

What's New, Pussycat?

The last day on my job was Christmas Eve. Leaving was the right decision, for a number of reasons for which this is not the proper venue. Giving myself time to figure out what comes next, to heal, to rest -- that was also a good decision.

Still, I find myself like a deer caught in the headlights, like the victim of an accident wondering what just happened. I've spent three days wandering around, in and out of my home, starting at sudden noises and forgetting what I'm doing. I've slept a lot.

Part of me has been upset about this, thinking that I should Get Things Done and Accomplish Tasks -- presumably to justify taking time off. But my body and mind have not cooperated. Beyond taking showers and feeding self and cat, I have accomplished nothing.

This morning the sun came out after a year and a half of overcast days (I may be exaggerating a tiny bit). I sat in my sunroom and thought, "I can do this. I just think I'd feel better if I knew what this is." Apparently, the answer is not forthcoming.

And so, I'm sitting here, watching the sunshine sparkle on the snow, and waiting. Patience. It's a virtue -- one I am being dragged kicking and screaming into cultivating.

Picture This

The Team Maria President and I have been discussing, via email, the status of my blogs and how we can strengthen the brand going forward into 2011. He expressed concern about the fact that the quality of photographs of yours truly tends to vary.


I have prepared this presentation to explain why, at times, I look like I am waiting for a firing squad. You can make it into a multi-media presentation by humming a showtune -- I suggest "The Lady Is A Tramp" from the Broadway musical Babes In Arms.

Cat Math

Every time the Army Dude gives my cat a treat, he gets concerned because I always want him to give her approximately half as many as he wants to give her. She's an elderly cat who needs to have good nutrition and not to -- as my mom used to say -- "fill up on junk." For years now, I have been telling him to relax because cats can't count.


I have recently discovered, however, that Miss Daphne knows the difference between "one" and "many." If one treat drops on the floor, she looks at it and then looks up at me with an expression that says "One treat? Really? How much do you like having a poop-free comforter? Think about it. Take your time." If I put down a few treats, she dives on them and eats them gleefully with no sarcastic facial expressions.


Just between us, sometimes I put one treat down because her snarkiness amuses me. But then I follow it up with more because I am no fool. I like having a poop-free comforter a lot.

Catch You Later

A few weeks after the rat encounter, my landlord asked me if I'd seen any rodent activity around the trash area. I told him that I had, and that it probably would have been comical if he'd been home that day to see it. He seemed surprised at my lackadaisical attitude toward a Rodent of Unusual Size.


He then asked me if the rat was getting into my side of the house. I thought, have you heard any crazed shrieking lately? Then, no. But I simply replied in the negative. He told me that the rat was getting into his kitchen garbage and that he'd tried a few different things but had not managed to get rid of him. He was thinking about calling in the guys with chemical weapons.


At this point I started to feel sorry for the rat. After all, he is just trying to live his rat life and do his rat things. He had probably lost his regular habitat because of all the road and sewer work that has been going on in town. None of this was his fault.


The next time I took out the trash, I directed a little speech toward where the rat was suspected to be nesting. I said "Dude," (I call all animals whose actual names I don't know Dude. They seem to like it) "you need to find a new home before the Big Blue Bug Guys show up. Take my advice and move along. Also, I hope you've enjoyed my cooking."


I didn't see him - or any evidence of him - after that. Coincidence? I don't think so.