Rooful.

( if you'll excuse the expression I use) I'm in love! i'minlovei'minlovei'minlove!

I'm in love with Judge Sotomayor!

[ Thank * for NY1 -- hour upon hour of different people asking the same questions. . .]

Also crushing a bit on Al Franken.
And an old, articulate Senator with an eagle-ish face and a liver-spotted head, whose name I (shamefully) don't know. . .

#9/365: In the news.

I was reading
Newsweek earlier today.

The following passage caught my attention:

In the 1970s and '80s,
Salvatore Maddi, a psychologist
at the University of California, Irvine,
followed 430 employees at Illinois Bell
during a companywide crisis.
While most of the workers suffered
as their company fell apart--
performing poorly on the job,
getting divorced and developing
high rates of heart attacks,
obesity and strokes--
a third of them fared well.

They stayed healthy,
kept their jobs or found others quickly.
It would be easy to assume
these were the workers who'd grown up
in peaceful, privileged circumstances.

It would also be wrong.

Many of those who did best as adults
had had fairly tough childhoods.
They had suffered no abuse or trauma
but "maybe had fathers in the military
or parents who were alcoholics...

"There was a lot of stress
in their early lives,
but their parents had convinced them
they were the hope of the family--
that they would make everybody
proud of them--
and they had accepted that role.
That led to their being
very hardy people."

Childhood stress, then,
had been good for them--
it had given them
something to transcend.

Who knew I'd be
listing that as one of my assets?

My eyeglasses are Pepto-pink.

Rather than sitting in my armchair,
petrified with fear--

Fear of what?
I'm still figuring that out.
My best guess at this point is
Fear of Moving in Any Direction--

I decided to come blog.

I have a lot of shit to write about.
Hoo Nelly.
So much, in fact, that potential posts
are backing up my mental plumbing
like forbidden hand towels.

The side effects of this condition
seem to include strained similes
and awkward imagery.

I'm hoping it will pass with time and practice.

So, here I am, Interweb,
ready to rock your world!
Anyone bring a plunger?

Yeah, you're right.
I'm not ready.
And I've read that if you haven't
produced something worthwhile
within a few minutes of sitting down,
you should get up and try again later.
Because otherwise, well, you know.
Hemorrhoids.

Opening night.

If you pay attention, you can see your life circle back on you--
did you really figure out how to deal with this?

I can't get in to details about work here.
But I can say this:
Last fall's disillusionment was hard to live through,
but I made it one of the best things that ever happened to me
by learning everything I could from the fallout.
This fall, I kept my eyes open and my paperwork in order.
History tried to repeat itself, but it couldn't.
I was too smart for it.

How do you like that?

I'm cringing right now. I feel the fates at work in my life.
And I'm desperately afraid of tempting them.

But I'm proud of how I've handled myself over the last three months.
(The months I haven't been writing.)
I've been doing some of the most exciting work of my life.
I've learned to supervise without losing
my connection to the work I'm handing off.
I've met insane deadlines by the fingernails.
I've learned how to get backup when I need it.
And I chose a wonderful group of people
to help me get everything done.

Which we did. In the nick of time, as it were.

On the other see of the saw:
I haven't slept.
I picked up smoking again.
I've lost close to thirty pounds since August.
I had my period for over a month,
but I couldn't stop to go to a doctor.

Sounds manic, doesn't it?

Especially the fact that I loved every minute of it.
Even the ones where I was weeping on the roof,
tossing snotty napkins and cigarette butts
into puddles on the rainy asphalt.

A craftsperson I look up to told me once
that people who get in to theatre are adrenalin junkies.

Some people mountain-bike. We make costumes.

And the costumes? They are made.
And they are beautiful.

My vorpal blade went snicker-snack.

I survived my first day back at work.
Actually, and I'm cringing and knocking wood
as I'm saying this, but
it went pretty well.

And my new rocker chick long bangs were a hit.
So I've got that going for me,
which is nice.

My heart is still racing from my recent,
failed attempt to rid my living room
of an icky bug
via vacuum jousting.

I called my main squeeze for moral support.
He invited me out to dinner in Ktown
with him and his boss.

I'm glad I didn't wash my makeup off yet.
Hopefully I can get out of the house
without the bug eating me.

The future's a chancy thing. But you can always rely on a boob joke.

My summer break is coming to an end.
I start work again on Monday.

 
I’m trying not to dread going back.

 
It’s not like there’s a lot of bad news.
I have some exciting projects to work on.
And I’m looking forward to the symbolic fresh start
of the new season, in terms of how I view
myself and the people I work with.

 
On top of which, I just had five weeks off.
I really shouldn’t be complaining about anything.

 
But I’m scared.
I’m not sure this craft I’ve built is seaworthy.
And time is running out for modifications
or last minute repairs.

 
I’ve been hiding out a bit.
Yesterday I went to IKEA with a friend from work.
I’d been looking forward to the outing,
but I dragged my feet when it came time to go.
I didn’t want to see anyone from work,
even a friend whose company I enjoy.
I didn’t want to think about it.

 
The trip to the store in Brooklyn was pleasant.
We looked at couches and kitchen wares,
and I ended up buying some pretty drinking straws,
a couple of picture frames, and a metal coffee thermos.

 
My friend was dreading going back, too.
She played along pretty happily when
I steered conversation away from life at the opera.
Of course, we ended up talking about work,
gossiping over margaritas at the end of our shopping day.
It wasn’t bad. But it put me in a strange funk for the rest
of the evening.

 
I joked that seeing her was sort of like
dipping my toe in the pool.
Easing my way back into the world of work.
She knew what I meant.
I might have offended her.
I ordered us a second round.

 
Don’t worry. You’re the best part of working there.

 
I should get that made into a T-shirt:
    ‘I’m the best part of working here.’

 
I eyed my buxom friend.

 
Better make it ‘the two best parts’…