A Letter With No Address

Hi Dad,

 Happy Birthday to you, Teufelsvati.

 It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, but I think about you every day.  I hope that wherever you are, you are happy and finally have all the answers to all the scientific questions you had.  I bet that wherever your soul resides – in one of the most beautiful nebulas, I like to think – that you can spout string theory and play with quarks all day long. 

 I’m doing alright here – I guess the best that can be expected when you lose your best friend.  It’s a bit more lonely and there are a lot fewer midnight popcorn (poccorn) parties and late night theoretical talks, but there really isn’t another choice besides waking up each day and moving on.

 I’m living in your old house now.  You would HATE what I’ve done with the place.  It’s clean, your old furniture is gone – it’s not a shrine to your youth anymore.  But it’s very nice for me.  You would like that, I know.  Mom is going to let me take some of your old radios and microphones and decorate with them.  One of my friends adopted the old red chair in your bedroom for his first apartment.  As we were moving it, a small pocketknife fell out – yours, I know, from your teenage years.  It’s rusted a bit, but it still works well.  Kind of like how I feel these days.  Seeing it when it fell out was like getting another gift from you, after all this time – I will treasure it always.

 Every time I cook a meal or use the cookbooks and tools you gave me, every time I smell popcorn or pipe tobacco I think of you.  I’ve caught myself staring at the stars late at night, looking for where I think you might be.  Wherever you are, I know that you know how much you were loved here. 

 Tonight, to celebrate your birthday, I’m going home to your old house and I’ll watch “Kiss Me Kate” or maybe “The Court Jester”, with a bowl of popcorn and think of how many wonderful years we had.  I love you so much and I always will.  Someday, I hope to see you again – maybe you can show me your favorite nebula in person this time and not just on a photo. 

 Wherever you are, I love you, Teufelsvati.

Deines Teufelskind.

Oh, The Places You’ll Go

Did anyone else get this Dr. Seuss book for graduation?  My Grandma Major gave it to me when I graduated high school.  I thought it was nice, and read through it and her sweet message in the front.  Then I put it on my bookshelf and moved on, my head full of ideas and plans and half-formed schemes on the glory of college life.  I was more wrapped up with starting the process, getting to class, doing the work and pulling all nighters than actually thinking about the places I’d go.  College, obviously, but nothing past that. 

So I started out on my proverbial road, moving along, looking more at my feet, as it were, than looking around me and looking ahead.  I did the usual college things and lived in the moment – enjoyed learning for learning’s sake, made fast friends, found a place where I truly fit in – for the first time in my life.  I didn’t really think about what would happen when I ran out of classes on my degree plan.

When I reached the crossroads on my path – when I graduated college – I looked around, surprised to be there in the first place and amazed at all the ways I could choose to go from there.  Some, I wasn’t prepared for.  Career choices that I wasn’t educated or prepared for stretched out like rocky rough terrain that I couldn’t go over.  Some paths looked like they petered out several steps ahead – careers that wouldn’t last or go anywhere at all.  There were many paths that were perfectly good and stretched out into the distance, lost to view on the horizon. 

Never a brave traveler, I took an easy path.  I graduated with two degrees I desperately loved but needed more education to actually pursue.  If you want to continue the road analogy, I was desperate for a pit stop.  Done with learning, I was so eager to be free, that I took what was easily offered me – continuing the bead store manager job I’d held in school.  It was fine work, though very hard.  I was alright at it – some aspects better than others.  I always got 100’s on customer service reviews and thrived in an artistic environment, but lamented the fact that I’d never actually get anywhere with my work.

Every time a road has petered out in front of me – the closings, the lay-offs – I’ve been blessed enough that another path has miraculously appeared at my feet.  With barely a stumble, I’ve managed to keep on traveling, though the paths have crisscrossed now so much that I begin to fear I’ve become lost.  I would hate to end up at the end of my life, disliking the destination and wishing I’d taken a different path.  Maybe wishing I’d taken a risk and attempted a rockier one.  If I had succeeded, would the view have been nicer?  Maybe.  If I failed, what would happen?  Given what’s happened in the past, I’d be provided for.  After all, when dangers real your path assail, God will take care of you.  (A line from a favorite hymn.)

What brings all of this up today?  When I was packing books last night, preparing for the big move, I came across that book again – the one my Grandma gave me.  I read it over again – more to see her words than anything else – she’s not around anymore and I miss her dearly.  Then, I read the book for the first time since graduating high school; this time with a little more sense and a lot fewer stars in my eyes.  It was a jolt desperately needed and galvanized a burgeoning desire for MORE. 

I want to pick my path this time, not take the one most travelled; the one that just continues to meander.  I want to see where my path will take me and where I will end up at the end of my traveling days.  Even if it’s not the easiest path to travel or the view isn’t quite as spectacular in the end as I might have dreamed, I’ll have chosen it myself.  Because when you come right down to it, so much of the trip is in the traveling.  I don’t want to waste it – I want to see what’s over the next hill and around the following bend.  I want to love what I do in life.

 To this end, I started researching Masters programs at lunch.  I’m researching on the American Library Association’s webpage and learning step-by-step what I need to do to get my MLS.  Armed with knowledge and with a new educational map in hand, I’m starting off on a new road soon.  Who knows where I will end up?  At least I know the going will be happy to the Places I’ll Go.

Almost In Real Life

Awesome Boyfriend knows I like flowers.  From previous posts, Dear Reader, you know that delivering real flowers to me didn’t work out so well.  I went into raptures when he sent me the picture of the bouquet I WOULD have gotten, had they been delivered.  So now, he sends me pictures of bouquets instead – seeing as how I just loved even the picture of the original bouquet.  Babe, I love you, but it’s not the same!  Still, despite that, my Monday flower bouquet jpg is the highlight of my work day.  In the end, he still wins. 

Now, Awesome Boyfriend likes to hear me sing.  Those of you who know me know that I can indeed carry a tune – heck, I even sang with the Houston Choral Society in past years – but I am exceedingly shy of singing around people.  I’ve always been that way – not too sure why.  Maybe because expression of something that calls attention to yourself while you’re doing it is just creepy beyond all reason.    The point?  Retaliation. 

How, you ask?  Well, since in Awesome Boyfriend’s mind sending pictures of bouquets is as good as the real thing, I will send him lyrics of songs instead of me actually singing the real thing.  Both are free and flat comparisons to the real thing, and what’s sauce for the gander is too for the goose.  I like improvise other lyrics to established songs off the top of my head all the time.  Don’t know why – probably for similar reasons, albeit unknown, for why I can easily converse in Haiku.  Also, because I am a Dork. 

I’ve included in previous posts the pictures of flowers he sent me, and now, I will include songs I’ve sent him  (Miranda, this is mostly for your benefit):

We have the blues version from last night, fairly self explanatory:

I’m stuck in my office   (dodo dododo doo – buhbum buhbum)

And it’s getting’ late out there   (buhbum buhbum)

Oowwwwwhhh I’m stuck in my office, baby   (dodo dododo doo – buhbum buhbum)

My butt is gluuuuued onto this chair    (buhbum buhbum)

Won’t somebody come and free me, oooooh

Cause this is feelin’ kinda unfair  

Doo duhdoo duhdoo duhdoo duhdoo…oooooohhh yeaaaaaaaah!  

 

And the showtunes version from tonight – as he looks at all that’s ahead for the weekend:

Garage sales with mommas and talks with Miranda

Listening to all the Pete propaganda

Psychotic kittens who like to play String,

Are these a few of your favorite things?  

 

When the paint spills, and the cat pees

And you’re feeling maaaad

Remember that you are my favorite thing,

And then you won’t feeeeeel sooooo baaaad!!      

And so, Dear Reader, with this cheesetastic bit of fluff and nothing, I leave you for the night – I’m off to do laundry and pack up boxes. Maybe tomorrow, we’ll have a public opinion survey – I have doubts about house stuff.   Good night, all!

Jane Austen Attacks!

Those of you know me fairly well know that I have some crazy, vivid dreams.  The other night, I had one I haven’t been able to forget – whether from the sheer disturbance factor or because it’s super silly when you think about it. 

The scene unfolds at Longbourne in Hertfordshire, and I’m looking into a mirror with Miranda beside me.  We’re dressed in full-out Regency wear – empire gowns, short waisted coats, and curly tendril hair.  As I look into the mirror, I realize that I am Elizabeth Bennett and she’s Jane Bennett  from Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

We leave the manor house, walking towards Meryton.  Somehow we discover that there is badness afoot in a large manor house inexplicably in the middle of the village green.  The people therein are baby-farmers, and like so many real baby-farmers, the bad type.  They’re running a Regency child prostitution ring and the children inside are being starved, etc.  We decide this simply will not do.  We wait till the baddies are gone, then break into the manor house through it’s walled garden, using lock pics we pulled from our beaded reticules. 

Inside it looks like a pretty new house – but we don’t notice this is weird.  The house is filthy and deserted.  We go upstairs and find a room with a bunch of babies in it.  Shocked and appalled, we each grab a baby and corresponding small clothes and decide to make a break for it.  We’ll send someone back to get the others when we get out and notify the authorities.  We’re wandering around the top floor of the house, trying to figure out how to get out, since everything seems to have shifted.  I tell MirandaJane that it’s a good thing we Regency women have to wear gloves all the time to protect our modesty, because this way we’re not leaving fingerprints. 

We’re in a front corner bedroom, very Victorian-institutional in style, and it’s dark outside.  Naturally, the baddies are onto us.  I don’t know they knew, but they did and we, in our turn, knew they were actively out to get us. 

A car screeches to a stop on the grass outside of the house, several floors below.  It’s the head baddy-baby-farmer chick (who looks like the movie version of Narcissa Malfoy) and she’s pissed and yelling up at us.  She grabs a shotgun and proceeds to shoot at us from the driver’s seat of her baby blue and white 1953 Buick convertible. 

 We scramble for cover and eventually make it out of the house through the garden gate again.  We’re running across the lawn/park under cover of darkness, holding our rescued babies.  Miranda has a baby girl, and I have a baby boy.  The babies are happy to be held and are very sweet all things considered. 

 We’re slipping and sliding on wet grass in the dark, which has the consistency and appearance of steamed spinach.  We’re trying to make it back in the area of Longbourne, where we will be safe.  We’re running through the park and headlights cut behind us, and illuminate us and our awkward escape.  The Buick is careening down on us as we’re running past old British town buildings now beside the park.  Through the windows, I can see older children we need to rescue from what is apparently a child slave labor/smuggling ring, as well as being a baby-farming scheme.  The desperateness of our situation starts to overwhelm me as we run out of cover and find ourselves being shot at from the Buick by the bad woman and her henchmen.  They’re gaining on us and we have nowhere else to go – we’re tired and our Regency slippers which were made for dancing at balls are destroyed.  We stand there for a second in the cobbled street, trying to shield the children and decide what to do, when a black coach and four comes exploding out of a side street.  It’s like a Brinks armored car – completely black riveted metal with gun ports in the sides and doors.  At the reins is Pete, (all in black, with huge curly sideburns and a black top hat) Miranda’s boyfriend, and in my dream world, he’s apparently filling the role of Bingley.  The coach pulls up beside us and the carriage door flies open.  Inside is Awesome Boyfriend, also dressed in Regency, in all black, who is this dream’s Darcy.  Our rescue squadron has arrived.  Awesome Darcy Boyfriend leans out the door and grabs the babies and then us, pulling us into safety.  As we ride off, at top speed, we see the boys have brought the cavalry, quite literally, and they’re smashing down the doors of every building in the town square, arresting bad men and saving the children. 

Miranda keeps her baby girl, and names her Lissette.  I keep the baby boy; his name is Jude.  That’s all I remember dreaming – I woke up with a raceing heartbeat and a cat sleeping on my face.  The end. 

Nothing Witty Today, Sorry

Sometimes, when I write, what I set out to write looks nothing like what I started with.  I don’t know how it happens, but the basic lists of facts/events I originally type ends up looking completely different when I hit “submit.”  It’s pretty cool – usually, the finished product is way more awesome than the original.  Kind of like baking.  Raw stuff goes in, and tasty baked calorie-filled awesomeness comes out. 

Not today.  The kitchen is closed and I’m completely braindead.  Braindead, sleepy and oddly enough, a bit paranoid.  Why paranoid?  No good reason.  Maybe it’s sitting up here at work on a sunny Sunday morning, listening to the building make noises I swear it doesn’t make during the week.  Maybe it’s hearing the copier print stuff that no one picks up or hearing the elevator ding out of nowhere and no one gets off. 

What am I paranoid about?   A very good question.  This blog, actually.  When you sign onto your blog site, it takes you to your “dashboard” – showing you all of your stats.  It’s super cool.  You can see who left you comments, which posts have gotten the most traffic, etc.  There’s a nifty line graph that shows you how many views you get a day, too.

I’m new to blogging and don’t have an audience, really.  I’m not trying to garner one, either.  I just started writing about the goofy things in my life to keep my boyfriend amused while he’s away in Dallas.  I shared it with my friends who also blog and my best girlfriends who I don’t get to see much of anymore – makes me feel like we’re all in touch…

So – to the point.  The point of paranoia.  I don’t get a lot of traffic.  I just type.  So when I signed in this morning, I saw my dashboard (pictured below) with a whopping 29 hits to the site on Thursday.  Do I even know 29 people?  Who’s looking at this thing, beyond the few who even know about it?  Are there 29 different people who decided to check it out one day?  Or does one of my lovely friends have keyboard Tourette’s and hit it a bunch just because of…keyboard Tourette’s?

I don’t know.  I can’t really let myself get upset picturing all the people who might be looking at my blog who I might not WANT to look at it – if you put something online, you put it out there for everyone to see (and yes, it’s only 29 hits on one day – honestly, it’s nothing).  For someone who spends most of her time trying to avoid notice, I guess I have to get used to having a public face now, since I set it in motion myself.  It’s my own dang fault.  I just have to remember to always type the truth and follow the Wiccan Rede, “An it harm none, do what ye will.” (Though not Wiccan myself, you have to admit, they’re good words to live by.)

So thanks for listening to my non-humorous nervous musings today.  More entertaining posts to follow!

This Just In! Flower Bouquet Missing In Action!!

Authorities report that this past Thursday, the bouquet pictured below went missing.  Lost somewhere between the florist’s, the truck or the office, no one knows. 

 

(Have you seen these flowers?)

 It all started last week, when a well-meaning (and obviously, from his actions, very attractive) boyfriend had flowers delivered to his down-in-the-dumps girlfriend’s office to cheer her up on a historically tragic day.  The flowers were carefully selected and ordered and credit card information given – all in the best of faith.

 What happened next is anyone’s guess.  The flowers never arrived.  The originating company denies responsibility, stating that the bouquet went out the door.  The deliveryman claims the same and has a signature on a delivery slip to prove it.  Further perusal of said delivery slip reveals a scribble unlike any signature heretofore recorded.  One wonders if the signer had a small seizure in the signing to explain its unusual appearance.  The receptionists at the receiving company, as well as the gentlemen in the mailroom say nothing ever arrived.  The mystery, it appears, deepens. 

 The authorities are considering several suspects and hypothesis in this case:

 1.  The Florist – internet orders are faceless and it could be very easy to just accept a credit card transaction with no one to oversee whether or not merchandise was delivered in due course, placing suspicion on the postal service and it’s deliverymen.  Possibly some florist out there is sporting a new pair of shoes or the latest 98 Degrees revival compilation CD and laughing about how easy it was, as flower rot in vases behind him.

 2.  The Delivery Man – zipping through the streets all day in the MailMobile, this paragon of postal wonders could have taken a turn too fast, shattering the vase and spilling water all over someone’s new dry clean only cashmere sweater.  Racked by guilt and fear, he makes up his mind to commit fraud and with shaking hands signs the delivery slip.  He gathers up the flowers and the sodden sweater and makes for his latest flavor of the week’s place to share the wealth.

 3.  The Receptionists – it’s a well known fact that girls love getting flowers.  Getting them via delivery is the best of all – you get a present and you can put it on your desk to quietly and graciously arouse the envy of other females everywhere.  Some females are less gracious than others.  A possible scenario involves a jealous receptionist or two, gorgeous unattended flowers in a lovely vase and the green grasp of envy.  The flowers arrive, the receptionists exclaim, “Oh nuh-uh she di-int!  These flowers would look bettah with me!”  Flowers disappear, the recipient is never called. 

 4.  The Flowers themselves – possibly this bouquet was so fresh, it got up and took itself away, searching for greener meadows.

 5.  The Flor-Muda Triangle – there’s no other explanation for the situation.  The flowers just disappeared in transit, as so many planes have done in the past.  Their location is logged by several authorities, and then all of a sudden, they’re gone.  The never show up at their destination.  Was it tricky weather?  Aligning of the planets to form magnetic waves of a precise form?  Millions of microscopic aphids?  A loose and hungry cow?  No one will ever know.   

The bouquet’s whereabouts are still being questioned.  If you have any information, authorities recommend you speak the hell up already.  It’s not cool to come between a girl and her flowers.

Thank you.

A Letter To My Coworkers

Hi Girls.

Happy Wednesday.  It must be, for you – you’re certainly over on your side of the wall giggling it up while I’m over here by myself, stuck in spreadsheet hell and listening to dork music. 

 As coworkers go, you’re a pretty good lot.  I don’t really have many horrible things to complain about – certainly not on the level of certain craigslist rants.  I’ve come to realize that you most likely don’t hate me, and surprisingly (to me) I don’t hate you very much, either.  I understand that friendships take time to cultivate and prosper, so I respect the friend thing you have going on over there.

 But I really want to share one little thing with you.  You’re short handed up here, I know.  You don’t have enough people and you have more than enough work.  You need me.  You know, to do the things you don’t want to do.  Make your copies, call your clients, do your data entry and so forth.  You like to sidle up to me, grin, say “Hey Girlie…” and then tell me if I could just help you with this one thing before I went back to my REAL work, I’d be just the best, EVAH!  Then say “OMG thanks, girl, you’re the best!” and walk off while tossing your hair and forgetting I exist – leaving me to stew in your cloud of perfume and my evil thoughts.  If you really want to make me part of the team, for work purposes, then don’t shut me out and pretend I don’t exist at all other times.  It does little to endear yourselves to me and get me to do your projects when you take off on your own and leave me, the only other person in your department sitting there.  It’s the worst at lunch time.  It’s a little thing, but it’s beginning to really piss me off.

 You have several ways of going about this, I’ve noticed.  You like to rotate them.  There’s option one: getting up for lunch and smiling at me, doing a princess wave and taking off.  It’s moderately bitchy, mostly I hate the fake nails and princess wave, but at least you looked at me to make sure I realize you’re leaving for girl time and leaving me behind.  You owned up to your intentions.  Good coworkers.

 Option two is shorter and more vague.  Everyone gets up, chatters to themselves while pointedly looking at the floor.  Good one.  Lots of little staples and tape bits to scratch your Manolos on the way out.  It can be treacherous, I’m sure.  If you don’t look at me, I’ll never know you’re going off for lunch without me.  More likely, you won’t have to feel that tiny stab of guilt.

 Option three is the crappiest, and the one you used today.  Everyone gets up and leaves, by herself, at separate times.  So sneaky.  You could totally be spies.  I’m so impressed.  I’ll totally never figure out that you’re going to lunch without me.  Especially when you congregate at the elevator around the corner.  Just for fun – for me – when you pull this one, I like to purposely run into you as you wait for your elevator.  I find awkwardness refreshing and enjoy seeing you toss your hair and stammer.

 Really that’s it, ladies.  Truth of the matter is, I don’t want to go to lunch with you in the first place.  I don’t want to find out about your lives, loves and woes.  I don’t want to have to be “on” for lunchtime, acting the role of someone who cares.  I like my alone time.  I just want to be asked so I can reject you out of hand and disappear to read in my car in the garage.  It will make me happier about getting girlie-dumped on when you want crap done.

 Rantfest over.  Enjoy your lunch, I’ve got a book to read.

 Sincerely (you should try sincerity sometime),

 The Contractor

 

P.S. – Nickie and Leah, I totally miss you guys.

Showdown At The OK Cat-ral

A gorgeous, hot Saturday morning has dawned.  It’s quiet in the Pushkin household.  Too quiet.  Something is afoot.

In the kitchen, two opponents square off against each other, sizing each other up.  One is 5’6″, 130-ish lbs., and rather grouchy from having been awakened at the ass-crack of dawn to deal with this.  The other is 1’6″, 10-ish lbs., has distinctive hurricane pattern markings on his orange sides and a normally sunny disposition.  Normally, but not this morning.  Both have a mission.  Unfortunately, those missions are at direct odds with one another.

You might think the height/weight of the first contender would render the second helpless in seconds and make this no contest.  That might be true if the first contender wasn’t a sleepy, contact lens-less girl.  Even if she weren’t, lots of contests are evened out when 5 of your opponent’s 6 ends are sharp and pointy.  Something to remember.

Warily eyeing each other, the battle begins…

The girl squares off against the cat, kitty-pills in hand with intent to medicate.  Hundreds of dollars have recently been spent at an extended stay at the vet’s to get this cat healthy.  Pills WILL be consumed.

Possibly the cat’s time in the kitty-clink has hardened him – he’s looking askance – pills will NOT be consumed.

The other kitties scatter like frightened frontier villagers for safer regions.  The opponents continue to eye each other warily.  A cat-fur tumbleweed drifts by.  (doo-we-ooh-we-ooooh…wah wah wah) The showdown begins.

The girl draws first.  A dish of the “good stuff” goes down.  Hidden in the wet cat food are the pills.   The cat responds.  In seconds, the plate is spotless.  Except for the 2 pills laying in the dish.  Point one for the cat.

The girl tries again.  Pill pockets, special from the vet and guaranteed to work are thrown.  Hidden inside these tasty treat-sleeves lie the medicinal awesomeness.  It’s got to work.  Scores of other cat-opponents must have been bested by this gastronomical weaponry, or else they wouldn’t be available.  The cat reacts.  Pill pockets destroyed, pills batted under the fridge.  Point two for the cat.

This is war.  The girl lunges for the cat, determination and frustration in her contact lens-less eyes.  The cat adroitly sidesteps, leaving her to bash her shin on a nearby chair as he gracefully licks his paws nearby.

The girl realizes she’s been beaten.  The cat realizes this too.  He moves off to celebrate his victory with a refreshing swig from the toilet bowl.

Minutes later, and contest forgotten, he swishes back into the kitchen where the girl is cleaning up after the fracas.  Noting the pill containers are nowhere in sight, he climbs into her lap for a celebratory snuggle and chin scratch.  The girl obliges.  Eyes closed in bliss and a bit of drool about to fall from his mouth, the contender fails to notice the girl as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out 2 more pills.  The victor lifts his chin for a scratch.  The girl scratches his chin, then in a flash, pops his mouth open and pushes the pills past his sharp kitty-fangs.

The cat’s eyes flash open.  Surprise!  Dismay!  Affront!  Disdain!  In seconds, it’s all over.  The cat has been medicated.  The girl has won.  The villagers rejoice and the victory-music-movie-score plays in her head as her opponent runs for safer quarters.  The foe vanquished, the girl goes about her other chores, thinking she’s won the day.

Peace returns to the household and everyone goes on with his/her day.   As girl puts on her shoes, picks up her keys and leaves to run errands, she’s musing on the higher intelligence of humans over cats.  Her opponent is musing as well, from his lair deep underneath her bed.  Where to pee in retaliation for this audacity?  The girl must be taught a lesson.  Perhaps the dry-clean only comforter on the bed… or the open dresser drawer… maybe the closet shelf again…yes…yes….mwah hahaha….

These opponents will face off again one day soon.  The sequel approaches!

Why Won’t You Pay Me??

Recently, I was laid off from the best job I ever had at a Big 5 Accounting Firm.  It was heart-wrenching.  Thanks to kindness and networking, another former coworker got me a temporary job at an oil & gas compression company.  It’s a long drive, a $7000 pay cut, and rather dreary work, but I was so grateful to get the job and to have income and employment of any sort.

Well, it’s been over a month now and I still have employment – but no income.  They’ve never paid me.  They owe me two paychecks, and I have yet to see anything.  It’s an ongoing saga with lots of blame shifting and passing-off to other people.  What it comes down to is that they’ve never really dealt with an independent contractor who didn’t come from some employment firm.  There are no processes set up to handle paying someone like me.

They’re trying to figure it out, I guess, but every day I leave work with nothing more than what I came in with.  Some of my friends have started a betting pool to pick the date I’ll actually get paid.  Sure, it’s funny for them…

So keep good thoughts in mind for me – little floating dollar signs, ways to get even, etc.  I’ll appreciate it (it will the only thing I have appreciating!  Heh.)!

And now the part Awesome Boyfriend has been waiting for…the Cheshire House report!

I was over there for 3 hours today, and managed to get the bedroom ceiling painted, a second coat on the trim, some caulk work done, and the grate in  the hallway painted.  I still have a loooong way to go.

Stay tuned tomorrow for bedroom wall painting, window caulking and closet painting!!

A Strange Bassline…

I was listening to music at my desk, rocking out just a little bit, when I noticed that the bassline didn’t really match the music anymore.  The longer I listened, the less the whump-whump of the bass matched the meter.   Whump-whump, I thought?  Huh?  I’m listening to classical!

I looked up in confusion to see the entire floor with their noses pressed to the nearby windows.  Being a true office lemming, I had to check it out for myself.

I hopped up, sans shoes, pulled off my earbuds and realized that the noise I heard was coming from outside.  At the window, I spied three helicopters overhead.

“Whoa.  That’s crazy!” I thought.

As I watched, a white van flew by, followed by police cars and dozens of wreckers.  A slightly more techno-savvy coworker got online to find that the streets around our office were ground zero for a massive police chase.

We watched in amazement, glad of a legitimate excuse to halt the tedious process of filing returns.  Every now and then, the police cars would zoom by again and the helicopters would split the sky above us with their thundering blades.  We watched the fugitive on the computer screen, with footage taken from one of those choppers up above, and saw him drive into a parking garage.  I felt really bad for the people in that office building – no one was going to be making his doctor’s appointment or pick up her kids on time, now.  The whole thing was shut down.

Minutes later, the man the police were chasing bolted out a doorway on foot and ran across the roof of the parking garage.  With police closing in on all sides, he made a desperate choice.  He flung himself off the side of the parking garage, landing facefirst on a lower level.  A two-story fall, at least.

Our office (filled with larger ladies of an ethnic persuasion and strong religious beliefs) was filled with gasps and cries of, “Jayeezus!  Lord have mercy!” and the like.  Five floors of stunned professionals let out a collective gasp heard around the neighborhood.  We waited breathlessly – wondering if we’d just been witness to someone’s demise.  Luckily for all involved, by choice and by location, no one died.  I think the fugitive had broken legs or the like, but he still had his life.  A large cop moved in, handcuffed him and sat on him.  Not that I really think the guy was going anywhere, but hey!

Everything turned out as well as it possibly could, given the circumstances.  If I could have talked to the guy who jumped, and who was probably running with drugs, I would have said something stupid and smartalecky  like, just because what he was running with was powdery and made you happy, didn’t mean it was really fairy dust, and he didn’t really think he could fly, now, did he?

Well, that’s all for now – it’s time for books and bed!  Kitties…out!