Understated.

Happy hour on a Thursday provided a much needed break from a week of hectic intensity. I walked into Earl's with my shoulders back, walking tall. Flip flops, jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt set me apart from the after-work crowd. I'd worked from home. Ha! to you wearers of slacks and pressed button ups. That's my every other day. My old friends have become casualties of my east side work-crazed life. I was meeting a new friend. A fellow east sider. I sat down at the table and was quickly introduced to her friend and two men sitting at the bar nearby, then more as they came and went. I smiled as I sat quietly looking around me watching the people. This is the scene. Martinis and red wine, buddies from work, old friends and new, people in their thirties and above. I ordered a Stella Artois. It's a rebellious phase I'm in. Resisting the fakery, overeffort. I decided when I was in Vegas for the first time in January and then again in March and watched women young and older trotting around in 5-inch heels with their asses and chests hanging out while guys walked around fully dressed with sneakers or leather shoes on, that I didn't want to look like those women. Not that I ever really have, but there is a certain ridiculousness in it. You can look hot with clothes on, and you can look fashionable without dripping effort, so simple has been my theme of late. It's a phase. I already know that, because I miss the high heels. But I like being different. I ooze confidence because I'm not looking for my outfit to substitute personality. An older new friend and her friend are blingers, or Rhinestone Cowboys. Gigantic rings, necklaces, even rhinestone shirts. Bling. I went to a wine tasting with her and another friend and one of the pourers asked where my bling was? I smiled, don't need it. I'm me. And I like me, and I don't need garnish. A piece of cheesecake is just as good without the pointless sprig of mint.

From Earl's we went to the roller skating rink. Yes, you read that right. I freakin' went roller skatin', yo!! If that doesn't rock your face off I don't know what will. I tied on the same tan roller skates that women have been tying on since the place opened years ago and shakily pushed off first one foot then the other. Round and around the rink I went smiling ear to ear at the roller dancers who form lines with fancy steps and special day glo shirts that pick up the black light. It smells the same as the roller skating rink my dad managed in North Pole, Alaska, where I owned my own roller skates and won races and limbo. It was my every weekend. My body has forgotten much of that ease on skates. I fell twice trying to skate backward, but I've decided I must return, next time with flask in hand, a larger group and an awesome theme costume. Ah, yeeeaah. Did I mention I had a VIP pass to the rink? Oh yes. VIP all the way. It's the only way to roll.

Where Are You Now?

6 am in New York City's JFK airport. I'd been in the air nearly 6 hours. An aisle seat.

Damning myself for being too scared to take the Ambien I'd been given just hours before takeoff (have you heard the horror stories?), I tried to rub the sleep out of my eyes to look for my driver. Ah there he was, my last name scrawled in black marker across a Carey-branded sheet of paper. He chuckled at the obvious exhaustion with which I carried myself up to him, and I stood wearily by the baggage claim as he hustled to retrieve the car.

Oh, did I mention the white knuckled landing conditions? Friday morning's landing put me right in the middle of the storm as snow and wind pummeled the Big Apple. The plane may have slid around on the runway a bit, and I may or may not have peed my pants just a little. I was hard pressed to stay awake on the drive to the city. Listening to the comforting tones of the driver's explanation and exasperation at the unplowed roads and his upcoming job to Massachusetts (it's gonna take me owas!) lulled me into closed eyes and a wish that this had been my cross country experience rather than the extreme discomfort that is a red eye in coach on the aisle no less.

An hour after landing, he dropped me at the Sheraton New York, just blocks north of Times Square. I dragged myself to the reception desk, fantasizing about the comfy bed into which I would soon be falling. Oh, why oh why hadn't I the foresight to ask for early checkin? Hours, they said before a room would be available for me. Hours. 7 am in the City? No sleep? Starbucks called to me. I pulled out my trusty Android device and tapped Starbucks into Google maps and practically ran the few blocks north to a grande extra hot skinny cinnamon dulce latte. The first sip was a bee line to cloud nine. I perched on a stool in front of the window as New Yorkers scurried by in the snow on their ways to work and dragged out my laptop, reluctantly diving into work. Hours disappeared and the last drops of my latte became an icy dreck. So I packed up my laptop and braved the blizzard again to walk back to the hotel in hopes that my room would be ready.

It was, but there was no time to sleep. The West Coast was waking up and with that came email after email, conference call upon conference call. And the snow kept falling and my exhaustion was mounting. I couldn't believe that I had come all the way to New York City to hang out in a Starbucks and a hotel room. What a crime. From desk to bed to easy chair to desk to chair to bed, I was like one of those scenes from a movie where they speed up the footage as time goes by. Night fell and I still had hours to go before I could break. I grabbed the Room Service menu. Could I really let my fist real meal in NYC be room service? Why not? Breakfast had been a Starbuck breakfast thingy and lunch had been trail mix from the mini bar, so why not order a $22 BLT? Damn my three friends for being entirely unavailable - one in Vermont skiing (jealous!), one in Philly visiting a friend's newborn baby (jealous!), and the other working (same boat!). So much for knowing people. A Chicago friend recommended a place in the Village - buuut I can't remember the name and I didn't go, because it was snowing, and I was determined to walk everywhere. Another friend recommended Junior's. He had me at cheesecake. So my $22 room service BLT turned into a $20 Chicken Salad BLT and piece of New York cheesecake accompanied by a stroll into Times Square. If you like bright lights, do I have a place for you? Just like Piccadilly Circus, only I prefer Piccadilly Circus to Times Square because it's in London, and in the stack up of cities I've been to, it goes London, London, London, Chicago, NYC. And so, I walked to Juniors and they sat me all the way in the corner, because what else do you do with girls eating alone in a big restaurant on a Friday night. I wondered what I was doing there too.

I stared at my phone, refreshed my Twitter feed repeatedly, posted a picture to Facebook of my corner vantage point on the restaurant and wrote something witty about putting Becca in a corner. Oh, and I eavesdropped on the two young British chicks sitting next to me waxing poetic about putting themselves out there to find the perfect guy. Overrated, I wanted to say. It's not all that life's about, I wanted to say. Here is my long list of mistakes, I wanted to interject, learn from them. And then I chuckled to myself wondering how I'd gotten to the place where I thought I might know better. I don't. Except, I do know to stay single, at least for now. This fool isn't rushing in anytime soon.

And then I took my cheesecake back to my room and worked until 1 am when I collapsed for good in a vow to catch up on sleep and refrain from touching my laptop for the entirety of my Saturday.

And that was my first day ever in New York City.

How to make a phone call

At the stoplight, I checked my side mirror at the car behind me, as I always do, and felt as though I were gazing into a window on the past. The driver sat in her car sobbing, mopping up her tears with a white Kleenex and saying what appeared to be "Oh, my God!" if my lipreading skills are to be trusted. My heart broke for her as I empathetically remembered over and over doing the same thing. Was she alone? I peered as hard as I could in the rearview mirror and right side mirror, but in the dark, rainy night could only make out the shadow of a male shape. How could she be so clear and he so..not? I watched her cry and cry in the two minutes we sat at the light, and after it changed I drove toward the ramp to I-5 South. She kept going straight, and I blamed him. If the cause for her distress were anything other than him, she would not have been driving...he would have made her pull over and either comforted her immediately or taken over driving until she was no longer so upset.

I kept thinking about that woman long after I got home, wondering why the tears, how she happened to have a Kleenex when I never do, and what happened next. Was I right in my assumption that it was the man's fault? In my experience, it always is. From my dad, to the Swine, to Steve, to all the men who hurt the women that wrote to me with their stories when I before I erased this blog because of the Swine back in 2006, I have tale after tale of male-induced horror stories. There are good men, I know, just why so far and few.

But that wasn't meant to be the point of my story. The point of my story is, yet again, that I am happy about the new chapter. The one where I'm not the girl sobbing beside an impassive male or because of a awful betraying male.

In other news, yesterday I had a moment that was hilarious to me:

We just moved into a new place in a town just south of Bellevue, Newcastle, it's called. And we now have a home phone, where before I only had a cellphone. Because Audrey is now old enough to stay home for short periods of time by herself, I want to make sure she can contact me or the police in an emergency. I called her downstairs, so I could show her where the phone was and the list of numbers. "Do you know how to use it," I asked. "No, what do you do?" she said picking up the phone. "Dial my number," I told her, and she punched in the corresponding keys "How do you make it call?" she asked staring at the handset. I laughed..."It's already ringing." "It is??" and she hung the phone up to her ear, "Oh yeah, it is." We heard my cell phone ringing from my room upstairs. "See, that's all it takes." "How do I make it hang up?" she said looking at the handset again. "You just put it down," I answered. "Really?" she said incredulously putting the phone back in its cradle. And with that I taught my daughter how to use an old-fashioned land line...where you don't need a call or end key. How awesome would it have been if we had a rotary phone?

Mmm, mutton.

Tonight Audrey and I watched the Men's figure skating short program and made slight fun of the Russian guy (how great was it when Dick Button said he'd cast him to be the evil agent - he really wanted to say evil Russian guy, but couldn't because that's not PC) because he has awful hair (and I secretly wished he would bite the big one because he won so big lat time that he's the Yankees of men's figure skating). And we spoke again how she had never watched the winter Olympics before. I said, "Well, yeah, it was four years ago, you were practically a baby."

Audrey laughed and said in exasperation, "Mom, four years old isn't a baby!"

"That's right, four years," I said smiling and then again, "Four years..." And it hit me. I wasn't with her four years ago. That was why she'd never watched the winter Olympics with me. I wasn't with her last time. Four years ago. And it all crashed on me. Funny how that happens. Four years ago. I've wondered over and over recently why I barely remember the Olympics at Torino when I can clearly remember so many other winter Olympics. And bam, it clicked. Four years ago, the Olympics started the day after Oliver was born and ran till just days after he died. I wasn't with Audrey, and I was with Oliver and then I wasn't with Oliver. Those 16 days of Olympics were a shadow to the events that colored my existence.

I sent Audrey upstairs to get her pajamas on, and I waited for the wave of memories to pass before going upstairs to read aloud another chapter of Ronia, the Robber's Daughter. We laughed hysterically as her dad told the sheep that they didn't know what it's like to have a dead child before he realized that he always eats their children.

New memories of joy and laughter pave my heart.

"Does the Olympics Have Singing?"

Because I was in Dallas enjoying their biggest snowfall in recent decades from a hotel conference room on Thursday, Audrey spent the night with my mother. I was devastated when my Friday morning flight was canceled due to the horrible conditions, but my agency quickly rebooked me the last ticket to Seattle and I was able to make it back in time to pick Audrey up from school.

Driving through that South Seattle neighborhood always fills me with a sort of pathos. It's not unlike many other neighborhoods in the city, in fact it's typical Seattle, but going there is like taking a plunge into Swineville. When the Swine first moved there and Audrey began going to school there in 2008, I got lost often trying to find his house, trying to find the school. Over and over I would get lost, and I didn't feel safe, and I felt like I was in another world. So engulfed in my Bellevue bubble, and not traveling as often as I do now, I found myself shocked by the abrupt contrast between where I live and the long street I had to drive to get to Audrey's school and daddy home. On the Eastside it's Beemers and Blondes. In Seattle, it's just reality. And I preferred denial. I didn't want my daughter to go to school there, I wanted her to have the far superior top education the school my district could offer her rather than the poorly ranked alternative school her father won the right to send her to. An alternative school offering community rather than scholastics and somehow that's okay.

Going through boxes of my old memories I found some school work from 1988. I was 8. I had long paragraphs of neatly written cursive giving a review chapter by chapter of a book we'd been asked to read. Audrey is 8. It's funny, by the time I was 8, by 1988, I'd lived in so many places including Ireland and the Phillipines and gone to 7 different schools. It's a wonder I learned anything. But I am not comparing myself to Audrey, I was also in the fourth grade by that time, so it was fourth grade level work I was looking at, and she is in the second grade. But I also found stacks of honor roll certificates, awards of achievement, letters from the two South Carolina Senators congratulating me on my college scholarship, and I can't help but fear that she will never have a taste at that success because of her father's choice in schools that do not value academic achievement but rather "seeds of change". Which is all well and good, except that's not the way the real world works. Oh, I know how all of this sounds, but I don't care. I have a smart kid, but she has a dumb dad and is going to a dumb school, and I'm not with her enough to counteract the effect, so pathos it is.

The parents at the school know the Swine and they know the Warrior Princess. They've seen me. I'm the one that shows up to events now and again, keeps to herself and wears makeup and business attire (I once heard one mother comment negatively on my high heels to another mother...le sigh, Seattle). They don't know me. We have about as much in common as sushi and beef jerky. Except one mother, the mother of the child that happens to be Audrey's best friend, how serendipitous. She too wears makeup and business attire (we are an army of two), and she too abhors the school and would pull out her daughter if it weren't for her kid's dad. Yes, pathos it is.

Friday afternoon, I swooped in, picked up Audrey and we drove back to my Bellevue Bubble. I told her about the snow in Dallas and she told me about her roller skating party. We snuggled and ordered pizza and watched iCarly.

This afternoon we watched figure skating and marveled as Audrey oohed and aahed as the pairs glided over the ice. How had we never watched figure skating together? She loved it. And after watching the Olympics all weekend, she looked up at me tonight and asked, "Does the Olympics have singing?" and I grabbed her up in a big hug to soak up her innocent adorableness. "Because it seems like one big talent show," she continued. Yes, that it is. But no singing, and no paragraphs of painstakingly written cursive. There are all kinds of competitions in life. It's one big talent show. And it's our duty as parents to provide the foundation for our children to be successful in whatever path they choose.

February 9, 2010

I woke up in a bed that was not my own in a hotel room not far from here - one of two hotels I would sleep in this week. I threw open the shades and looked out on the view of things that are familiar to me. And I got dressed in an outfit I wouldn't normally choose for the office. I didn't think of it and the day went by in a rush of typical busyness.

My hair is shorter than it was, but longer than it's been.
My heart has more scars, but it's more whole than it's ever been.
I smile more. I have "happy points" and muscles and friends.
I sketch and play the piano and sing and laugh.
I live.

I thought of it the day before and I remembered it the day after, but it was the first time I wasn't pummeled with emotion the day of. The day after I felt so guilty, but also relieved. While he'll always be apart of me, the loss of him no longer paralyzes me. Last year I had lunch with the father so we could console each other, and I left that lunch feeling icky and it was the last time I ever saw him. And I feel good about that. This was the first year we didn't reach out to each other. The connection is really dead, and it's as if he never existed.

The ashes sit in a wooden box on my piano, but I no longer have any pictures around. I don't like questions, explaining is too complicated. It was nine months that made twelve days. He would have been four.

the lines

"This is Rebecca."

"Mom, where are you?"

I looked at the time...12:40. Ha! Turns out that it was early dismissal Wednesday. Le sigh. Warrior Princess had picked up her sick son and assumed I was picking up Audrey, because Audrey told her so. And though I had an amazing mass of work to do and a conference call that I'd already rescheduled twice that day, I crammed my laptop into my bag, grabbed my keys and bolted for the elevator. This mother-of-the-year had a kid waiting in the rain and another mom was taking said kid to the city library to await my arrival. Just great.

As I drove, I tapped out a text to Warrior Princess asking her what had happened. Gotta love miscommunication. Le sigh again.

Flying into the library, I collected my daughter and we made the trek back to our new home. I immediately dragged out my laptop and jumped on the yet again rescheduled conference call. Boxes still litter my rooms and Audrey stared at me for a while, as I listened to my agency present the newest round of creative. All I wanted to do was toss away my phone, slam down the lid to my laptop and grab Audrey in my arms and twirl around till we collapse in a pile of laughter and twisted legs.

Instead, I wrote emails approving this and sending on that, and she put together the giant floor puzzle of the United States.

But then we ate dinner and watched iCarly, our favorite show, and after her bath came the absolute best part of my day. We cuddled together in her new bed, in her new room and cracked open a new book, which she received for Christmas. And I read to my darling child with all the enthusiasm I could muster complete with special voices and accents. We laughed together as Ronia, the Robber's Daughter smartly defied her surroundings and sat on tenterhooks when the harpies nearly got her. Audrey snuggled deeper into her covers, and I knew it was time to say goodnight, though I could have read for hours more. "What's the name of the next chapter, Momma?"

"Three."

And we collapsed in laughter again. These are the moments I treasure. The readings. The analysis of the characters actions. At the end of chapter two, Ronia encountered her first child. And as I drove Audrey to school this morning, we tried to figure out where this other child came from, and how Ronia'd never met him before. Then I couldn't stop waving as Audrey ran up to the playground. I wished I could stand with her till the school bell rang. I wished that I didn't have to rush to the office to start a non-stop day of meetings, conference calls and catching up on emails during the five-minute transitions between it all. But more than that, I wished that it wasn't really 7 days until we will see each other again. 7 days until we can read chapter 3, till we can laugh and hug and twirl and sing.

And that's why the next 7 days are filled with my other life. The one where I go to the gym and work all night or hang out with friends and meet new ones and never mention my child. The next 7 days, I'll wonder about Ronia, but I won't peek in on chapter 3. The next 7 days, I'll wonder about Audrey, but I won't call her as often as I want to. I shouldn't have to call my daughter. Mothers aren't supposed to have to call their children.

outstretched wings

I named my first blog Narcissist Flight, because I started it on the heels of my separation from the Swine. Escaping that sinkhole of a marriage was a victorious self-indulgent leap into the air. It was a flight that landed me in the arms of another soul sucking man almost immediately. And I am happy to announce that life since Steve is great. It's like I'm breathing fresh air for the first time in over a decade. I made a toxic mistake marrying the Swine, followed by the caustic error of being with Steve, and boom, my twenties were gone in milliblink.

Year 29, though, that was the year. I did things I've never done before, I widened my horizons, I explored and I experienced. In other words I lived. I went out with boys and didn't marry or have children with any of them. I went to Chicago and San Francisco and Hawaii. I smoked a cigar and did a pub crawl. And this year a month in, I've been to Vegas (for CES) and learned how to ski...in Whistler of all places. And I'm due to go to New York City for the first time at the end of the month. What boundaries? I'm reluctant to get a boyfriend. I push them away when they get close, because when the result of my two longterm relationships is a Swine and a betraying Brit, I sometimes wonder if all of the experiences I'm having in my new found state of celibacy is much preferable to the stultifying other.

Besides, my job, the one that I got to replace the sucky one I was laid off from ( thank you, truly horrible boss - I mean it), really, really rocks and for the first time, I've had a job for 14 months and counting and still like, nay love, it. Of course, it's demanding and I travel, but I rock at it. And it's a life changer. I'm a stronger, more confident person since I started working there.

I'm entertaining and fun and people love me. Is that narcisstistic to say? Who cares? It's true. My work life rocks. I just kind of suck at real life. One guy told me that my schedule is stupid. One friend got pregnant and had her baby in the space of time that I went without seeing her. I've mostly made new friends, ones that don't mind not seeing me often. They don't know any different. Relying on my calendar and giving two hour time slots two weeks apart doesn't work for most men, so I shrug my shoulders and plug myself into experience. I build relationships and network and sniff the air around me. It smells good up here.

new digs

Three years we lived in that apartment. It is a complex filled with history. I lived there so many years ago where the stories of the deleted posts take place...stories of endless knocks and tears and decisions that brought me there again a year and a half later, to a bigger apartment with a bigger view and bigger heartache. I'd been warned that the juju was too much, but I liked it there. But with the case over and yet another loss under my belt, I deemed it time to move on. And so move I did, for the 35th time in my 30 years.

So weary I am of packing my belongings, carrying them somewhere else and laying them all out again. I try to get rid of things, but can't bear to toss the Day tickets for the London Underground, I look and them and I hear "Mind the gap," and wish I was there once again walking the streets of Chelsea and through Hyde Park and then I remember how much pain I felt there. Packing up my belongings, I came across journal after journal I've kept over the years, and I found the one I kept in London. Flipping straight to January 2006, the stream of excitement that is so quickly quelled by the horrible unveiling of a wicked plan executed by the Swine is a clash that jarred me as abruptly now as it did then. To one moment be wild with anticipation for the arrival of one's daughter and impending birth of a son, and the next anguished over the betrayal and realization that a battle would have to be fought and now the son couldn't be born fast enough to allow for a return to the States to fight that battle is a heartbreaking juxtaposition of emotions that is only heightened when that son dies and all that is left is to fight for the daughter whilst mourning the loss of that son. Packing away that journal with the Underground tickets, playbills and ten-year high school reunion namebadge, I felt as if I shouldn't have read that, as if I'd violated my 26-year-old self's privacy. And I realized that I prefer the fog of the years over those memories. Reading that journal brought back the acuteness and extremity of those emotions in a way that tore at the scars in my heart.

Even as I packed it away, I sat in the mess of that apartment thinking about the journal entries I read from other years that are sprinkled with pain and with drama. Part of me wished I could share them with my siblings, the ones who don't get me and my gruff, me exterior. They don't know me anymore, and I don't know how to let them in, because it is the stuff of those journals that brought me here today, to the girl that calls herself narcissist. I don't want to talk about it. And to tell the truth, they don't want to hear it. Perfection they demand, but only from me, and since I have only imperfection to offer our relationships will be as they are.

London happened. It's easier to go away. That's what my dad taught me. And so I go away from that apartment where I lived with Steve, the man I thought I would love for everything despite and in spite of everything, the apartment where I tried to pick up the pieces when my mom had surgery on her brain tumor, Steve betrayed me, the Swine started another war, I lost my job, and two out of three siblings showed me their backs because I didn't deal with all of that very well. I thought I did all right. I had a friend who landed in the psych ward when she was laid off. I managed to find a job in two months, help nurse my mom back to health, kick Steve to the curb, hire a lawyer and figure out how to pay her. So bite me, siblings. \I got grouchy, so what? I was dealing with a few things. Ever hear of empathy? Moving on.

Defying Gravity

Starting a new blog never happened. The prospect of starting from scratch was too wearisome, and then I went through a lot. What else is new?

In a nutshell...the Swine did more swine-like things and I spent a year fighting him and lost. Steve betrayed me in a most unforgivable way, so he is out of my life forever, and I try not to remember how silly and childlike I was about him from the beginning. Ah, crossroads...how very defined they are in my life.

Determined to make better choices and live a good decade for once in my life, I defy those that have tried to bring me down. Of course, I'm filled with vitriol toward the Swine and his Warrior Princess wife...because how else do you react emotionally to people that do everything in their power to take away and manipulate your child. But we're not talking about that now. We're not talking about the custody battle that I lost, because uh, I have a job and at the time, neither of them did meaning they can spend more time with her than the big, bad working mom. We're not talking about the fact that almost immediately after the case was resolved, he accepted a job in Afghanistan and won't tell me when he's coming back and I have to let my child continue to spend more time with a warrior princess than her mother because the world sucks and I live in it. Bringing lawyers into the mix again and wondering how one man can change so much that only the name Swine suits him for all eternity no matter how he might henceforth try to redeem himself, not that he would ever attempt such a thing.

And so I swirl on with my life, a bifurcated life of part time motherhood and most time single girl in the big, bad world. A life lived floating from person to person. Nothing is steady; all is ethereal. And I marvel at how many chapters 2009 had. There was the month I hung out on boats. There was the month that I saw new cities. There was the month one fell in love with me, and I didn't fall back. And the backstory of every chapter is the drama with Swine.

New friends, which I make all of the time in this odd, single, third-time mother life I lead, are suprised to learn I have a child. Most learn on Facebook rather than through me. I don't bring it up. To bring up being a mother begs the question, where is your child? And then more questions and I hate answering questions about that part of my life because it is painful. Mothers of 8-year-old children aren't supposed to be able to hang out on boats or visit new cities so often, but that's the life I'm used to, and now it's weird to be a mother. Mother time is special and treasured, but I feel so disconnected from my daughter's real full life, and I hate that. So I don't talk about it. Because not talking about it makes the days without her more livable.

So here I am, and though I can never go as deep below the surface as I used to because of them that know of the site, I can write about them here, and that will provide deep satisfaction. Their evil can be as evil is, and I will just record it. And the great thing about kids is that they grow up, and if Audrey ever wants to know the why of it all, I'll have a place to point her. This, this is what I dealt with for so long. Olive branches mean nothing to Swine, darling, only slop, and I've been dealing with his slop for forever.

new year, new you, letting go

It's not as simple as all that, is it? Revolutions, evolutions, resolutions. The tick of the clock to 12:00:01. How I wish that I could scrinch my face up like adorable Hiro from Heroes and make all the things I wish I could change about my life done in an instant. New year, new you. Letting go of the horror that has been 2008 without letting a drop of its dirt sully the unmarred beauty of 2009, the carte blanche we all envision coming to us with the movement of the second hand.

My new year doesn't start until sometime around my 30th birthday. For the day before, on July 13th, the trial begins, wherein I battle for the right to my child. It is fitting this year that my birthday falls on Bastille Day, the French version of our Independence Day. I'd hoped to celebrate my 30th birthday in Paris, watching fireworks shoot from le Tour d'Eiffel and pretending they were just for me and my new decade. However, I'll be in the courtroom with a different kind of fireworks. People tell me I could go the next year, and yes, I can, I suppose, but it won't be the same.

Anyway, 2009 approacheth, and for the reasons laid out above, when my friends invited me to the Seattle Bash, I was less than thrilled. $65 for entry to a party with thousands of Seattlites? Um, hmm. No thanks. I'd much rather spend the money on a nice spread and have friends over. But they'll be there. I'll be on my couch. Alone. And that's okay, because my crappy year clock doesn't stop ticking for another six and a half months.

You can bet your bottom dollar that I'll party my socks off when that final gavel bangs. And you're invited, and you, and you, and you. We'll drink champagne, the best I can afford on my lawyer fee depleted income, because then there will a new year, a new me. I'm sure of it.

Need advice STAT

So, I'll be in touch about that other thing, but first, I need your help.

I am Audrey's mother, and the Swine's wife is Audrey's stepmother, and it works out that she spends more time with Audrey than anyone, isn't that great? Uh....

Anyway, so there is an issue of names here. The other day I was on the phone with Audrey, and we'd been talking for a while, because she was really missing me, so I decided to read her the story of the Tailor's Helpers. While I was reading to her, I could hear the Swine call, "Audrey, are you still on the phone with Rebecca?" His use of my first name startled me. I never call him "Sam" to Audrey - it's always Dad or Daddy, always.

I just set up an email address for Audrey, so the dark side has been emailing her. And the stepmom signed hers Her Name (Warrior Princess) Momma. And then in an email from the Swine, he said, "me and Momma will pick you up..." I couldn't believe my eyes.

I'm Audrey's Momma. The Swine has completely stripped me of being her mother, mom, momma, mommy, and now I'm just Rebecca. The Warrior Princess is now Momma? No wonder the poor girl is confused. No wonder she is having trouble figuring out who her real mother is. Because at his house, I'm not her mother at all. He has stripped me of that respect.

Audrey called Steve "Papa." But only after I called the Swine up and asked for his permission. I never would have let Audrey call Steve something the Swine didn't approve of - I give him that respect (though God knows he doesn't deserve it, hence the blog nickname). And Audrey certainly never called Sam "Papa," never has, never will. Completely different sound and starting letter from dad, daddy, father.

I know that the Warrior Princess doesn't respect my place in Audrey's life. She colored my daughter's hair - she wanted to color it purple, but Audrey said no. So I ask you, who colors the hair of a 6-year-old, much less one that has never shown interest in coloring her hair before? I'll tell you! A woman who wants to stick it to the real mother, that's who. They didn't call me to ask if it was okay, to notify me that they were doing it, or even to let me know after the fact. She just came home with streaks in her hair. Seriously?!? Oh, she also cut this weird style into my daughter's hair, which I immediately took to my aunt to fix. The Warrior Princess then had the gall to tell Audrey that I cut the "cool" part out of her hair! Boils my blood, that woman does. She's never shown an ounce of respect for the fact that I'm Audrey's mom. Because as far as she and the Swine are concerned, Audrey's new Momma is the Warrior Princess, and I'm an unnecessary hindrance to their plans to turn my daughter into one of them.

Anyway, this whole Momma thing is really, really, really bothering me. Can you tell? I need to know. Am I being unreasonable because I can't stand the woman that has never made an effort to connect or show respect for the fact that Audrey already has a mommy? Should I just let it go because Audrey loves the Warrior Princess and oh, isn't it special that she gets to call her momma? The Swine gave a reason that her stepbrother calls the Warrior Princess Mom, and the new kid calls her mom, so Audrey would be the only child that doesn't GET to. Bah. Audrey calls the Swine dad, and the new kid does too, but bet you a million the stepbrother doesn't call him Dad, making him the only kid that doesn't GET to. Wonder how he deals with the blow of not being able to call someone who is not his dad, dad? The mystery of it all. Help!!

Am I being unreasonable?

Falalalala Merry Christmas

Settling in

Making myself back at home in the work of blogging has proved a little challenging for me. While the writing companion in my brain has been largely silent for 18 months, it is now in overdrive, coming up with posts spanning the entire period. And while I wish that I had time to write all of the entries, I also find myself wishing that I didn't have the fear of the Swine reading my writing and finding some way to use it against me.

So I don't know if I CAN continue at the url after all. Deep sigh. Email me.

In other news, Seattle has been blanketed in snow since Wednesday night. And I have been in heaven for just as long. I seriously heart snow. Adore it. I don't, however enjoy driving in snow. And it is for that reason that I haven't driven since it snowed. It doesn't help that my driveway is a veritable mountain slope, and my useless property managers haven't come by to salt, sand or shovel. It's now a slick slab of ice.

So we've been walking everywhere, and I love it. I walk a lot around Bellevue already; that's why I live where I do, but the best part of about walking everywhere when it snows is that there are tons of other people walking as well. And people talk to each other and smile at each other and it is all very shocking.

Living in the Seattle area is to live in the land of the cold shoulder. There ain't no Southern hospitality here, y'all. Sure Seattlites are nice people, but unapproachable is one of the pick-3-describe-Seattle-residents words. It's one of the reason dating is so hard in Seattle, and the reason I was so surprised when a couple of youths said hello, how are you as I walked down Belelvue Way. Youths usually shuffle, heads down, only talking to people they know, only referencing the unknown around them to make fun of it. They giggle and look not-so-furtively in your direction. They don't smile and ask how you're doing. But then they do when there is snow on the ground.

We smiled at passersby, we merry band of three, and they smiled at us, nodded heads, told us to have fun, in reference to the red sled we pulled behind us. And have fun we did, where, at the Downtown Park in Bellevue, we found an untouched hill of powdery snow and sled on our bottoms, backs, stomachs and feet before trudging to the grocery store for such necessities as marshmallows and rice krispies, and then on to home for some hot cocoa and more DVRed Christmas specials.

I hear snow.

"What a Creep"

Dealing with the Swine has proved the greatest challenge of my adult life. Every day a new struggle. Remember back in January of 2006 when I was surprised with court papers? Well fast forward to August of 2008 and it was much the same. Only this time, I wasn't as surprised. When someone does something so dastardly once, one can hardly put it past them to repeat such dark actions.

And so it was that I was served with papers at my last job. Papers full of deep, dark allegations and which brought to light a betrayal by the one that once inspired me to write that I would never love another. The Swine had started gathering his "wow great dad" declarations in March, but it wasn't until Steve, with whom I'd been struggling until I finally had to break up with him, gave the Swine just the lies he needed to seal the deal on his second grand attempt to remove me from Audrey's life. From accusing me of having an eating disorder to beating Steve (um, what?), the Swine's court papers described a person I didn't even know, much less be.

By breaking up with Steve, I'd made him hate me, by going to Wynn's wedding then staying the weekend with my mother, I sent him over the edge. Convinced that I'd run away with some dude from Cabo, he contacted the Swine and filled his ears with everything the Swine could hope for. And of course, rather than questioning it, the Swine built it into his case, and it was a nightmare of epic proportions.

That the Swine was trying to figure a way to get Audrey and that Steve had a mental and emotional breakdown at the same time was a coincidence that I'd never have foreseen. But as is the norm, I was concentrating on one challenge while ignoring the sleeping giant. So all of a sudden I was confronted with challenges on all fronts: job, boyfriend, ex-husband, and more.

Getting rid of Steve was a blessing. There was a reason I couldn't bring myself to marry him, and I'd always cited the horror of the ex that is Swine as the prevention for my wedding again. I'm not sure if that is the complete reason, but whatever it is, I dodged the second divorce bullet. And I'm completely free. But it is so hard to believe that someone that I'd loved so much could be so bitter that they would be compelled to actions that not only harm me, but an innocent 7-year-old as well.

There is no getting rid of the Swine, however. And dealing with him and this everlasting case has become like a second job, a constant struggle. Compounded to that is the child herself. The struggle she herself is going through is heartbreaking, and no matter how much I reach out to the Swine, he maintains his horrid manner with me.

I can handle going through this trial, because I pray at the end of this Audrey will indeed be the recipient of a schedule that actually works for her and not her father. But what I can't handle is my daughter's heartbreak that her life is split between two completely different worlds - worlds that have no intermingling at all.

I helped coach my daughter's soccer team this past fall. The Swine was there nearly every Saturday. He said maybe one word to me despite my attempts to reach out to him and have a civil conversation. And on and on to school events, social events - we stand at opposite ends of the room and the tension is palpable.

He married that daycare worker by the way. She quit her job after she was knocked up (they had a healthy baby boy - how nice for them) and they got hitched. Now she's practically my daughter's stay-at-home mom. No, I don't care for her. Even before they married, she was cold to me whenever I'd pick Audrey up. She never even gave me a chance, and tonight my daughter was crying because she is confused about who her real mother is (drive a stake through my heart) and the two people that care for her the most are too different and aren't even friends. I tried, but the Swine always prevented us from talking, even though she was caring for my daughter after school. Tension has been the order of all of our relationships ever since my return from England.

When I told my mom tonight about Audrey's struggles, she brought up that trip to England. As if that would help things. I have no Steve, and I have no Oliver. I struggle to maintain my rights to my daughter. My reasons for going to England no longer exist, but the repercussions of that trip will affect Audrey for years to come, and I say Audrey because she was the one crying tonight. And I told my mom about how the Swine closed the door on my face this afternoon when I picked up Audrey. He never said a word to me. "What a creep," she said.

Yep, that about sums it up.

Existence

I've missed blogging. 18 months is a long time, and it's been on my mind, but I've stayed away for a lot of reasons. The Swine being probably the largest reason. The Swine who is too dumb to even know the name refers to him. The Swine who was my friend, but who betrayed me and lied to his daughter. The Swine who would that I did not exist, and has, in his mind found a preferable replacement. I'm superfluous, expendable. We're currently embroiled in a bitter battle, because fortunately for Audrey, I don't agree with his biases.

So this isn't about him or her. It's about me. I am the narcissist, after all. Except that doesn't really describe me, because my every thought and action is for my daughter. But it does describe who I am on this blog, so I'll continue in a vein that is true to my initial charter. I will no longer be bullied out of something that I love, on a forum to which I feel a connection, because of some sicko's misguided vendetta (yes, I mean you) and attempts to use things he doesn't comprehend against me. FYI crushed skull is metaphor for desire for counter pressure to counteract sinus pressure. Capeesh?

Wow, I'm surprised how wonderful it feels to be back. I haven't written, really written, since my last entry here. And my fingers and mind have been itching to connect to the keyboard. Hours at the piano exercise both, but doesn't provide either a release from the thoughts and words that pile up in this mind of mine.

I'm still reeling from everything I've gone through since I started blogging in July 2004. And I'm sad that I trusted people that I trusted, married the person that I married. Thought the best of the people I thought the best of. I've been punished for the actions of others, some have punished me for their own actions. I could have been stronger, but at the end of all of this, I'll emerge less innocent, less trusting, harder and more cynical.

But my heart is not there yet. I teared up today reading the blog of an old blogger friend. She just had her first baby on Sunday. A beautiful healthy boy. I didn't expect the tears. I thought the ache had dissipated enough. But contrary to my mind's belief, the grief hasn't gone away. Though Steve and I are no more, the longing for my son carries on. The impact of those twelve days surprise me.

I'm at a new job now where no one knows of Steve or Oliver. If I want, they can just never be a part of who I am again, and it's weird to be just the mother of one, to have no son to anyone but me and Audrey. He is nothing to no one.

I didn't mean to write about him tonight. I didn't have a plan though, and I like the lack of pressure. While I have no idea who might still have me bookmarked or subscribe to my feed, the thought of no one or everyone being out there is soothing. And while I wouldn't be surprised if he still follows, I hope not. I don't want him to be the only one I write to. I rather no one than him. But I could have found a new url, a new blog. So if he is the only one:

Hi, Swine, wish you weren't here.

the giant ampersand

When I dropped Steve at work Saturday morning, it was already quite warm, and in my mind, there is nothing like a hot and sunny weekend to erase, if temporarily, Swine induced stress. Over the bridge I went with Green Lake in my sights. I love Green Lake – it is probably my most blogged about Seattle locale. Sure there are a million trails on the eastside, but nothing beats its circularity and peopleful path for a fun-filled excursion of leaping over dogleashes and cooing at the adorable offspring donning the latest Tutti Bella in the newest McClaren. Babies are everywhere and if there is a patch missing a baby, there is a woman one breath away from screaming for an Epidural, so help me God! Some days all this baby, baby everywhere and not a one for me atmospherics is more than I can handle, but this day I can only smile happily for the blessed and enjoy my flat belly and the exercise and sunshine.

After I’m done, I head to my mother’s house, so she can douse my head in hair dye, which she succeeds in painting all over my face. I leave looking a wee bit violet, Violet. Damn mahogany tint!

I’ve decided to play tourist, so my sister and I drive to downtown Seattle and park just north of my soon-to-be-former office and walk to the water front and north toward the Olympic Sculpture Park. Upon our arrival at the fountain near the entrance, I marveled at how beautiful the day was – the sunny sparkled so fantastically off the naked man holding his arms out to the naked boy. I call this one “Public Pedophilia.” As Kiki and I giggled for the first of many times that day, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see two young guys standing there grinning goofily holding up a cell phone in askance.

“My friend here was wondering if he could take a picture of you with his cell phone,” the taller, less goofy one asked. Hmm, strike one for my ego. So they took their picture, and I took one as well, because we had to, duh. Then the tall guy said he needed a picture with me because I’m taller. Well, at least that’s something. He gave me a big smooch on my cheek, which I wasn’t expecting at all and why all of my teeth, tonsils and esophagus are showing. Then he asked if I wanted some of his Pepsi. No, thanks! He confided that it was actually whiskey, the liquid courage necessary for him to be talking to us right now. That explained the breath. They were from Portland, they explained and didn’t know anyone, had never been to Seattle, and were looking for fun. So after they harassed us to hang out with them that evening, despite my protests that having a boyfriend makes such a thing impossible, we escaped from their company. Who knows I’m probably on some MySpace page somewhere now along with the rest of the day’s gallery, so heh, heh, heh, they’re now a part of mine.

Now, I’m all for sculpture. Yes, sculpture’s nice. Have you ever seen the David? Well, I haven’t, not in person anyway, but I’m told it’s magnificent. You can stand in it’s wonder in awe of the artistry and the craftsmanship. Same with the Venus, and well, what do you know, I’ve exhausted my sculpture knowledge. Moving along. I know sculpture is not just a piece of marble chipped away until it looks more like fabric than fabric does, but take a look at the images below. High-brow art or Fisher Price on a grand scale? Behold the typewriter eraser, the giant neon ampersand, the Lincoln logs, the big silver tree, which looks like a wooden tree that’s been spray painted.
I can’t stare in awe of the mastery of some over-sized building block no matter how hard I try.

So we had fun taking pictures of each other and laughing at the “art.” These pictures remind me of how little alike we look. Strange.




And I wonder, if you were commissioned for a piece of the work for this Sculpture Park, what would you make? I think I’d make a giant date stamp, complete with that satisfying cachunk sound.

Tomorrow - our trip to the Pike Place Market Festival.

I'll just call the police

Steve was going to take the day off, but his clients were coming in, and his news that he would not be home until late dampened my mood more than it should. It would be dinner à sole once again. I tried not to let it show when I returned from Rite-Aid where I’d gone to stock up on treats to continue my week of spoiling my coworkers, but Mary, the one who’s been diagnosed with a serious type of cancer and has been undergoing so much besides, asked me if I was okay, and when I said I was, asked if I was lying. I had to shake myself. I’ve been so stressed out over the Swine that little things bring me down farther than they should, so I decided it was time to try to talk to the Swine about the daycare situation, so we could settle that issue at the very least.

After work, as I soaked up the luscious, warm, rare rays of the sun while I slowly made my way toward the bus stop, I pulled my phone out of my LeSportSac (are those even cool?) and dialed him hoping he’d ignore my call, so I could leave him a voicemail asking him if we could talk later about everything. But to my chagrin, he picked up just as I was crossing the street in front of Cost Plus World Market. I sighed and asked him if he would have time to talk later, and then a bus hit me, and I floated up to heaven never to hear his voice again, because the Lord and I both know he won’t be meeting me up there, and you’ll know it too after I share the rest of his diabolical ways.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Well, I just wanted to see if you could talk. Later.” I stressed the last word, but he pressed. “Okay, I, uh, I just got a job offer in Redmond that I couldn’t refuse and as a result, it won’t really work for me to continue to take Audrey to the daycare here in downtown Seattle. I just got her a space at the daycare she used to go to before, which incidentally she has been asking repeatedly to return to, as you know it is only a couple of blocks from my apartment, so she won’t have to be at daycare as long. And as an added bonus, if she ends up at school in Bellevue, they will pick her up from school everyday, so we wouldn’t have to worry about it, isn’t that great?” I had gushed in all in one breath when I realized that my speech was met with silence. “Hello? … Are you still there? … Hello?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said slowly. “I don’t want Audrey to go to school in Bellevue. And it’s not my fault that you moved to Bellevue or that you took a job in Redmond. Those were choices you made, which you have to be responsible for, so that’s really not my problem.”

“You would really want Audrey to have to travel all that way unnecessarily?”

“You agreed that she would go to school there, so that’s where she’ll go.”

I was trying desperately to keep my cool, but, “Yes, and you agreed that I could move to London – sometimes things change.” Yeah, I totally went there. Ugh.

“Uh huh. And it’s written in the court documents that she has to go there, and that’s the way it going to be.”

“Can you please give me one good reason why she couldn’t go to the daycare near me just when she with me?”

“I don’t have to. It’s in the paperwork.”

I stood stuck on the phone on the verge of tears in the middle of Pike Place Market in front of the vegetable vendor from whom I wanted to purchase a few carrots for the Thai chicken red curry that I intended to make for dinner. No matter how I put it, he was unwilling to budge, no amount of appealing to his sense of reason and logic (yeah, I know, what reason and logic, and for that matter, what sense?) broke through, and I could stand it no more, so just before clicking the off key, I snapped, “Sue me then, I’m taking her to that daycare.”

I bought 35¢ worth of carrots, and the vendor said, “That’s it? That’s an awfully long phone call for a couple carrots.”

“Never have an ex-husband,” I shot back.

“You’re too young to have a husband.”

“Don’t I wish,” I said stuffing the bag of carrots into my sac and considering telling this guy just how terrible ex-husbands can be, but alas, he moved on to the next customer, so his chance to be regaled with the miseries of a broken woman was sadly lost. I carried on slowly toward First Avenue. Soon I got my phone out of my bag and noticed a voicemail from Sam. I nearly burst into tears right there after listening to this, “If you take her to that daycare and I find out about it, there will be no suing. I won’t go through the courts, I’ll just call the cops. It doesn’t get simpler than that.”

Oh. How was I to react to that? I carried on down First Avenue past one, two, three bus stops, until I’d gone a mile through crowds and crazies, tourists and yuppies. I sniffed, wiped a tear, and forwarded the voicemail to Steve with the message, “This is what I am dealing with.” Not that he doesn’t already know, but he doesn’t often get to hear it for himself.

I got on the bus a few minutes later and tried to figure out what to do. I tried to understand what would motivate him to make life so pointlessly difficult for me and even for Audrey. I tried to contrive a game plan. What was there to do? What to do? What should I do? What would you do? What would you do?

Back in the sockets

What better way to make people rue one’s departure than through fried pastry? Well, that was the question I asked in an email announcing the Krispy Kremes I brought in to work this morning as a kick-off to my big Week of Treats to celebrate my last one here. My leaving is a hot buzz right now with my boss coming up to me saying things like “Redmond – what’s in Redmond? That’s where I went as a kid to go strawberry picking – it was just one big field. There's nothing but a bunch of white people. And great Thai restaurants - oh wait, they only have white people restaurants like Claim Jumpers - quantity over quantity. Yep, enjoy the diversity there in white people land.” And then worse, “Oh, Rebecca, we’ve got to figure out a way for you to come on the retreat with us. I wanted to party with you. What title can we give you?” And he sat in Wynn's side chair staring in my direction as he pondered how to make it so I could still go to the trip to the San Juans just three weeks away, but two weeks after my goodbye. I suggested Freelance Editor, which he considered, but I just laughed – like I would go on a retreat with my former company. The dinner, cocktail hour and free time at the local dive bar would be fun, but a day of panel discussions and speeches before? Thanks, but my calendar just closed up. When he walked away, Wynn gasped, “I couldn’t believe the way he was looking at you! If he looked at me like that I would never wear skirts to work. He’s so lucky you don’t care, or he would have a real problem on his hands.” I shrugged. Most of the time I don’t even notice – people have to tell me. I’ve become inured to bosses being more than a little inappropriate with me, but this one does take the cake. Perhaps I just don’t mind all that much because he is so handsome and wealthy and well dressed. I find it nothing more than flattering, though at times a little shocking and embarrassing.

He likes to give those low fives when he passes you where you just stick your hand out and your hands slap together – kind of a keep up the good work sort of a gesture. So one day he put his hand out, and I put my hand out in response, but rather than slapping my hand, he slid his arm around my waist, pulled me close and spun me around in a little dance before continuing on his way. That was a lot of contact to say the least, and I walked away after my courtesy laugh wondering what the heck just happened.

Another day, Wynn and I were talking to him about the holiday party I was planning and the site we were about to visit. I yammered on and on before noticing that he wasn’t really paying attention – he was staring again. I thought it was at the floor, which demonstrates how oblivious I can be. “Rebecca, have you even done modeling?” he blurted suddenly. I stuttered an incomprehensible no, and he said, “It’s just the way you’re standing right now is right out of a magazine or the catwalk, and you walk so well in heels.” What could I say? I wanted to melt into the floor. He laughed, “You’re turning beet red!” Of course I was! I hate it when people say that kind of stuff in front of other, because then all attention is on me and I have to figure out a response to the modeling thing and I hate it. Sometimes I wish that I hadn’t been such a self-conscious ninny ten years ago, when I could have modeled, but most times I don’t care, and I certainly don’t want to talk modeling when I am talking business. Wynn and I went to the car to leave for Canlis, and she was shaking her head, “The poor man could not stop looking at our legs.” I looked at her knee-high leather boots and midi, and down at my pencil skirt and heels and shook my head, “It must have been too much for the man. He couldn’t handle it.” His poor, poor wife.

****

In other news, Audrey announced last week that she and the Swine and the teacher and her boy are all moving into a house together with a big back yard and oh won’t that be swell because she can maybe get a hamster, which ew! why would anyone willingly keep a rodent? One big happy family – I give it a few months – this is his third try since we broke up. I think the Swine’s slovenly behavior turns off the woman – big time, but no surprise there. I’m happy for them all – really, I am. But what really pisses me off, is that Audrey will be sharing a room with the Boy. I’m sorry, but I just don’t approve of non-related children their age sharing a room, and I don’t understand why they don’t see it. Additionally, the Boy is a naughty, little sod, who keeps Audrey up far past her bedtime, so when they’ve had *cringe* sleepovers, Audrey returns from the Swine exhausted with dark circles under her eyes. I’m so fed up with this situation. So. Fed. Up. And some things I don’t even want to mention, because who knows if the Others are still reading. I just really don’t need the Information Highway leading toward the Swine’s ears, which could spoil everything. So mum’s the word, I guess.

****

I had a Girl’s Night Out last night with several of my coworkers. It was a real scorcher yesterday that must have broken a record, so sitting outside was a must. We headed to the Garden Terrace downtown where they have free (random) tacos and delicious margaritas. Scattered across the fifth floor terrace where tables with an interesting mix of geriats and jetsetters. I smiled as I heard whispers about my cream patent leather Paolo’s with the peep toe and forty’s heel, as I walked from our table to the dining room to grab a taco – I think it was those shoes with the slim skirt I had on that drove my boss a’starin’. That’s why shoes are so fun – a great way to send people a’ twitter.

After Happy Hour and a half, we went to see The Ex with Zach Braff, Amanda Peet, and Jason Bateman. Of the four of us that remained to see the movie, we were split in our reviews. Wynn and I were rolling, thought it was hilarious, though in hindsight, it could have been the two margaritas, while Jackie and Frenchie sat quietly. At the end, Frenchie said she’d had a hard time suspending her disbelief, but it’s a good, fun movie - I wasn't looking for realism. I wouldn’t normally see a film like that in the theater. I tend to reserve that kind of expenditure on a huge action flick, but for girl’s night – you have to go to a chick type flick, no? At the beginning of the film, Peet is having Braff’s baby, whose name ends up being Oliver. As you can imagine there was quite the twinge, especially because they were always holding him- and the baby was adorable, so it was hard to not imagine him as my Oliver, but it was only a slight twinge, and I fared well, for which I am proud. Rent it, or go see it in the theater if you want a non-sequel, which seem pretty non-existent this season, that will have you laughing – if you have a quirky, Scrubs-like sense of humor, that is.

Does anyone else have inappropriate boss stories? I really don’t want to be the only sap that puts up with that. And if you were me, would you react as I do or get mad and take action?

First, the farewell

At my company, employee departures are always accompanied by a rumor mill. For some reason no announcement is ever made, and the leaver never really says anything, so eventually it filters down that so-and-so is leaving, so you walk up to so-and-so and say, “So, I hear you’re leaving. Why? Where are you going? What are you doing?” And so on. I’m not really big on the idea of people whispering and wondering about me behind my back, so I took some unprecedented measures. I *gasp* sent out an email to everyone explaining that I would be leaving. My departure just happens to coincide with one of the architects, so I decided to wait until his goodbye party was over, because Lord knows that I didn’t want his party to become our party – I want my own, dammit! Here’s the email –

From: Rebecca
Sent: Fri 5/25/2007 2:40 PM
To: Fellow Office Grunts
Subject: Friday Funny/ Farewell

Hello all,

First, the farewell. Now that we've enjoyed Rl's farewell party, pizza, Pepcid AC and all, I wanted to share with you the news of my own departure. It has truly been a wonderful experience working with you all - I can actually say that you are the best group of people I have worked with by far. I will really miss that je ne sais quoi S has going on, but it was time for me to take the next step in my career, so I have accepted a position with a firm in Redmond. I know you will all have fun at the BBQ and Christmas party that is all planned and ready to go, so think of me when you order that cocktail or burn that bratwurst. I am sure you will be in good hands with my replacement, who will no doubt turn Chocolate Wednesday into Chocolate Monday through Friday, that is until C baulks at the candy bill. And please don't forget to load the dishwasher, wipe up your stains, clean up microwave explosions, and for the love of all things holy and beautiful, put the right paper in them there machines in the copy room - you wouldn't want poor Wynn's head to explode now, would you?

My last day will be June 7, so make your cracks at my ever-present, impossibly high heels while you still can.

And now for the funny...

DILBERTISMS (Or are they frontdeskisms? You tell me. ;) )

I can please only one person per day. Today is not your day and tomorrow isn't looking good either.

I love deadlines. I especially like the whooshing sound they make as they go flying by.

Am I getting smart with you? How would you know?

I'd explain it to you, but your brain would explode.

Someday we'll look back on all this and plow into a parked car.

There are very few personal problems that cannot be solved through a suitable application of high explosives.

Tell me what you need and I'll tell you how to get along without it.

Accept that some days you're the pigeon and some days you're the statue.

Needing someone is like needing a parachute. If she isn't there the first time you need him, chances are you won't be needing her again.

I don't have an attitude problem. You have a perception problem.

My Reality Check bounced.

On the keyboard of life, always keep one finger on the escape key.

I don't suffer from stress. I'm a carrier.

You're slower than a herd of turtles stampeding thru peanut butter.

Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, 'cuz you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.

Everybody is somebody else's weirdo.

If it weren't for the last minute, nothing would get done.

Rebecca

The Dilbertisms I found somewhere on the internet, and I must say, they wryly denote my attitude of late. I am just so happy to be out of there. The admin staff always ends of cleaning up after all the dirty architects, so I had to admonish them to be better, because Wynn and I had teamed up on the battle front, but now it will just be her. My little email went off really well, with most people coming up to me saying how well it was written – one person suggested that I should write a book. I had to laugh because it just proved how short on writing skills these architecture types are – doesn’t take much to impress them. But it was nice to hear, nonetheless. I love these people – and the cracks they make about my shoes. The guy that is leaving, incidentally the only other person with an “R” name – they will soon be “R”less, doesn’t like that I wear heels at all. He thinks I am too tall for heels and they look too painful anyway. I merely scoff in his direction. My boss absolutely adores them – when he gave me my year-end bonus, he said he couldn’t wait to see what shoes I would buy next. So I’ve built up sort of a reputation around here. I personally don’t think they’re that exciting – I don’t have any Kate Spade or Blahniks or Hollywoulds, but I have been amassing quite the collection of Paolo’s, which I adore. I must post about my shoes soon, I think.

So today, everyone wishes me well. I wish me out of here sooner. How difficult it is to push through these tasks for nine more work days.

Arsenio Whooo Accompanied by pumping fist

Today was one of those days. I got to work and realized that my cell phone was in the red. Then the red disappeared. The battery was empty. The green light angrily flashed at me. I really am the only person in my entire office with a Blackberry. I stared at my phone, waiting for it to ring before it died. I turn it on quiet to conserve energy. I waited. And waited. And then…then I missed the call. Horror of horrors! I called her back as soon as I could, but to no avail, she was in meetings. Hours went by, and no call back. I realized that I was going to have to go to the second interview with a company I sort of like that I had scheduled earlier in the week.

I looked up the company on the website and half-heartedly filled my head with knowledge, wondering how on top of my game I was going to have to be. But still nothing. So I pulled on my sneakers for a Working Girl look, tossed my sling backs into my bag and headed toward downtown. I love the location of the office. It is right in the heart of the shopping district with views straight into the Westlake Center, and for a girl with a shoe addiction, this is mecca. But as I spoke to them, I just knew I would be looking for a new job within a year if I were to accept a position with them. Though it is difficult to explain the exhilaration I felt when I was shown the desk where I would sit, the one not in the lobby, and the refrigerator stocked with complimentary soda, that I wouldn’t have to stock. That was enough to make me accept any job that would take me away from my current one.

I walked back to my office wondering what next. I grabbed the office portable phone and hid myself in the changing room. She apologized for the phone tag. I considered apologizing for calling her like a stalker, but figured she may not know, but then she said that she was on the phone and could hear the beeps and thought, oh man. And I thought oh man, she knew it was me. Damn. Anyway after that terrible period of runaround of American Idol elimination night proportions, she said, “and they think you’d be a wonderful fit, not just for their needs now but to grow and succeed for the future of the company.” And then I passed out. When I woke up, I was sitting in my supervisor’s office.

“So, it probably won’t come as a surprise –“ I started.

“You’re resigning,” she finished for me, smiling. Relief spread through my tense muscles. “You didn’t have any job satisfaction in your eyes.” She offered in explanation. The understatement of the month, I’ll guaranDAMNtee it. (use of the phrase a gratuitous inclusion for a coworker’s benefit.)

So I walked out of her office breathing easy, though now I have one of my stress stomach aches. Ugh. I am very, very, very excited. I love you all. You are the best possessors of crossed fingers, well wishing, juju bee mojos that a girl could ask for. I GOT THE JOB!!!! Well, probably two jobs, but I am only taking the one. No more answering phones! No more ordering supplies! No more mail distribution! Gone is that horrible stuff. I never ever want to do it again. June 11 will be the wonderful day when I write stuff and design stuff and plan stuff and all for a very wonderful company that has benefits of near Microsoft proportions! I could sing. I’m lighter than air. I’m dancing on the wind.

I have more disturbing Swine news, but for now, let’s focus on the happy fact that I get to edit my sidebar. And I totally need to get rid of those snowflakes. The sun is blasting over Elliott Bay right now even as a sailboat cruises past in the light breeze. Okay so my new job means I won’t have the best view ever anymore or be a ten minute walk from the Pike Place Public Market, but I get to write! and stuff, and I think I’ll be okay. Hurray!!! I'm definitely having a mojito tonight in celebration. Join me?