An(other) Impromptu Poll

Location: Snazzy waterfront restaurant in Old Town, Alexandria

Occasion: A festive office gathering, shamelessly called the Christmas Party by everyone but me. I refer to it as the Holiday Party because I strive to exude political correctness in the office environment. Someday I may work somewhere it matters.

Attendees: The three owners of the company, a recently retired ex-owner, and three employees. Two female, five male. Age range mid-thirties to early sixties, three of us in our forties.

The conversation turned to massages. It wafted down and came to rest near my plate, which, until that point, had captured my attention ever since the discreet and ever-so-proper server seamlessly slipped it in front of me while refilling my wine glass with a very nice pinot. Pan-seared scallops in a light ginger sauce artistically surrounded an interesting layered mound of white rice, bok choy and spinach. I was a bit distracted, obviously.

I looked up when I heard my name. "Suzanne," a co-worker queried, "Have you ever had a professional massage?"

"Sure," I replied. "You?"

To my amazement, none of my other dinner companions has ever known the sheer pleasure, the delightful indulgence, of a professional massage.

Frankly I was a bit surprised. It left me wondering. So I ask you, gentle readers of the blogosphere, have you ever had a professional massage? If no, why not?

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"Makes Me Wanna See The Exorcist"

Before time and events get completely away from me, moreso than they already may have, let me wrap up the office soiree.

I am the most fortunate woman in the world. You may already realize that. I was again reminded of it as Wendy and I dressed for the party. She had demanded to "do" my hair for the event. I gave no argument, having no clue what to do with it anyway.

I was ordered to the guest room, a space that doubles as the place hair gets done when we don't have guests. There, I perched on the edge of the bed clad only in my silkies as Wendy fluttered about wearing only her birthday suit. Girlfriends rock. My woman wields a mean blow dryer and incorporates "product" in ways I would never have dared. (I took notes but have yet to successfully replicate her results.)

The party was a delight. Later that evening, Wendy and I rehashed events. Conversation touched briefly on one of the guests, a catholic monsignor.

Wendy's comment became the title of this post.

I can honestly say that thought would have never entered my mind.

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Other Duties as Assigned

Did you know I am a professional party planner? No? You thought I was a bookkeeper, didn't you? So did I.

Speaking of being a bookkeeper, I was snoozing to a cheesy Lifetime movie recently. Snoozing and TV-watching are perfect companions on a suburban afternoon. I can't be the only one who feels that way. Why else would there be so much crappy crap on TV if not to help an afternoon snoozer snooze?

So anyway, that cheesy Lifetime movie. Here's the scene: a pathetic young woman who still lives at home and her overbearing mother are having a heated conversation in the kitchen. "But I applied for a promotion at the restaurant, the hostess job!" the daughter whines. "You don't think I want to be a bookkeeper for the rest of my life, do you?"

My drooping eyes snapped open. WTF? How rude. What's she got against being a bookkeeper!? And she thinks a restaurant hostess is a step up? Yeesh. I groped for the remote, found it near my right hand and switched the channel. Ah. Baseball. That's good for napping too.

I like being a bookkeeper but I'm not much of a party planner. However since I was given the assignment, I am doing my best to rise to the occasion. Since it's work-related, I shouldn't really talk about it. The office is hush-hush non-blog fodder after all. Let's simply say it will be a rather formal affair at a fancy hotel in Old Town.

The party planning hasn't been as odious as I initially anticipated. Turns out fancy hotels in Old Town have great staff to help folks like me plan a party. Don't tell anyone, but I'm almost enjoying it. Next thing you know, I'll be tossing aside my red pencils and applying for a job as a restaurant hostess. Sure, sure I will.

Coming soon: Just what will this suburban lesbian wear to a rather formal affair at a fancy hotel in Old Town? And whatever will I do with my hair? I'm not quite sure yet, but I've got two weeks to figure it out. Wish me luck.

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I'm Not a Rock, But I Play One on TV

We took a walk along the Potomac River this evening. Yes, the same Potomac River where scientists recently announced discovery of an abundance of intersex fish. Bass, to be specific. Both wide and small mouth. What are we doing to our world?

"Run, freedom, run!"

While driving to work this morning, I became aware of my brain processing subjects at lightning speed. Thoughts bouncing from place to place, worry to worry, person to person, non-stop, high speed. I cranked up the CD to a volume certain to block out the rest of the world. It worked. But ever since, I've been intermittently bursting into song.

"Freedom, run away!"

What's worse, I wonder. Racing thoughts or spontaneous showtunes?

My office, especially of late, is a fascinating blend of male egos colliding. But I'm finding it more frustrating than fascinating. Well. Frustrating is not the right word. Maddening is more like it.

"I'm simply layin' out the facts for you ...
Ain't no time to relax for you..."

For some reason, I'm a magnet. Necessary business reasons aside, people talk to me about things. They confide their feelings. What is up with that?

My own feelings--which aren't all bad--take a backseat while I'm in the office. There is fear in the air there. Unrest. Upheaval. Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. But change has arrived in all its glory. Their fear will dissipate eventually. Change is here to stay.

"That freedom sun will shine someday..."

Meanwhile, I've got control of the volume and a river to walk beside with my girl and our dogs. What more can a woman possibly need?

"Run, freedom, run!"

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Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

You're not paying attention if you are unaware much of the country is being fried by a heat wave. We're broiling out here on the east coast. Not only do we have intense temperatures, we have humidity. Humidity so thick it is like a living force pressing one into the ground and sapping all strength as it causes sweat to bead the moment one ventures outside of air conditioned spaces.

A wonderful time for our company picnic, yes?

The Powers That Be thought so.

I, not being a Power That Be, had little say in the matter.

But I did bring along a cooler of water balloons. Those delightful little gems brought me a little power of my own.

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If....

... I blogged about work I'd be typing until my fingers were nothing but bloody little nubs. But since I don't, my fingers are safe and I'm not typing much at all. Instead, I'm adjusting in virtual silence as the swirling emotions about the ch-ch-ch-changes that have been looming on the horizon for months morph into what will become the New Normal.

Normalcy, some say, is overrated.
Yet I crave it.

Don't you?

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Tools of My Trade

I just finished up the prep work for tomorrow's job. This particular client is a waterfront restaurant and, of historical note, is the first job I landed when I started working for myself way back when. It is a testament to their likeability that I still work there. Outside of the people, what I really enjoy is that they run their business in a businesslike manner. I was truly shocked to discover such is not always a given, particularly in the restaurant business. Oh, what a naive little bookkeeper I was way back when.

Usually I'm at that job site the first or the second of the month, but the holiday delayed my visit. Do I always wait until the night before to do the work? Typically yes. I have procrastination issues. I'm working on that. (Yeah. Sure I am. As soon as I finish doing something else.)

The scope of work includes bank reconciliations. Reconciling accounts greatly appeals to my sense of order. I especially get a kick when everything comes out right on the first pass, although it can be fun to track down errors when something goes awry. Yes yes, I'm a simple woman.

But the best part is that I get to play with what I consider the tools of my trade: colored pencils, highlighters and spreadsheets. I prefer my pencils to be sharpened to a needle point. My keyboard number pad and I have a special relationship. A rather zen-like feeling wafts over me as my fingers click rapidly over the keys and figures fill columns. It's all very soothing.

How about you?
What do you consider the tools of your trade?

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