Wednesday, April 7, 2010

10 ways you can tell I am a successful working woman

(you and me, Mary - two of a kind)

I've been working full time for six weeks now. Six whole weeks. Eight hours a day. In an office.

Are you impressed?

Believe me, after 10 years of working at home, six weeks of full-time work is an amazing feat. But I've got it down now. No biggie. I'm a pro.

Here's how you can tell:

1. I wake up every morning at 5:45, even without my alarm clock.

2. I can pack a lunch, put on makeup, and drive to the office all at the same time.

3. I have a briefcase.

4. Ok, a laptop bag. But it's leather.

5. Even though I never bring it to work.

6. I frequently throw my hat in the air while singing "I'm gonna make it after allllllll."

7. Of course, if you understand that, you are old like me. Which makes it even more amazing that I am working full-time, when I really should be sitting on my front porch rocking my grandbabies.

8. I sometimes wake up at night thinking about projects and deadlines.

9. I also wake up at night for absolutely no good reason.

10. I often end up quite tired at 5:45 in the morning, which became quite clear to me the other morning when I finished my shower (fortunately I was not driving at the time) and realized that I heard water running, which could have been a really bad sign of something like a leak, but turned out to be only the sink which I left running after brushing my teeth and which in about thirty seconds would have been running over onto the floor.

No worries.

I turned off the sink faucet, got dressed, went to work, brought home the bacon, and fried it up in a pan.

I am woman. Hear me snore.


Sunday, April 4, 2010

Happy Easter, Dale Girls

(easter highlights from the dusty archives of my mind)

1957: Baby Monica is one month old. Parents stubbornly refuse to exchange her for a kitten. Karen and I hold out hope.

1960: Baby Melissa is two months old. No kitten in sight. Easter Sunday means pricking eggs and blowing the goo out, which is great fun, though I can't remember what comes next or why we would do that instead of hard boiling them. Oh well.

1963: I decide that I am an atheist because let's face it, those stories about rainbows and whales and giants getting killed by slingshots are pretty lame. Unfortunately, Dad is the organist and choir director so for the most part I smile and nod my way through Sunday School. Fortunately, nobody asks my opinion. Plus our teacher brings donuts on Easter. So I'm not about to rock the boat.

1964: The "Big Girls" (Karen and me) are now in the children's choir at church. Suddenly, in spite of my theological ambiguity I have a nearly fanatical appreciation for starchy taffeta dresses, frilly hats and shiny patent leather shoes with matching purses.

1968: Dad gives up the choir directing job, and he and mom somehow manage to find an even LAMER church to attend. The new church has a sunrise service on Easter, which is a particularly brilliant idea when you live in Connecticut where the average temperature at the crack of dawn in early spring is, like, 25 degrees. We all stand and shiver and wonder if there will be donuts.

1969: The new church hires a good-looking youth pastor, who leads Sunday evening discussion groups which I find totally fascinating, especially the way his hair waves across his forehead without ever falling into his big brown eyes. Maybe there's something to be said for those Bible stories after all.

Happy Easter, everybody.

Hope you get donuts.



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