After all this time I couldn’t stand it any more. It keeps coming up on radio, snippets of news here and there, luring me in even as I try so desperately to ignore it and not care. But I am weak. I succumbed.

I watched Survivor last night. Richard and I curled up on the couch and turned on the TV and flipped through channels, watching commercials, the end of a bad sitcom, *anything* to avoid the Republican three day “Listen to us spout pompous nonsense at you” bash that all of the major channels seemed to insist upon broadcasting. Until finally it was time, and we switched to the right channel and settled in. We figured we’d watch for a bit, be bored, and then head out and get dinner.

Ha. How to describe this show? It’s not great entertainment by any stretch of the imagination. It’s not classical, or informative, or comedy. It’s just….well…it’s just a show about a bunch of people who play nicey-nice with each other and then talk behind each other’s backs and plot in little groups how to stab the others when they least expect it.

In short, it’s about life, albeit a rather cynical view of it. And despite my best intentions I found myself actually starting to care. I didn’t form any opinions over who should win. No, my interest is more centered around who I think shouldn’t. I have to wonder – did they pick Rich because he is a cocky, egotistical, full-of-himself bastard, or was that just a lucky perk? I don’t intend to watch the show again – I’ll wait to hear from news and radio who actually wins – but I have to admit that I’ll probably cheer when he’s booted from that island. If the rest of them are smart, it’ll be soon too. Of course, considering that he’s lasted that long, this may be giving them too much credit. Or else the others who were already booted were even worse then he was. Shudder.

And now for something completely different. Last weekend my mom got together for our once-a-month do-something-for-wedding-plans date. We managed to look at a few halls, and then we headed down to the fabric store to get some ideas on colors and such. Okay, like we needed an excuse to go into a fabric store! (dangerous places, those stores. Neither my mom or I can ever enter one without buying something. But anyway…) While we were there, we (naturally) meandered back to the pattern books, and proceeded to spend the next hour or so poring over pictures of dresses. And during the process, we started to get some ideas of what to torture/subject/ridicule…um..I mean ‘grace’ my bridesmaids with. In fact, by the time we left the store, we’d determined the theme of the whole wedding.

But aside from that, as we were pouring through the Vogue book, we found it. The dress. Oh yes. When we finally stopped laughing and wiped the tears from our eyes, I gave in and bought the pattern. It was worth it just to scan in the picture to send to my bridesmaids, and to Richard’s mom. My dad merely blinked and manfully resisted any comments. My older sister suggested that perhaps it shouldn’t even have the underskirt. My maid of honor’s response was ‘dear, dear Jennifer. Please tell me you are not serious?’ Richard’s mom merely noted that since she had it in orange, she was already all set. And Richard thought it was lovely (heh). Which does beg the question of whether I should be worried about his taste (or lack thereof) in women’s evening wear?

So what do you think? Should this lovely….um…thing be for the bridesmaids or the mothers?

Oh, don’t worry. As funny as that outfit is, I’ve got something completely different in mind. I’m just sorry that I missed the look on Richard’s best man’s face when he told him what the *real* theme was going to be…

The sky Monday night was awash in pink and gold and purple as I drove home. I wanted so badly to stop on the side of the road and just watch as the sun set, but I had to be somewhere and I was already speeding in order to make it. So I had to make do with watching as I drove madly down the freeway homeward bound, darting glances out the side window at a sky streaked with more color than I’ve seen in a sunset for a while. Sunsets need clouds for maximum beauty, but there’s a delicate balance – too many and it blocks the view; too few and there is nothing to reflect the color back. Sunrises can do without clouds, but sunsets need just enough. That night there were just enough. A few days before, driving home, I had time to stop and watch the sun sink past the horizon. Pulled my car off the road and sat on the hood. It was on one of the back country roads I take to get from my town to the next, and so there was very little traffic. I could hear cars on the distant freeway, but the more immediate sounds were the random melodies of birds and crickets. I watched the sun disappear and the sky move from lavender and pink, to the silhouette of a landscape that always happens when there are clouds – if you stare up at them just at the right time during a sun set, it almost looks as if you are gazing across some oddly familiar landscape of hills and plains, surrounding an open, cloudless lake of sky. The bugs finally chased me back into my car, else I’d have stayed until it was pitch dark. I wanted so badly to be able to do that Monday, because the balance of clouds was perfect. But the day was too long and too tiring. I drove to work watching the sun as it crept up over the horizon, rimmed in gold, and I drove home in time to watch it go away. Days where I work this much drain me of energy. There have been too many days like that recently, and it’s highly likely they will continue for a few more weeks.

I am restless again. Our manager came up to see us today and she and I spoke about what my options would be once this project is over. She took the reminder that I intended to make this project my last one as a consultant with fairly good grace, even offering suggestions, and noting that she would send me names to talk to in other departments. The conversation, although informative, has only made me more frustrated with this situation, simply because I realize that I won’t be able to leave for another four to six months at least. It’s not that I don’t like this project, because I do – quite a bit. It’s just that I’ve tried not to think about how much longer this would go on, and talking with her forced me to put it into perspective.

I just have to be patient. It’s difficult, knowing that there is an end in sight but it’s still too far away to touch, but I know that it’s coming. And perhaps I am fooling myself. I don’t expect that switching to a new department in the company will suddenly give me oodles more free time, but I do expect that I won’t be expected to work more than nine or ten hours a day (instead of 12+ like now), and the commute will be much shorter, and perhaps I’d start to have more time to stop and watch those gorgeous sunsets when I see them.

Or perhaps another way to look at it would be to note that if it weren’t for these insane work hours, I might never be paying attention to the sky and so maybe there is the bright side. At least it’s something to hold on to, while I wait.

I’ve had my fake nails now for a few months and I have to admit that, despite the fact that they do make my hands look prettier, and it’s fun to wear polish and all that, I’m starting to get a bit tired of them. They’re pretty, to be sure, but because they’re thicker than regular nails, sometimes it’s hard to pick up little things like coins or pieces of paper. When I type they make a tapping noise on the keys. Okay, maybe real nails would do that too, but when it’s just my own nails, they never really get long enough to tap. But there’s other little things. Opening the pop top on a soda can has become a much more difficult task than before. I’ve even resorted to wheedling my friends into doing it for me – either that or executing a skillful maneuver involving a pen top to pry the little metal tab up enough so I can slide one finger underneath without fear of snapping off one of these nails and causing myself much pain.

So why, you are now asking, do I not get them removed? The answer is very simple. I leave them on because, despite the minor annoyances, these are the closest thing to a cure I’ve found. It’s not a complete cure, but it’s as close as I can get. The mere fact that I can’t grasp tiny things very easily means that for the first time in nearly twenty years, I have a full set of eyelashes.

Yes, I said eyelashes. The disorder is called Trichotillomania, and if you want to know more about it, I’d suggest drilling down on that link. But I’ll summarize briefly here. It’s not an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, although perhaps that’s the easiest type of thing to compare it to. I have a mild form – luckily. Mine only manifests with pulling out the lashes and eyebrows. Other people can go so far as to pull out head hair, and even eat it.

It’s a quiet disorder, for obvious reasons. It’s not like you would go up to strangers on the street and introduce yourself with ‘Hi, I’m, Bob and I have Trich.! How about you?” It’s something that I’ve tried to hide for years, with limited success. Eyebrows can be drawn in, but nothing short of falsies will replace actual lashes. Eyeliner only does so much, and mascara doesn’t work if there aren’t lashes to apply it to. In college I finally decided to try to do something about it, so I went to see a psychiatrist. While he didn’t offer me a cure, he was far more helpful than he may have realized. He helped me to understand that what I have is a very real medical condition, and he helped me come to terms with it. I have Trich. I have had it for nearly two decades, and chances are pretty strong that I will have it til I die. He mentioned that some limited success had been achieved from the use of certain drugs like Prozac, but considering that Prozac is insanely expensive, and that OCD’s and similar disorders require the maximum dose, plus extra drugs to boost the effect…well, I passed. Besides, it’s not life-threatening. This isn’t like the people who wash their hands twenty times an hour, or something like that. It’s just hair. Okay, so I look funny, but that’s all.

A few months ago I was watching television and to my surprise there was a short clip on Trich on the local news. I saw the previews and I even though I usually avoid TV news due to the idiocy of the anchors (can we *please* get people who actually care about how to pronounce medical terms? Is that too much to ask?), I waded through whatever sensationalized stories they had to report and then watched as they discussed the disorder that I’ve had for so long. They flashed a URL on the screen, and I immediately went to look. I found a chat room. I logged in. I was surrounded by people just like me. Lots of them.

I can’t explain what a relief that was. I’ve known that I wasn’t the only one with this disorder – after all, the definition has been in the medical books far longer than I’ve been around and diagnosed. But still, it’s a rather odd thing to have, and I didn’t know anyone else who would even understand. My family has always been baffled by this. I know that they all think that if I just *tried*, I could stop it. How do you explain that with compulsive disorders and their ilk, you just *can’t*. How could I explain that most of the time I’m not even aware that I’m even *doing* it?

I spent some time browsing the site, and talking with the others who were logged in that night. There were stories posted from others who have Trich, talking about how long they’ve had it, what they’ve tried to cure it – although there were very few success stories. And in the chat room, the feeling of relief was shared by more than me. A father logged on, having seen the same show I did. He thought perhaps his daughter might have Trich, and he was wondering what he could do to help her. We all offered suggestions, and then at one point he asked how long. How long had it been for each of us? That’s when I did the math and realized that it had been twenty years. Two thirds of my lifespan. Strangely, that was sort of comforting. It’s a part of me – this odd little disorder – and even though it would be nice if some day I were to wake up and never tug out another eyelash or eyebrow, I know it isn’t going to happen. I have accepted it.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to try to work with it. Hence the nails. I have these darn nails and I will keep them for as long as I can stand them. My brows still suffer – the more stress I’m under, the worse it gets. But the lashes are alright. I have lashes. After all this time, I look *normal*. Finally.

And that alone is worth the inconvenience.

If there is one thing I can say about the midwest, it is that the food is distinctive in the inverse proportion of fat to vegetable matter. In this little town we stayed in for the family reunion, there were only a handful of restaurants. The one my family went to the most was a little place that fairly screamed ‘home cooking’. The woman who runs it comes up with a new menu every night, and there was a certain theme in her choices that seems common to midwestern cooking. The vegetables, such as they were, were cooked beyond any hope of nutritional value, and then quite often smothered in a liberal coating of melted Velveeta cheese. The meat – and this includes beef, poultry, and seafood – was, in some form or another, fried. Salads consisted of iceberg lettuce drowning in dressing made from scratch, and with a mayonaise base. Jello salads figured predominately on the menu. For my younger sister and her husband – both vegetarians – trying to find something to eat became an amusing nightly ordeal.

And we have been spoiled, out here on the West Coast, with a gourmet coffee shop in every neighborhood. Bil-1 and I decided to try our luck at the store that advertised cappuchinos and chai tea. The tea was just fine, although I did get a kick out of the woman who informed me that the ‘spiced’ (normal) version was just too spicy for her. The cappuchino, however, was not. Our first clue should have been the distinct lack of any cappuchino machine noises, but we were distracted by some other people wandering by. The General Mills commercial insists that you can’t tell the difference between their cappuchino mix and the real thing. They are wrong. Very very wrong.

I managed to get an upgrade to first class on my flight home on Sunday. The meal began with a fresh spinach salad, and there were perfectly steamed vegetables accompanying the main course. I had no idea how much I was missing *real* food until I found myself getting excited over airplane food. Sheesh!

**************

As news of my impending nuptials made its way around the family members at the reunion, I was cornered by more than one well-meaning relative and given wedding advice. Giving advice seems to be a common theme for many people when they learn that someone is going to have some sort of Big Event, and my relatives were certainly no exception. “For your honeymoon, go on a cruise”, I was told. Of course, I’ve been hearing that one for a while from friends, acquaintances, and coworkers. Richard’s and my current honeymoon suggestion that we go to New Zealand and try to get bit parts for the final filming of The Lord of the Rings is usually met with an odd stare, but somehow I think our idea is more appropriate for two nerds than a cruise. Heh. Other suggestions have centered around the wedding itself. What kind of food to serve. Where to get married. Whether we should even *have* a wedding at all. This last has been rather amusing because my dad, continuing a long running joke that started back when my older sister was planning her wedding, occasionally offers a lump sum if we’ll just elope instead of have a church wedding. We joke back that all he has to do is up the ante enough and we might just do it.

It’s been kind of fun to listen, so I really don’t mind the advice too much, even though Richard and I will make up our own minds on what to do. My favorite so far was from the reunion, where one of my who-knows-what-version-of-cousins pulled me aside to let me know that, speaking from the experience of marrying off three children, weddings aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, and if I really wanted to do it stress free, I should elope. Bringing both sets of parents with us, of course, so they don’t feel left out, and by the way, Hawaii is a lovely place to honeymoon.

Hmm…. I wonder if my dad put her up to it? (grin)

Saturday started early, with family members trickling into the park to drag picnic tables into some semblance of order in preparation for the reunion. By noon, everyone had shown up and my aunt startled my mom by asking the newest clergy member of the Hickson family to offer the prayer. My mom isn’t used to doing that sort of thing – as she put it, the people she usually prays with are sick or dying (she’s a hospital chaplain). Nevertheless, I think she was pleased. Ministry has run in the Hickson family for several generations, and she is merely carrying on a family tradition. My mom’s family have been Methodists for a long way back, and religion always plays a minor role in their lives. We all joined hands as my mom gave a prayer, and as the reunion drew to a close, we all sung a few hymns, those of us who are more absent than present at church humming the familiar tunes even if we didn’t quite know the words.

It was a typical family gathering, I suppose. Potluck lunch, heavy on the potato salad, jello molds, and brownies. One cousin with his laptop and a family tree program going around the tables, gathering information. Adults clustering into their own generations and catching up with each other’s lives, watching the children as they played, enjoying the beautiful day. Fiona, being the youngest there, was passed around from one set of arms to the other and endured it all with giggling grace. We all posed for a group picture at the end. I’m not sure quite how many generations there were, nor am I entirely sure of the link between all of us, even though there was a point when we tried to figure out who was what type of cousin to whom.

That evening, my sisters and all the female cousins (or cousins’ wives) in our age group gathered together for what has now become a tradition – a trip to the local ice cream shop, where we loaded up on calories and silliness, and then to the pier to find a dark corner to sit and talk. The one exception to the group was Bil-1, who was allowed to join us by virtue of the fact that the last time we were there, he was made an honorary Hickson woman (don’t ask). We sat on that pier til it was very late, laughing, talking, noisy and having fun. This occasional trip to Ohio has been the only time my sisters and I have ever had to get to know our cousins besides the yearly Christmas card from their mom and so we all have been looking forward to that time on the pier.

We ended the evening with a walk through the sleepy little town, hugging our goodbyes and promising to try to schedule our time at Lakeside better next time. It had been four years since we last saw each other, and with the wedding next summer, it may be a few years til I see them again. I know that as the years pass and we all get older, I see more and more of our mothers in them. I wonder if they see the same in my sisters and me.

How do I describe what I saw last night? There is no way to adequately put into words watching a grown man climb into a six-foot tall bubble-gum pink balloon to the tune of Also Sprach Zarathustra, and then proceed to bounce it around the stage to refrains from The Nutcracker. Words do not give justice to this same man wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, adorned with eighteen strategically placed bicycle horns, all with a unique pitch, and then doing various bodily contortions including squats and chicken-flapping of elbows to honk out classical music in two-part harmony.

I don’t know anything about the performer except that he was French-Canadian, and he was one of many who come to Lakeside to entertain. This privately owned resort has nightly concerts and acts, just one of umpteen things available here. I’m here for a family reunion – an annual event for my mother’s side of the family that has been held in this same spot for decades. Each year the Hickson clan descends on Lakeside for one Saturday to catch up with distant relatives, meet the new ones, and share stores of family members absent or lost.

Lakeside is an idyllic little town. It’s the sort of place where one has no choice but to relax. There is an air of peace and safety here. Doors remain unlocked. Strollers and bikes cluster in front of shops and restaurants, unchained and yet unmolested. It is the kind of place that is perfect for any type of family – young children with more energy than they can handle; teenagers trying desperately to be cool; older couples long since retired. There are things to do if you want them – a tiny miniature golf course, courts for playing horseshoes and shuffleboard, the beaches of Lake Erie.

My family has not always managed to make it out here every year, and it is rare that all of us can attend. But this year we managed it, squashing seven adults and two tiny children into a rented summer cottage with lumpy beds and a screened-in porch perfect for enjoying the evening. My dad and I rented a tandem bicycle and we wobbled around town, laughing at our own lack of coordination. My nephew was surrounded by an influx of cousins whom he never knew existed til now, yet he joined them at play, and was carted around by the older ones. My little niece was passed around into dozens of arms for kisses and cooing, and managed to endure it gracefully, all the while charming the relatives with her wide-mouthed grin.

Yet through it all there are bittersweet memories. The last time we were here was four years ago. My grandfather turned eighty that year, and through some miracle, every single one of his descendants made it to Lakeside. He was dying of Parkinson’s, and we all knew that this particular reunion was too important to miss. He had his faults – quick to anger and it often came with a raised hand – but he was the only member of my family who had an educational background similar enough to mine to understand what it was that I was doing in college. That year we managed to talk briefly – the former chemist and the budding nutrition research writer – and he not only could make sense of my research, he was also able to ask questions. He was so old and frail, his body wasted into a brittle husk of what he had once been. It was almost painful to touch him, knowing that he was slipping away and despite my desire to get to know this man better, this would be the last time I ever saw him.

That visit to Lakeside was full of laughter, but there were also tears because we all knew what it represented. He died the following winter, and it was on the flight home from his funeral that my dad and I, stranded in the San Francisco airport for hours, talked about database programming and I finally decided to give this computer thing a whirl.

I wish I could have come earlier this year to Lakeside. I would have liked a few more days of a vacation that I didn’t actually need a vacation to recover from. This little town may not hold the same weight of memories from years and years of reunions that it does for my mom and her sisters, but that makes it no less special.

The man I spoke of in the beginning of this entry – the one with the pink balloon dance and the orange horn-suit. One of his acts was to play glasses, and by that I mean that he had a tray of wine glasses, all filled with just enough water to give each of them a unique tone when he ran a dampened finger around the rim. At the end of his act, once he emerged from the balloon and the entire auditorium had finished the standing ovation, he did an encore. As the lights dimmed, he pulled out the glasses again and played Amazing Grace, the crystal notes echoing in the suddenly silent hall. My eyes got misty again, although this time the tears weren’t from laughter, but from memories. How appropriate that he chose to play it as a finale for Lakeside, because Lakeside will always make me think of my grandfather. And it was my grandfather’s favorite hymn.

It is early morning as I write this and I am bleary from lack of sleep. I know that both my brother-in-law and I need sleep, desperately, but the presence of a toddler and a six-month-old in this little rented cottage will prevent us from getting any more than a few hours in what is left of the night.

I am in Lakeside, Ohio, a tiny resort town owned by the Methodist Church, located on Lake Erie. My parents have been here all week and they’re the ones who made the cottage rental arrangements. My two sisters – each with their respective child – flew out on Wednesday morning. However, both my brothers-in-law (henceforth referred to as Bil-1 and Bil-2…..1 being married to my older sister, and 2 being married to the younger. There.) and I had to work, so we couldn’t get out til yesterday afternoon.

We all flew into the wrong airport – my sisters, the Bil’s, and I. That was our first mistake, and it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. My older sister thought my Dad has said Columbus, when he really said Cleveland. Our second mistake, apparently, was in flying on United Airlines and making a connection in Denver.

Both Bil’s and I had planned to arrive in Denver about an hour before our connection to Columbus, figuring that would be plenty of time to meet and then wander down to whichever gate we needed to go to. Bil-2 arrived in Denver only fifteen minutes late. Bil-1 arrived nearly an hour late, but it turned out alright because the flight to Columbus was postponed another half an hour, so both of them had ample time to get there. I, however, arrived in Denver nearly ninety minutes late, and only the fact that the delayed plane *from* Denver was right….but I need to back up a bit on this story.

When I got into Sacramento, the flight monitors showing gates and departure times weren’t working. As usual, they had too few check-in attendants for the sheer volume of people trying to catch their flights on time. Throw in some angry customers who now have to scramble for alternate flights because our plane was (originally) supposed to take off about forty minutes late, and the storm begins to brew. I had my own reasons for impending panic. The car reservation in Columbus was in my name, I had no way to contact the Bil’s, they had no way to contact my dad, and if I didn’t make it to Denver and they didn’t realize that I wasn’t on that plane, they’d be stranded in Columbus for the night. So I was more than a bit relieved when the flight attendants announced, once we were airborne, that the flight to Columbus had been delayed. Even with the now-hour late start, even with the fact that we were to land at one end of the terminal and I’d have about half an hour to dash to the other end, I was no longer worried.

That is, until we landed, and then had to sit on the runway for t

It’s always nice to have a weekend where you can just relax, sleep late, and do nothing. This past weekend was not one of them. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Not, mind you, that I am complaining, because after all, it started Friday night with sushi and then a movie. The X-Men, to be exact. One couple managed to snag tickets for the premier of the movie in Davis, so we got to see it brand new. And it is fantastic! . I never read the comic books and I only saw the cartoon two or three times, so I realize I have no basis for comparison to what it ‘should’ have been. All I know is that I thought it was terrific. Of course, it had Patrick Stewart in it, so maybe I *am* a little biased (Yes, I watched Star Trek: The Next Generation faithfully, and any grown woman with her eyesight intact would agree that in that show, Patrick Stewart was a god….but anyway).

Saturday afternoon Richard and I drove to Berkeley because Bethy and Sabs – the strangers-turned-friends that we helped move in the rain a few months ago – were hosting a barbeque as a combination thanks-for-lugging-heavy-boxes, and friendly get-together for the area. Because the invitation did mention that we could bring something to grill if we wanted to, I did my normal worry that this meant we really *should* get something (It’s genetic. I can’t help it. I get the worry gene from my Mom, Goddess help me), so we swung by the produce stand that’s conveniently located near the freeway entrance to grab fresh corn on the cob, and a bag of English peas for the road. I should mention here as an aside that I adore raw peas, and it is too darn hard to find them in stores. It seems that they have a season about as short as pomegranates in grocery stores – somewhere around two days – and just to be evil, the grocery store likes to only put out a teensy tiny display and hide it somewhere. Anyway, we drove, shelling and munching peas as we journeyed.

Sabs proved his skills as a barbeque chef, and both of them outdid themselves with the spread of food we were presented with. They’ve done quite a bit of unpacking since we last saw their place (well, *any* amount would be quite a bit, since the last time we saw it was when we moved them in). We got to meet two of their cats. We sat around and chatted, and ate. And ate. And ate. There is something about food cooked on a grill, combined with great company and conversation, that makes one eat far more than one should.

Afterwards, the initial plan had been for Ivy and Otis – her ex-and possible future SO – and Richard and I to head back to my house that evening, with a slight detour into a rather noisy restaurant to have dinner. The noisy part was a requirement because I brought a game with me we intended to play while eating, and we figured that if the place was noisy already, we wouldn’t have to worry about adding to the general cacophony. After the barbeque, however, there was just no way any of us could even *think* about eating any more, so we ended up heading back to my house, and then going out much later for coffee, ice cream, and (typical for any time Ivy, Richard and I are together), much silliness and laughing. Sunday the laughing and eating continued as we started the day with chai tea and waffles, continued the food-fest with some of Ivy’s truly delicious marinated fajitas during a game of AD&D that Otis began for us, and ended it with a pot of chocolate fondue and a plate full of fruit to dip. The prevailing theme seemed to be that every conversation got sillier and sillier and ended, somehow, on Ivy’s butt. Perhaps this Ivy-butt fascination has to do with the ‘moon’ in her nickname – I don’t know. Suffice it to say that it became one of those jokes that we’ll probably haul out over the years to confound everyone around us by laughing our heads off while the rest of our acquaintences sadly shake their heads and murmur platitudes about our decreasing level of sanity.

Besides the silliness, the food, and Ivy’s rear end this weekend, Richard and I got a chance to meet Otis. I’d met him before, twice, but the first time he was half-asleep, and the second time I was the one dozing off, so it was more of a wave and nod sort of affair. This weekend was a chance for us all to actually talk to each other – for us to get to know him, and for him to get to know us too. He seemed a bit hesitant at first – Ivy, Richard, and I together tend to be an rather odd trio and it had to have been hard for him to be dumped right into the middle of it – but he fit in just fine. She seems more relaxed with him, even though part of that could simply be the result of slipping into something familiar and comfortable. And it’s good to see that they both seem to want to take this slow and make sure they’re doing the right thing, whether they go further, or simply remain friends.

It wasn’t a restful weekend by any means, and that wasn’t helped in the slightest by the fact that I gave in to the lure and ended up reading the new Harry Potter book Saturday night. I couldn’t sleep, so I just stayed up til about 2am to read instead. Back at work today I’m sorely missing the little coffee cart that was located in the old building. This new place has only the office coffee machines – and like all other office coffee dispensers, the coffee, while caffeinated, is only drinkable if you’re really desperate. And despite being so tired from the weekend I’m not quite that desperate. Yet. Although one more conversation that spirals into tush-talk and I just might get there…

There is a freedom with being a consultant in that I am sent to different places for varying lengths of time to do different projects. The best part about it is that it’s never the same thing twice. However, this flexibility comes with a certain price. As a consultant, I am always an outsider. In fact, it’s something that I have to continually remind myself of on the longer projects. No matter how long the project or how nice the people, I will never really be part of them. At the end, I always leave, and they always stay.

This, then, requires maintaining some sort of professional distance. We’re supposed to always dress just a bit nicer than the client, for example. Not too much nicer – after all, it’s important to fit in to whatever orporate culture exists on an assignment. But the dress code acts as a subtle reminder – to them and to us. Another thing to avoid is ‘moving in’. That means no stuff on the desk – pictures, plants, and other paraphenelia that would normally personalize an office.

I’ve been on this current project now for a little over six months – longer than any other assignment I’ve had in my years as a consultant. And I’m finding that in this project, it’s getting harder and harder to abide by the rules. I like these people I work with, and I like their company. They’re terrific co-workers and despite the logistical problems that come from normal growing pains when a company moves offices (and buildings), the work environment they’ve provided for us consultants has been definitely above average.

And lately I’m starting to realize that for this project, I don’t care about the rules any more. I already made it clear to my new manager that I do not intend to continue being a consultant. I told her that this would be my last project – regardless of the fact that I’ll most likely be on it til the end of the year or so – and I will do everything in my power to make sure that this is true. It’s an odd sort of freedom to think that way. At my project site, we’re in the new building now and it looks like we’ll be there for a while, or at least til I leave the assignment. So I think I’ll be bringing in some things. A picture, perhaps, and a plant. It’s not much, but it’s a start. A preview of what I want my working life to be at the end of the project. Back to my ‘real’ office that I only see on weekends when I pick up the mail. Back to the office where I already have plants and pictures and a shelf full of gadgets and toys that my office mate and I have collected. Back to the office where I have a name plate and I am not temporary – where it really is *my* desk and I don’t have to constantly wonder where I’m going next and when. Some people may think that consulting is exciting because of all the travel and the constant change. Not me. Not any more.

I admit it. I finally succumbed. Yes, I’m a Harry Potter addict. But at least I know I’m not alone.

When I first heard about the books, I didn’t give them much thought. It’s not that I have anything against children’s literature, but I’m not exactly a child anymore. Then I started hearing acquaintances mentioning how much they enjoyed reading their kids’ books. And then other acquaintances – childless acquaintances – started gushing, and besides, I was getting impressed, despite myself, over the popularity of these things among children and adults alike. We’re talking a book here. Not some mindless video game, or the latest must-have cartoon character plush toy. Books.

In other words, by this time I just couldn’t help it. I gave in to the lure of the fad. I borrowed the first book and after reading it in one evening, I was hooked. When I headed out to Atlanta for DragonCon, I spent the night curled up on Ivymoon‘s living room floor reading the second one, and the next morning as we waited for our delayed plane to arrive, I devoured the third one.

When I heard the news that number four was imminent, I was pretty happy, looking forward to reading it. However, despite how much I might love something, it’s not really in my nature to become a screaming fan (well, with the notable exception of dark chocolate. But that’s more of a dietary need than anything else. Ahem. Anyway). Back when I was in college, I dated a man who was hopelessly infatuated with the Beatles. When Paul McCartney came to town to perform, he camped outside the local Bass ticket outlet to purchase tickets to the show, and then dragged me along. In preparation for the concert, I got to listen to my tone-deaf boyfriend sing Beatles songs non-stop. When we got to the concert, he was beside himself. If he’d been younger and female, he probably would have tossed his panties onto the stage – that is how thrilled he was. Me – well, I’ve nothing against the Beatles, and some of their music isn’t too bad, but after being subjected to McCartney and Beatle tunes for weeks on end sung by a man who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, well, let’s just say that my enthusiasm – slight as it was – had waned significantly.

Back to present day. The book was scheduled to be released Friday night – or rather Saturday morning, to be more precise, at 12:01 am. I had absolutely no intention of waiting in line – I simply popped onto Amazon.com and happily ordered the entire quartet of books. However, I had no sooner completed the order when Richard mentioned that he wanted to get the new Harry Potter book for his niece…and that if we were going to get it in time for the birthday party the next day, guess what we needed to do. So we ended up at the local Borders, standing (or rather sitting) in line in wait for midnight. At least we managed to get a copy – judging by the sheer volume of people who showed up in that store vying for one of the 75 un-reserved copies they had left, I think we might have been one of the lucky ones.

When I got home this evening from a long day at work, the box from Amazon was on my doorstep, all four books inside. The goal is to save the extra-lengthy fourth book til I fly out to Ohio next week so that maybe I’ll at least have something vaguely entertaining to do on the plane. I’ll see how long I can hold out.

Oh. And just to pass the addiction along, I gushed enough at Richard that he decided he needed to read the books too. He’s just finished the first one and I handed him my brand new copy of book two as I unpacked it, so that he can continue in the series.