I left work early today because I am sick. In fact, I’ve been doing this all week – going home early because I’m sick. This thing started last Friday as a cold, which was mildly annoying but not so bad except for the whole snuffly thing. Unfortunately it turned into something nastier by Monday, complete with fever and aches and a lovely sore throat. A sane person with a less hectic job might have taken a day or two off to recuperate, but my job is of the ‘more hectic’ variety (and we just won’t go into the whole sanity issue), which this week has translated into meetings every day for project planning. And considering that two factions of the project have not been playing nicely, I felt a distinct need to be there, if only to try to present my particular niche of this happy little family in as positive a light as possible, and to prevent any waves or snarls from the more testosterone-enhanced members of the crowd. You see, when it comes to this project I’m the only female on the development side, and one of only 2 in the entire group, not counting the extra-sweet lady who is unfortunate enough to be the admin to all the people who run this project. She does an admirable job considering they run her ragged on a daily basis. So this can often be an interesting concern of mine. I’m not so sure my male coworkers would necessarily agree, but then they don’t see things quite the way I see them (being less testosterone-enhanced). Butting heads has never been my style and I make it a point to try to avoid letting people on my team do it either. Yes, yes. Mean ol’ boss lady – I think we established that earlier.

But anyway, I felt the need to be there at the meetings, and thankfully they went relatively smoothly. At the end of each day I would stagger off to my car, drive home, down some cold medicine, and then curl into bed with a box of tissues. My fiancé has been incredibly sweet, worrying about me and checking on me – something that is a bit odd to handle – considering I’ve been taking care of myself all alone for the better part of ten years. You see, I hate being really sick. I hate feeling helpless, being completely exhausted just walking to the car, not being able to rest because I can’t breathe, and this constant coughing. I know I have to rest and when it’s as bad as it’s been I have no choice. But then I start to feel better – that false bravado that ends a bout with the flu – and I want to *do* things instead of lying in bed sniffling pitifully. Except I still don’t have enough energy and then it only makes me cranky. I have a greater tendency to snap at people when in reality my frustration is at myself and not them.

It seems to be going away though – finally. I’m hesitant to get too excited yet, since this stupid virus relapsed on Monday when I was thinking I was over the darn thing. But so far so good. Besides, the timing couldn’t be better. I have no meetings scheduled for tomorrow. I could quite easily take tomorrow off and stay home to recuperate. It wouldn’t inconvenience me at all.

Can you think of a better time to get healthy than that?

Family means different things to people. I consider myself incredibly lucky that I’m so close to mine – both in physical distance and in relationship. Most people I know don’t have that connection with their family – especially their parents, and to some friends, there seems to be this need to continually push away. People fall into ruts when they deal with their family; methods of behavior that were established before they left home and that are often very hard to break. I’m not sure whether my rut was just shallower than most, or if I was just fortunate enough to figure out how to get out of it by myself, but my family is important to me. In fact the house we’re building is in the same town as my parents – something which has caused more than one eyebrow to raise in surprise. Bear in mind that if we all actually had to *live* with each other again very few of us would survive, but my family usually gets along quite well. And it’s something that has been a bit frustrating because the majority of people I know do not have that same bond, and therefore cannot understand it.

The topic of families is on my mind because Saturday night was the First Meeting of the Families. Richard and I were both a little nervous, although I’m not sure why. His mom and dad are open, friendly people. The first time I met them was after I had spent a day helping friends move. It had been raining, and so with the moving and hefting heavy things and such, none of us were looking remotely glamorous. So when Richard suggested that we stop by on the way home to visit his family, I had to laugh. It’s not the way one envisions meeting the parents of the man you’re in love with. Usually this is done when you have time to get ready – do a bit of primping, try to look nice so they don’t take one look and immediately think ‘in what swamp did he dredge *this* one up?’ But anyway, we went to visit. His mom came to the door, took one look at me, grinned, and said “Richard, how nice of you to drop by”, or something to that effect. This didn’t faze me a bit – I’m quite used to it from my own parents, so I replied “Hi, and I’d like you to meet my friend Jennifer”, gesturing to Richard. Right about that moment I knew that these were my kind of people. There is a warmth in his family that I recognize from my own – in the gentle teasing between Richard and his parents, and between him and his sisters.

Introducing his parents to mine *before* the wedding might have been a mistake though. Our moms together are a dangerous pair, because by the end of the evening our wedding included a belly-dancing aunt, topless pregnant bridesmaids (well, to give them credit, that one was actually my sister’s idea), Richard swinging into the church on a vine, and me wearing wings and a fairy costume. They traded embarrassing stories about their respective children across the dinner table. We all spent most of the evening laughing. In other words it went well. Really well.

We have joked that it might be easier if one of us hated our family, because then figuring out that nifty dilemma of ‘whose house do we go to on which holiday’ wouldn’t be an issue. In reality, however, I would gladly deal with this particular little problem than the alternative. I’ve seen what happens when one half of a couple has In-Laws From Hell, and it ain’t pretty. Granted it’s early in the game and both sides have got at little over a year to suddenly sprout horns and forked tails. But somehow, I’m not worried. Not one bit.

Driving home from the project site this morning, I saw an airplane cavorting. It was one of those tiny one-person planes, and whoever was flying was obviously enjoying themselves – dipping close the ground, tilting just enough so that the wings looked as if they were mere feet from grazing the tops of the grasses, and then soaring back into the sky. I watched it and thought that if I just closed my eyes and tried hard enough, I could be that plane – spreading my arms wide, face tilted back to feel the wind on my skin and blowing through my hair. There was joy in the flying and I wanted to be a part of it.

My thoughts are scattered – haring off in tangents every which way. At least with the cold medication taking effect I’m not feeling nearly so dizzy. Managed to stick at work for nearly two hours before I realized that I was not going to be able to get anything done. Being sick like this drains me and I cannot concentrate. Too much to do there, but I sent off messages, tried to wrap things up before I finally broke down and left. This thing – whatever I have – is going around. Two others on the team have it too – we are all miserably snuffling together.

The house plans arrived – rolled neatly into a cardboard tube. I have not opened it – heard the doorbell ring and when I dragged myself out of bed there was no one there, merely the delivery of this package. I am hesitant to open it. There is a part of me that likes to do the thousand ‘what-ifs’ when something good is about to happen. This is the detailed plan for the house I want to build – my dream house. The one I fell in love with oh so long ago. And what if I open it, now that I will get to see it in three dimensions, with all the tiny details I was only able to imagine from the floor plan, and discover that it just won’t do?

After that I couldn’t get back to sleep, despite the concerted efforts of several sleepy felines. I took more medicine and waited for it to kick in. I went to the grocery store because I needed laundry detergent. Four young boys were playing with balls in one of the aisles and I couldn’t help myself. They were playing with complete disregard for who or what they might hit. I asked them if they were willing to pay for anything they might break. They stared at me dumbly -this grouchy, sick-pale woman pushing a cart. Later on, at the check-out I saw them with their mother, who looked tired and cross, and completely oblivious to their behavior. And I wanted to tell her – see? This is why people like me don’t like children. I was raised with manners. My mother would have been quick to stop my sisters and I should we have even attempted to play with toys in a grocery store – toys we did not own, toys which could hit someone or do damage. I held my tongue and paid for my groceries. I’m tired and not feeling well. That’s all it is. Of course. That much was obvious as I stared blankly for nearly five minutes in the cleaning products aisle, until I couldn’t remember what it is I was looking for.

I tire of the politics at this project I am assigned to. Somehow it has divided into two camps – the development team and the design team. The first part of this project wasn’t like this – why does the second part have to be? Despite our repetitions of the fact that we are following the same process for both design sessions, this group seems determined to feel put-upon, picked on, alienated. Many of them are young – prone to grumbling behind backs because it is easier to do that than to face the problem and find a solution. Yet when they come to me with a complaint, every time we have found a solution that pleased them. You think they would learn. Why is it so hard? Their backs must get tired from carrying these chips, yet they still persist. I’m the mean old boss lady. That’s alright. I’ve been that before. Doesn’t matter how many times I say ‘this is the way it is. I didn’t come up with the process, and guess what – I’m not all that crazy about parts of it either. But I learned to adapt and so will you’. Far easier to complain. Ah well, if it makes them happy to blame it on me, so be it. That’s part of my role I suppose, and I’d rather that burden be on me than on the others who are trying so hard to get the work done. And besides, I watch them come around slowly and I hide my smile as I give them the help they need. And I want to tell them – see? I’m not so bad. I’m the same person I was when you were grumbling about me to your buddies, but now that you actually broke down and *talked* to me, suddenly I’m not the enemy.

Dragged Zuchinni out from under the kitchen sink where he’s been hiding lately, ignoring his fearful hissing. I held him close and pet him for a long time as I lay – half-awake – on the couch this afternoon. Sometimes I worry that I did the wrong thing with him so many years ago when he came to me as a kitten – that perhaps it would have been kinder to let him go so that he could come back next time without whatever chemical imbalance it is that makes him so terrified of everything. He trembled in fear at first but gradually calmed down. I wish so much that I could tell this poor cat, in a way he would understand, that there is no need to be afraid. The people at the project may be just as skittish about approaching me, but at least we can communicate. With Zuchinni I feel I never shall. When he finally bolted he only ran a few steps before stopping and turning around to look at me. So maybe somewhere deep inside him he is trying to understand.

I don’t like being sick. I don’t have time to be sick. Inconvenient that illness always comes when I have the least time to deal with it. This weekend is going to be busy and I’ve a house to clean before the entire family comes over on Sunday. I need to gather my thoughts and I can’t. They are floating in the air, dipping and soaring. If I spread my arms wide and close my eyes maybe I can collect them and hold them close while I fly away.

I got a goose for my birthday. A cement goose that stands probably nearly three feet high. I knew about the goose – my mom had already mentioned that both my sisters were receiving the same thing as house-warming presents, and there were hints dropped that a third goose was out on my parents’ back patio with my name on it. A very *heavy* goose, as my poor fiancé can attest to, since he was elected to carry the thing out to the car when we left.

I should at least explain the whole concept of this goose. It’s not like my parents were out shopping and just randomly decided that their daughters couldn’t live without a stone bird. Amazingly enough, in some parts of this country, these geese are all the rage. In the midwest, someone somewhere started a quaint trend of dressing their little cement goose and the idea caught on like wild fire. Whenever we are out in Ohio for family reunions, we see these geese on lots of porches. There are actually stores that sell clothes for stone geese. Little dresses. Hats. Halloween costumes. I kid you not.

My mom saw these geese and was immediately enamoured. She decided that her porch needed one. Finding the goose was not a major problem. Finding clothes, however, was. Amazing as it may seem, the stone goose craze just hasn’t made it out this far west.

My older sister and I – since this was back when we both still had free time (read ‘pre-baby’ for her, and ‘still in school’ for me) enough to play on the sewing machine – managed to track down a pattern for goose clothes. We divvied up the pattern pieces and set about making goose clothes as a surprise. Of course once we had one outfit nearly done, we weren’t exactly sure whether we’d gotten the right size (these stone geese come in short and tall, and therefore one must be certain of getting the right size pattern because it just wouldn’t’ do for your goose to be inappropriately clothed). We knew that my parents would be at church, so we drove over to their house, parking my sister’s car further down the street, and then dashed across several yards to their front porch, where we yanked off the one outfit the goose owned, stuffed the poor stone critter into the dress we’d made, determined its fit, switched outfits, readjusted the hat, and then scurried back to the waiting car, giggling like lunatics. We figured if any of the neighbors saw us, they’d have an odd tale to report to my mom and dad. “Two grown women snuck onto your porch in broad daylight and fondled your goose!” It’s one of those senseless crimes – a drive-by stone fowl undressing.

But anyway, now I have this goose. Or rather, my sisters and I have these geese. And I think that their reaction was most likely the same as mine. What on earth am I going to do with this thing? Cement barn animals – with or without clothing – have never been my thing. For now, it gets to sit in my garage because I don’t trust the neighborhood kids not to try to knock its skinny neck off, but sometime next year I’ll move into this new house we’re building and then this goose will have to go *somewhere*.

I asked Richard if he had any thoughts on the matter since, after all, it’s going to be his goose too. It was sort of a joke present, but still, one just can’t blithely ignore 50+ pounds of cement shaped like a goose standing at attention, especially when it was gifted by one’s dear parents – who not only own a similar creation, but dress it in little outfits on a fairly regular basis. And I do admit that, despite my best intentions, I almost feel sorry for the poor thing as it sits, naked, in my garage while we decide its fate. Richard, being the marvelous and practical guy that he is, calmly pointed out that this cement waterfowl has, by virtue of the fact that my mom gave one to my sisters too, now become a family tradition. And how does one argue with that? So bear with me. If you’re driving through my neck of northern California sometime next summer and you spy a house with a dressed goose on the front porch, well…don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I wonder if I can get it a cat costume for Halloween…

I’m not a big jewelry fan. Some woman may be thrilled with gold and gemstones, but I’ve never been one of them. Somehow I missed out on that trait that most – if not all – of my female friends have. I’ve got my ears double-pierced, yet at least 80 percent of the time I forget to wear earrings, even though I’ve got lots of adorable pairs to choose from. I wear an anklet mainly because I put it on a year or so ago and it’s one of those things I almost never have to take off. I have a necklace I wear some of the time because I bought it for myself one Valentine’s day. And I wear a ring that I designed myself – based off a bit of costume jewelry I found years ago. It’s a cat’s face (yes, I’m addicted. This should not surprise you by now) with sapphires for eyes, while the metal is carefully scored with ears and nose and whiskers. I love it. It might not be everyone’s idea of exquisite, but frankly, if that were what I cared about, I’d never be caught dead in some of the earrings I wear anyway. Besides which, ring, necklace, and anklet have all been part of my plan to get myself to wear more jewelry – a plan which, up til now, has had only partial success.

And as for sparkles and glitter? I know that popular sentiment claims that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and I certainly have known women who uphold that myth, but I’ve never been all that drawn to them. Besides which, I had that whole single thing going on for quite a number of years – a state of being that seemed to baffle some of my female acquaintances who were of the ‘no woman can possibly be happy without a man or two to validate them’ mind set. And despite the best intentions of the aforementioned female acquaintances, who would occasionally toss out mentions of eligible bachelors – as if by virtue of their possessing a lofty degree or some other equally yuppie definition of ‘success’ I would suddenly change my tune and ‘need’ a man – my ring finger remained blessedly bare; a fate which I was perfectly happy to sustain. Long ago I made the decision that any jewelry I wore would be jewelry I bought for myself – after all, who knows my taste better than I?

Ah, but fate has such a wonderful sense of humor. Recently another ring was added to the small collection of jewelry I wear – a ring that not only has a diamond, but was also something I had no say in picking out. And it’s been ironic, at least to me, that it’s this ring that is the most beautiful, and means more to me, than any of the pieces I’ve purchased or had made for myself. But what makes this ring so special is not the stone or the setting, because frankly, it would have just as much meaning if it had been crafted from a bit of glass and a twisty tie. It’s the sentiment behind it. It’s the fact that the ring has a history – that it was the ring that Richard’s father gave to his mother when he proposed to her, and that the diamond has been in the family even longer than that.

I may have to actively remind myself every day to put on the rest of my jewelry, and it’s looking highly likely that despite my best intentions, I may never get the hang of this whole ‘girl’ thing of wearing lots of baubles and bangles. But this piece has been blissfully easy to remember every morning. After all, this ring came from the man with whom I’m going to spend the rest of my life. What better reason to remember could there be than that?

Escrow closed on Tuesday. The real estate agent called to wish me a happy birthday, and to let me know that the sale had been officially registered with the county. It’s mine now. My very own dirt. Over the past ten years or so I’ve made it a habit of buying myself a gift for my birthday…but this piece of land will probably be the most expensive present of my life.

It’s an odd feeling – this owning of land. Granted there’s no house yet and it’s just a big patch of dead weeds, but that’s only temporary. I had the real estate agent read me the rules and regulations for the community over the phone before I signed. Nothing too horrible. There’s a city tree ordinance that sets a minimum of two trees in the front yard. We can’t park a RV or a boat or other recreational vehicle on the curb more than 72 hours. The house cannot be smaller than a certain square footage. While she was reading them to me, I was typing them madly into the little Instant Messenger box with which I talk to my fiancé during work hours. He and I are still both trying to come to grips with this. We are going to build a house. We. It’s no longer going to be my land, my house. It’s ours – and it’s an odd concept to deal with.

The house issue is the biggest ‘us’ thing though, and I think perhaps it’s been a bit harder for him. I’ve known I was going to either buy or build a house for a very long time. I’ve planned on this, prepared for it, done the legwork. He wasn’t going down that path, but now that we’re an us, he’s suddenly dumped right in the middle of it.

He asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday and I told him I knew it sounded silly, but I wanted to go out and drink a toast to my new plot of weeds. Our weeds. So after dinner we drove out there and in the light of a street lamp, we opened a bottle of sparkling cider and tromped out to the middle of the lot and drank a toast to our future. We stood there and looked around and tried to imagine the house there…and couldn’t. It’s still too new, too mind-boggling. There’s going to be a house there, and we’re going to live in it. Together.

Sometimes we’ll start talking about the house and we’ll comment to each other about what we’re going to have to deal with. Paint colors. Bathroom tile. Molding on the ceiling. What sort of railing for the staircase. It’s been a daunting enough thought back when it was just me making the decisions. I’m sure at some point we’ll end up disagreeing over whether to paint the walls eggshell or old-fashioned white. I’m not naive enough to think that we’ll never fight, but I hope that at least we don’t waste our energy quibbling over silly stuff like the style of knobs for cupboard doors. Far better to save it for the more important issues, like whether coconut is edible.

We. Us. It’s a concept I’m still having trouble getting used to. Oh, I like it – don’t get me wrong. And there is noone in the world I would be willing to do this with except him. But I’ve been so long in the ‘I, me’ mode, that switching does not come naturally, and I see the same in him. And for two people who were hell-bent on being single, it’s an odd transition – one that still makes us look at each other and laugh.

“It’s a size six day.”

She was sitting with a friend, eating lunch, and she leaned over, a triumphant smile on her face. She sounded so proud when she said it.

I’m sure she had no idea she was overheard, but she had one of those voices that carries, and I wasn’t the only one in the restaurant who turned.

I knew the type as soon as I heard the words. She is obsessed with her weight. A bit of water gain that pushes her into the next higher size and she’s depressed. Wriggling into something smaller makes her day. Her emotional state, as well as her self-image, are heavily dependant on the number on the size tag of the clothes she wears..

One of the lesser rings of hell, I’ve decided, is to be surrounded by women who are weight-obsessed. I’ve known too many of them who focus endlessly on the numbers on a scale, who base their self-worth by what size dress they can fit into that day. They range from those who are unhealthily overweight and complain constantly about it yet refuse to do anything about it, to those that are a perfectly beautiful and healthy weight yet still think that they should be model thin, even though their body types clearly were not made for that. The one thing they have in common, though, is an obsession over weight. Meals become weapons, brandished over water cooler conversations. See how lowfat *I* ate today?

In my previous life (pre-computer nerd, that is) I was a graduate student in Nutrition. Granted, my focus was on fetal nutrition – a topic rather far removed from weight loss – and I was not a dietician, but that never stopped people. Invariably, as soon as the word ‘Nutrition’ left my mouth, the subject of weight loss would come up from one of these diet-obsessed females. What do you think about this one? What should I be eating? Is it true that ***insert latest over-hyped and obviously wrong food rumor here***?

At first I was naive. I thought they actually wanted real answers, so I’d give them honest replies. But I learned my lesson as, time after time, I watched the eyes glaze over. These women do not want to hear the truth. What they want is someone to tell them that the latest fad diet is the key to instant weight loss. They aren’t interested in how to do it right, nor are they interested in being told that being healthy is far more important than being thin. They build their self-confidence with smug satisfaction of ounces lost and equate that to personal importance. They center their lives around physical appearance. For some of them, that’s all they have.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’d dearly love to be able to lose some weight and fit into some of the cuter outfits, and well, now that there’s a wedding in the works for next year, maybe that will spur me back on track. But my weight does not define who I am. It’s merely one aspect among many others, and a minor one at that. I suppose I was lucky in that I was raised by parents who didn’t subscribe to the theory that a woman must have a man to feel validated, or that a woman’s dress size dictated her success, or failure, in life.

“It’s a size six day”.

I wanted to go to her and tell her that there is so much more to her than that. Her intelligence, her quick wit, her smile. But I knew that she wouldn’t listen. Women like her never do.

I once told you that the thought of marriage scares me – that it is so final, so permanent. I have pondered marriage before, but there was always this little nagging doubt in the back of my head that would eventually grow strong enough so that I had to push away. Eventually I just assumed that it wasn’t for me. I was meant to be single. You took me by surprise when you asked, but for the first time, I didn’t have a single doubt. I am looking forward to growing old with you. I get to spend the rest of my life with you.

I am still trying to figure out how I got so lucky. We’ve known each other for two years, and we’ve become such good friends in the last six months. I once told Ivymoon that I knew I could go for you in a big way, but I also knew that nothing could ever happen. She rolled her eyes at me and told me I’d never know until I tried. I wasn’t brave enough to try. I wasn’t prepared to lose such a good friend if it didn’t work out.

Have I told you lately how glad I am that you were braver than I?

I have never believed in the necessity of reading minds just because two people are in love. I understood that there would be disagreements and misunderstandings and distinctly different opinions on things. I was not prepared for someone who blurts out the exact same thing I am saying all the time, someone who has the same likes and dislikes and opinions as me. We can’t even argue over politics. There’s got to be something wrong with that, right? And I think today the brain cell is mine. You can have it tomorrow, but only because you’ll probably read my mind and cheat at Rock-Paper-Scissors again.

I never believed in true love. No, I should rephrase that. I didn’t believe in it for me. I know people who are truly in love. My own parents, my two sisters. They all seem to have found it. I wasn’t looking. I figured it if happened, it happened, but I wasn’t expecting it. I had my life planned out. I knew what I wanted. The prospect of being single was perfectly fine with me. I bought land to build a house. I mapped out everything. I knew what was and wasn’t going to happen. I was happy. I had my friends and a job I love and this house that is my dream house and my cats and a busy life.

But you had to go and mess up all my plans. You took me in your arms and made me miss you whenever we are apart. You smiled at me and took my breath away. I look at you and realize that the two of us would probably have an amazingly wonderful time watching paint dry because we always manage to have such a wonderful time together. You touched me and I was torn because here I was starting to build a house and I knew that all I wanted was for you to be in that house with me.

I was perfectly happy. I didn’t need anything else. I didn’t want anything else.

Then you kissed me. And I knew at that moment that life was never going to be the same again.

I met with a builder on Monday night. He wanted to know things like my favorite window manufacturer, and whether I preferred composite over tile roofs, and what type of wood I like best.

Let’s see…..roof – waterproof? Windows – glass? Wood – uh…..huh?

He needed to know stuff like that so he could give me a fair idea of budget and cost breakdown. He was very nice and patient with me. I’m sure it was painfully obvious I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, and he could have very easily taken advantage of that. But he didn’t. He wrote out a list of general categories I need to consider and said he usually breaks it all down into budgets. By this I mean that I will have a ‘budget’ for specific things. Windows. Flooring. Kitchen appliances. Lighting. And my personal favorite – I get to have a front door budget. I kid you not. It was on the list. A budget for just one door. Wow.

I’m in over my head here. Oh, not that this is a bad thing. But there’s so much I don’t know. I am building this house because I am head-over-heels in love with it, and finding the dirt to build it on was an amazing bit of luck. But still, it’s more than a bit overwhelming. I can see that I’ll be spending an inordinate amount of time in stores and pouring over catalogs, staring blankly at oven ranges, weighing the pros and cons of Korian versus tile for the kitchen counters, pondering the benefits of two vs. three-car garages. And that doesn’t even take into account colors and patterns…and oh wow. Landscaping. Oof.

There’s been an amusing twist to all this house-building euphoria lately, though. I’ve been getting the condescending nod and smile when I’ve talked about buying/building a house by myself in the past few years. But since I actually bought the land and it’s been more final, the comments are starting to come a bit more often and a bit more pointed. In fact, just today I was asked “Are you sure you want to do this? After all, what if you get married?”. The implication being, of course, that I should wait to buy or build until I have a man on my arm to yea or nay.

Sigh. I wonder if single guys get this question when they break down and buy a house? I wonder if their friends and acquaintances look over the floor plan and under the guise of being well-meaning, pester the poor guy with questions like gee, where are you going to stash all the babies you’re required to produce, and what if your future wife doesn’t like the floor plan, and shouldn’t you wait to get married and consult her before you pick out what color to paint the walls, and how can you possibly do this because what if ,what if, what if?

I usually don’t let this sort of thing bother me, and sometimes it has made me laugh in the past. But I have to admit that lately it has started to get more than a bit annoying. Sigh.

Ah well. I’m going to my very first Home and Garden show this weekend. I figure a few of these and I’ll my head will be swimming with ideas…..and at the very least, maybe I’ll be able to recognize window manufacturers two out of three times, and not return a blank stare when asked if I prefer oak over maple for cabinet doors. And the next time someone asks me shouldn’t I be waiting to do this because ‘what if’, I’ll just smile sweetly, thank them for their concern, and then blithely bore them to tears with a discussion of my current 15 favorite shades of white paint for the walls. Ah, revenge

My phone moved at work. And so I had to follow it. This was infinitely better than the previous time, where I moved, and my phone didn’t. Granted it was only to the other side of a large room, but still, the inconvenience of dashing across the floor every time a phone in that vicinity rang, or appealing to the kindness of the poor soul who got my old desk to come get me each time…well, it got old.

When we started this project, there were fewer of us, and we all fit into this huge storage room they cleared out and filled with tables and computers. Now, however, we’ve outgrown that space – outgrew it weeks and weeks ago. There’s a new building they’re working on that we are supposedly going to move into, but the details keep changing, as does the move-in date. So the latest story was this double row of cubicles that opened up in the current building. Plenty of room for half of our team to move over.

Big business doesn’t like to do things quickly, of course, so it was a hassle for the poor admin to get the phones transferred and the lan lines activated so we could move. Then there was the issue of actually getting us physically moved. Technically, we are not supposed to move ourselves. There is some little group of people somewhere whose sole purpose is to move people from one cube to the other and charge an outrageous sum for the pleasure of doing so. And they would get their collective noses bent out of joint if we were to do it instead.

This is all fine and dandy, but for one minor sticking point this week. Through a series of mix-ups, they moved our phones first. And this time it wasn’t just across a room, but to another section of the building that was just too far away to even *hear* the phone, let alone go leaping for it. So……we’ve been moving. Yes, all by ourselves. A phone leaves, and shortly thereafter one more desk empties in the storage room and one more cubicle in the new section miraculously sprouts a computer, developer, and all the accessories that go with the pair.

I’ve got a cubicle now. All my own. And here’s where I’m starting to get scared. Because I *like* it. All this space! A whole shelf just for me! Okay, there’s no file drawers or cabinets to stash stuff, but toss on a pencil cup and a plant on the counter and I’m just thrilled to pieces. Shudder. Oh, the horror! It’s a good scientific experiment I suppose….put people into a cramped and difficult environment and then once they’ve just about reached the point where they’re almost begging, move them to cubicles. Anything is better than a table in a room next to the cafeteria, with the hollow sound of aerobics classes echoing through the thin walls from the adjoining workout room. But still, I can’t help but feel amusedly ashamed. I *hate* cubicles with a passion. And here I am, thrilled to pieces to have my very own.

I suppose if it had only been the acquisition of the cubicle this week I might be more accepting of my slide into worker-drone fate. But it gets worse. Much worse.

They deactivated our pagers. After my company was swallowed by a bigger fish, we’ve been going through all sorts of lovely transition foo. We consultants had pagers. They dangled cell phones in front of us and the weaker ones snapped up the bait. But I held out, proudly, clutching my pager to my chest. Sigh. I knew this would happen. They turned them off and neglected to tell any of us until after the fact. And then when I called to beg for a replacement, I realized what it is that I had to do.

Wincing, I bowed to the pressure and ordered myself a cell phone. No more pager. Yuppieness has taken hold. Dilbert, I salute thee. I have been assimilated.

Someone take me out back and shoot me now. Please?