Warning. The following is a whine – and a really big one. So if you’re not in the mood, you may as well flip to the next entry, or go check out the progress on our house and come back next time. Consider yourself warned.

I’m not sure how to write this without it coming across as a whine. Hence the caveat above.

When we went to the Consulting Conference last year in Las Vegas for the Big Fish that bought us, they gave out awards to some of the consultants. One thing struck me the most about those awards. The only people who ever won anything were the project managers. This was rather telling, but aside from it being just one more reason why I haven’t been thrilled to be acquired by this particular company, I didn’t really give it much more thought once we left. The benefit of being at this particular project is that I’ve been mostly insulated from all the policies and practices of the Big Fish and I’ve been, mostly, able to ignore them.

Last night I ditched an SPCA board meeting to go to a dinner of all the Big Fish’s people. A bunch of managers drove up to see all of us, and I figured that I ought to do all the political nicey-nice and go, even though I would have much rather been at the board meeting. Heck, I would have preferred scouring the bathroom tile, but I digress. It’s not that I don’t like the people – I do. They’re all quite nice – this little crowd that has suddenly sprung up on this project – but it’s the whole schmoozing thing I hate and have always hated.

Dinner wasn’t bad. It was loud and hard to hear people talking, but at least I managed to chat with my manager about things – general small talk, but still, it wasn’t bad. I was having fun, despite the niggling concern that my own manager seems to be stalling every time I ask her for information on expanding my management experience.

But then the Consulting Director stood up. He noted that this project we’re on is the largest one of its kind in the Big Fish. He noted that it’s very high profile and there’s a lot of pressure to succeed. And then he thanked one person for all of the project’s success so far. He thanked the Testing Manager – a man who also happens to be a recognized Project Manager within the company.

It was a direct slap in the face, and it hurt like hell. My coworker and I may not be ‘official’ Project Managers within the Big Fish, but no one on the project from the customer side to those who work under us would argue that we direct development and are, hence, the managers of the project. The man who was singled out manages testing. Nothing more.

I sat there, pasting on a smile, and pretended to be cheerful, but that really drove something home. This company I work for doesn’t apparently care about the actual contribution. They care about the title. And I know that the man who stood up to make that announcement knew darn well what position at least I play on this project. He’s one of the ones who interviewed me for the management job that I didn’t have a shot in hell of getting, and we discussed exactly what my role was.

I talked to my coworker this morning – the one who manages development with me from the technical side. He suggested I send an email, but as you can see from the tone of this entry, it would only have come across as sour grapes; as a whiny little “but how come you don’t like me, wah wah wah”. I simply didn’t know how to respond or to act. All I could think about was what we’d seen in Las Vegas last year, with only the project managers getting recognition.

The thing about this is, it’s not that I necessarily *want* recognition. I am not hoping that someone will single me out and pat me on the head and say ‘ooh. Good job!’. What I want is simply to be given credit for what I’ve done, and to have my coworker get credit for his role as well. I want to know that everything we’ve accomplished over the past year actually means something to our own company. I want to know that we’re not simply going to be relegated to ‘oh yeah, they worked on this project too’ list, simply because we don’t hold the proper title.

And at the moment, I cannot dredge up even the smallest bit of optimism that this will happen.

I’m finally starting to work up some enthusiasm for this whole wedding planning thing. It’s been hard the last few months, considering how much else I’ve had going on, and really, we hadn’t done much (my mom and I) except determine the where and when. Now we have to start doing the ‘what’.

Today, although not a holiday for my own company, was a holiday for the company for which I’m doing this project. Knowing that I’d have no problem working my 40 hours the rest of the week, I decided to take the holiday anyway, despite it not really being approved by my own manager. Besides, I had stuff to do, and most of the people I’d be dealing with weren’t going to be there anyway, or so they said.

So we headed out and ended up spending most of the day at the fabric store. Or at least it felt like most of the day, although in reality I think it was only a few hours. The good news is, at least, that I’ve finally narrowed down colors for the attendants of the wedding. I’d been toying with the whole concept of having each bridesmaid in a different color, but the seamstress was a truly marvelous woman and made a few helpful suggestions that changed my thinking on that. So now everyone will be in one of two colors (depending on whether they’re male or female, and which role they play). And we also found the fabric for my dress – an acquisition that I find more than a bit humorous. After buying it, I was able to go home and proudly announce to Richard that for our wedding, I’m going to be a sofa. And not just any sofa – but a Martha Stewart sofa, no less.

I didn’t realize that upholstery fabric came in such cool brocades, in other words! And we found some gorgeous ribbons to decorate the bridesmaid dresses. And I decided what it is I’ll be getting my bridesmaids for their gifts (and no, ladies, I am not going to tell you before you get them, so don’t ask!).

It was a tiring day (looking a several hundred bolts of fabric and trying to compare hues to fabric patterns can be quite draining. Take my word for it), but at least I’m starting to get into it more. The seamstress came up with a really cute suggestion for our ring bearer (who’ll be three), and I’ve been pondering a few ideas for the outfit for my niece as well. Thoughts of cabinets and wood stain colors and placement of electrical sockets in the house are being shoved aside and replaced with thoughts of candles and flower bouquets and how we’re going to find enough swords for all the groomsmen to have one.

*****

Just as a side note, in case anyone actually wanted to know, it’s been exactly one year since I started this journal. I begun writing simply because I missed writing – because I kept a written journal but my entries into that often were marked by great gaps in time. And I started keeping that written journal because my memory tends to be full of holes (much like a block of Swiss cheese) and my thought was that this would help me to remember when things happened.

Lately I went back and read through all the entries over the past year (okay, so I was really bored at the time). It’s amazing to me how much has changed over the past year since I replaced paper with html and started posting bits of myself for all the world to see. I used to prefer writing to typing. Now, as a result of this journal, I find that it’s easier to pour out my thoughts via keyboard instead of pen.

And it’s also comforting to see that, despite everything else that has changed in my life over the past year (getting engaged, building a house, the evolution of my job), some things (seven fuzzy things, to be exact) still remain the same.

I could write about how this week went – the design sessions hastily planned, emails sent barely two days ahead, and the people who were required to rearrange their schedules at a moments’ notice to fly in.

I could write about how in the two sessions I was to be involved in (and, in fact, lead), only three of the eight participants showed up, and none of us knew exactly what we were supposed to be discussing, or even where to find the appropriate documentation.

I could write about the cheer that one man received when he walked in, carrying the wealth of information to close out one track, and the bemusement on his face because he had come for other reasons, and had never even received the email on these meetings we were in.

I could mention the fury that rose in my throat, pressing against my chest and exploding in my stomach when I learned that politics, once again, took precedence over getting work done in the most efficient way possible, and how my optimism for the success of this portion of the project crumbled into dust upon receiving that news.

I could pour out onto this page all my bitterness at the news, petty joy at my insistance that things continue as planned, relief at how we managed to minimize the amount of work to do within my two teams, frustration at how far we have yet to go, and worry that once again, we will find ourselves overburdened and surrounded by people who refuse to understand what ‘design is frozen’ really means.

But instead I will simply mention that today we slept, both of us exhausted from the too-long week before, rising between naps only to nibble at food and check email before curling back underneath blankets and purring cats to sink back into that half-asleep state where we spent most of the day.

And I’ll note that, despite our worries that the rain storm that has soaked this area all week had put our house on hold, when we drove out to see it, our fears were washed away. We have a roof. All is well.

I went out to lunch yesterday. I sat in a Burger King and ate my chicken sandwich by myself and stared blankly through the window while I chewed. I didn’t have to talk to anyone, or answer any questions. There was no ringing phone, no ding of urgent email arriving in an inbox, no line of people forming beside my table with questions that needed answering.

The fact that I went out to lunch may not seem all that exciting, but it was unusual, simply because lately I don’t leave the building from the time I arrive in the morning til the timeI leave that evening. Often I drive to work in the dark and drive home the same way. My lunches consist of whatever’s been catered for that particular meeting I’m in, or something obtained from the teeny tiny cafeteria here on site, and I don’t go anywhere to eat it because I know that I’ve got too much to do.

Yesterday wasn’t any different. I still had lots to do – planning for the meetings that begin tomorrow and promise to be intense and insane. But even the project manager deserves some time away. And I really did have the best of intentions – I checked out the cafeteria’s offerings, but they didn’t appeal, so I really didn’t have a choice.

Sad that I feel I need to make excuses for leaving the building, though. It’s hard, lately, to separate myself from work. I watch some of the newcomers to the project and it’s a bit odd to see their detachment. I’m not able to do that anymore, not with this project. I’m too deeply entrenched. I’ve been here a year, so I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. I’m still intending to do my best to get out of consulting, but there’s a part of me that also wants to see this thing through. I told Richard that I might do that. I wonder if I’d be shooting myself in the foot though by pondering postponing moving out of consulting; although what chances I have at actually escaping into management I really don’t know. I do know that I’m good at what I’m doing – but that would continue to require travel. If I could have it go exactly my way, I’d become a conditional Project Manager – go thru the training so I could get the title, but insist that it has to be local.

I hate that I can’t seem to make up my mind anymore. I go back and forth, mainly because of my attachment to this project than any actual desire to stay in consulting. I wish in a way that I could have the decision made for me. For now, all I can do is keep my options open, and take any opportunity to improve my chances. Then I’ll just deal with it as it comes.

Taking a great stride forward in this whole wedding-planning-thing, my mom and I talked to a seamstress on Sunday. She seems quite nice – very direct and open. She came with an armful of outfits for us to see, and a two-month old little girl with fly-away hair and a very serious stare. Seems grandma (the babysitter) was sick, so little Evie had to come along. My mom didn’t mind a bit – she was more than happy to play ‘grandma’ and hold the little one while momma went out to the car to get some other things. Anyway, after spending an hour talking outfits and themes and such, we’ve decided to go with her. The list of outfits is starting to grow – bridesmaids, groomsmen, the ring bearer and the flower girl, the ushers, my parents, and then of course there’s also my dress and Richard’s outfit.

Richard was banished from the house while she was there. I don’t think he minded too much – gave him a chance to go lurk at a bookstore and drink coffee. I’m doing my best to keep him from seeing my dress before the wedding. It’s not going to be elaborate, and it’s certainly not a ‘normal’ wedding dress – but I still would like to keep it a surprise. He doesn’t even get to see the bridesmaid dresses beforehand – well, not if I can help it, at any rate.

We’ll go shopping for fabric this weekend (Monday, actually, as it’s a holiday for me. I could go into work I suppose, but after the way this week looks like it will go, I think I’m going to need the day off). This means everyone needs to scramble to get some preliminary measurements. I don’t like this anymore than anyone else – I was hoping to shrink my measurements a bit before this was necessary. I won’t let it stop me though – I’ll still keep plugging away at that task. She can always take the dress in later. I’m not sure how she’ll handle the outfits for the kids in the wedding, since the tendency of children to have growth spurts is directly proportional to the urgency of knowing what size they will be because you need to have them wear something soon.

But this has raised one big issue. This means I’m finally going to have to commit to colors – something I’ve really been unable to do up til now. Basically, my main constraint is that whatever they wear, they can’t clash with the dark green carpet of the church. My intention is to have the bridesmaids all in different colors, and I’m going to try to avoid solids – preferring a simple pattern for each. I’ve at least narrowed it to five colors, but trying to match hue to maid is where I’m having some of the biggest difficulty. Lucky for them though, it’s not quite enough of an issue to make me want to toss in the towel and make them all wear froths of orange sherbet crepe…yet.

The men are easy – we can actually put them all in the same color and it’ll be fine – the ushers will be in the same thing as the groomsmen, but in a slightly different color theme, and Richard will be in similar attire too. I suppose I could give up and do all the maids in the same color as well, but I’m finding myself strangely reluctant to do that. I’m also hoping that between all our friends, we’ll have enough swords for all the groomsmen to wear and I’m hoping to find one for my dad – I think he’d get a kick out of it if he could wear a sword while walking me down the aisle.

This will be one hurdle covered – assuming we can get all the fabric we need. Getting a photographer is the next big challenge – considering my time constraints these days.

We got the first real rain of the season yesterday, making driving fun with the mix of rain plus fog yesterday morning. Richard and I have been keeping fingers and toes crossed that the rain would wait a bit longer this year, because as expected, the builder called to let us know that the rain would delay them a few days. Luckily he counted on rain when he came up with the schedule, but I can’t help but get anxious. I want that house done, and the sooner the better. I’m more than ready to move, despite how much I hate the process itself, simply because I want to *be* in that house.

Saturday we went out to look at the house – our weekly trek to the construction zone. They’ve finished the ceiling skeleton for the second floor, and we stood in the bay window of the master bedroom and stared up at our peaked ceiling and wow’d to each other with glee. This house is going to have a ton of attic space, and I wandered the second floor, peering up at the lattice of ceiling beams trying to figure out where the roof access might be. I have this teeny dream of one day finishing the attic space, simply for storage more than any type of living space. I just think it would be so cool to be able to say “Oh, that’s up in the attic.” I have a feeling, however, that the access will be inside a closet somewhere, and may require some significant remodeling if I really want a more permanent way to climb up. We’ll see – there’s plenty of time yet to worry about that.

We went to a Home and Garden Show on Sunday afternoon, with the vague idea of it being useful. Unlike the one we went to back in May (which was rather small), this one was larger, but focused on lots of things we didn’t need to worry about anymore. Windows and doors have been taken care of. Roof is something we’ll have to work on later – but the only decision we’ll need to make is the color. It was still fun though, wandering the aisles, signing up for all the raffles by putting down the address of the new house. If anyone tries to send us snail mail spam, it’ll bounce back, I’m sure, but we really weren’t interested in getting on any mailing lists anyway.

The shining moment of the show was the display of appliances at the very end. A number of people have suggested that we get two ovens installed (that whole resale thing, and of course it comes in handy cooking huge dinners, they say). I’ve got no problem with having two ovens. My biggest issue has simply been that if we get two ovens, suddenly I’ve got to give up counter space for the range. Considering that the kitchen of the house we’re currently in has absolutely no counter space and I’m salivating all over the kitchen we’re building because I’ll finally have *room*, I’m not exactly all that thrilled to be pondering the idea of giving it up.

So this is why I got all excited at the Maytag display. They’ve got this marvelous stove that’s actually two ovens plus a range top, all in one. The top oven is half-size, just large enough to cook bread or cakes or casseroles in it, and the bottom is a normal oven. Two ovens and no additional counter space taken. How much better can it get? I drooled all over the oven, opening doors, poking and prodding, eying it wistfully. We’d agreed to get a gas stove, and this one only comes in electric (yet! But I don’t think we can count on them magically producing it in the right fuel within the next two months). I’m sure it’s the type of thing that will consume our entire kitchen appliance budget, and so I’m been half-heartedly trying to convince myself that it probably has a big huge and potentially fatal flaw. It’s not exactly working very well though – the convincing, that is. But I’ll keep trying.

As we wind down the first release of this project and everyone has had a chance to step back and take a deep breath, we’re gearing up for the second.

Or at least in an ideal world, it would be like that. At this point, it’s more that everyone is frantically trying to get release one into shape so it can be deployed to production, and at the same time we’re taking this rather unstable system and intend to start new work on it for the second release. It doesn’t seem like the greatest of ideas, but then this is what happens when business runs development instead of I.T.

On the plus side, I’m guardedly optimistic about this second release because, *finally*, all the development teams have realized that gosh, we need to work together. One of the other team leads and I have been conspiring on a list of things that we want to do to make sure that at least this release goes much smoother. We’re trying very hard not to repeat the mistakes of the past. The only stumbling block will be if the business tries to get in the way.

I suppose I’m hopelessly jaded when it comes to development, having been a code nerd for years, and lately, a project manager, but on the I.T. side. I understand that the business needs to be involved, but there are times when I wish we could limit that involvement – bring them in on a case-by-case basis as needed, but then shoo them away when we were done with them. They’re well-meaning, but at times it’s like trying to paint a room with a toddler. They really do want to help and you can’t really shut the door because then they’ll start to cry, but they slop paint everywhere and even if some of it does get on the walls, you’ll simply end up having to smooth it out and do it over anyway.

So we shall see. The next three weeks promise to be insane as we try to nail down design – but then that seems to be the norm lately, so much so that some of us are starting to wonder if we’ll ever get back to anything resembling ‘normal’, ever again.

My fingers are wrinkled from washing dishes, but I don’t mind. It’s a chore I actually like. This house we live in has a dishwasher, but it’s rarely used because it has this tendency to leave odd streaks on the dishes and I only end up having to wash them again. So we simply use it as a dish drying rack. At least it serves some sort of purpose, although not what was originally intended.

We’ll have a dishwasher in the new house – a brand new one that will, no doubt, be whisper-quiet and actually clean dishes instead of turn them varying shades of speckled. But I don’t think that it will get much use. Oh, a functional dishwasher is always nice when I’ve made dinner for a crowd and there’s dishes piled high from the entertaining. But there is something rather soothing about washing dishes by hand. I stand at the sink, soaping up pots and pans and plates and cups and it’s one of those mindless tasks that I can just do without thought. My brain is free to wander aimlessly.

I prefer to wash dishes in silence. There’s a radio in the kitchen and every once in a long while I might turn it on. But usually I prefer silence. Then it’s just the sound of the water running when I rinse, or the soft squish of soap bubbles under the sponge, or the clink of dishes as I arrange them in the dishwasher.

We used to tease my mom about her methods with the dishwasher. She would nag us if we put the dishes into the sink instead of the dishwasher, but then as soon as we started to fill it, sooner or later, she’d be there, rearranging, putting everything where she thought it should go for maximum washing efficiency. Imagine my chagrin when I found myself doing the same thing to Richard as I watched him wash dishes one time. He started to put them into the dishwasher and I couldn’t help beginning to rearrange them. I’ve gotten into the habit of having them ‘just so’ as well, even if the thing is only used as a drying rack. Funny how the little things pass down from mother to daughter.

It’s not a problem anymore though, because I’m the one that washes the dishes. A casual conversation led to the discovery that he hates washing dishes, and I hate vacuuming (a poor trait in a woman who has seven shedding furballs, but nevertheless…). Our eyes met. The light bulb went on. I don’t think we shook on the deal, but it would have been appropriate. Let him wrestle with the vacuum cleaner. I’ll deal with the dishes and the kitchen counters. We’re still working out the rest of the chores, but at least these have been dealt with in mutual agreement – at least until we move into the new house and the amount of floor to clean increases. Then I think the decision will have to be renegotiated. But for now, it works. I get my quiet random thoughts wrapped in delicate bubbles of liquid detergent. He gets the fun of trying to avoid sucking random cat toys into the vacuum hose.

Somehow I can’t help thinking I got the better end of the bargain.

I’m sick. Still. And I’m getting really sick of being sick, too. It’s been three weeks. I think that’s plenty long enough to put up with snuffling and hacking and sneezing, don’t you? I broke down and went to the doctor two weeks ago, who took my request to ‘make it go away!’ with tolerant amusement, prescribed a round of antibiotics, diagnosed me with a sinus infection, and sent me on my way. I dutifully took the horse pills three times a day, but they didn’t seem to make a difference. This thing – whatever it is – subsided briefly around Christmas, but by New Year’s, the snot factory was working overtime again, and I resorted to skulking in grocery stores, pondering the merits of drowsy versus non-drowsy versions of over-the-counter medications and blithely ignoring the label warnings about how much to take in one day.

I’m tired of being unable to breathe quietly. I’m tired of lying in bed and staring blankly into the dark and trying to convince myself that the cold meds will kick in soon, really they will. And to make it worse, along with this latest bout of snotty fun, I’ve also been gifted with insomnia. I should be tired. I should be dragging around and demanding naps, but no. I’ve tried the nap thing. It doesn’t work. I lie in bed and try desperately to sleep and it doesn’t happen. Every little sound jerks me back to consciousness. I doze in fits and spurts, but never long enough to feel as though I’ve rested. I’m not sure quite where my body is getting the energy to stay awake. Even my old standby cure for insomnia doesn’t work. Sitting with a softly sleeping cat in my lap has always worked before. There’s something too restful about a lapful of cat when the feline is asleep. The nose is warm, and the paws curl cutely around the face. Sometimes they stretch, toes extended, before curling tighter, nestling closer, trusting completely that you will keep them safe while they slumber. Even fully rested, my eyelids will start to get heavy when I’m being used as a cat bed, but not now., when I need sleep the most.

This insomnia has had a small benefit. We spent last night at my older sister’s house, not wanting to drive the hour trip home on New Year’s eve. This morning I heard my nephew get up and once I heard my sister’s voice quietly shushing him, I slipped out of bed and went out to join them. We left the men snoring upstairs and headed downstairs with Aaron. While he ate cereal, she and I talked and laughed. We let him stir the waffle batter and then I blew bubbles for him while she made us breakfast. She and I don’t often have a chance to talk, just the two of us, and so it was a rare and welcome gift.

Sniffles and coughs aside, it was a nice way to start the new year.

The end of the year is coming, and with it, the end of the millenium. Yes, yes, I’m one of those annoying little nay-sayers who loudly proclaimed last year NOT the end of the millenium. Look at it this way, for all of you who are sitting there insisting that I’m wrong. Let’s say that someone is going to pay you $2000 and they’re going to do it in pennies (humor me here and don’t think about the weight of the truck you’ll need to haul all those little useless coins away). If we go by that silly logic that the end of 1999 marked the end of the millenium, why then I’ve gotten away with only paying you $1999 bucks. See, when you finish counting out all the pennies for the 2000th dollar, only *then* will you have a full 2000 in cold hard coinage. Not one penny before.

So anyway, the new millenium approacheth, and I’m going to celebrate it in wild and fanciful style. Along with Richard, my older sis and her husband, in the grand tradition of my family, we shall engage in an all out movie-watching, ice cream-eating frenzy, guaranteed to leave us bloated and bleary-eyed by the time that ridiculous little ball drops in Times Square, but also managing to get rid of all those pesky leftover Christmas cookies and candies once and for all.

It’s all for a good cause, see, because come Monday, it’ll be the New Year, and time for all resolutions to kick in. And this year, like so many other women out there, my resolution is – you guessed it – to lose weight.

Oh, come back here and wipe that horrified look off your face. Don’t worry – I have no intention of boring you to tears with a careful recitation of how many calories I ate each day, or how many ounces I lost in water weight on an hourly basis. My intention, in fact, is to mention my battle of the bulge as rarely as I can in this journal. Oh, I may slip in a note here and there when I’ve reached a goal, but considering how easily I lose weight (uh – *not*) you can be pretty certain you won’t hear a peep on that for months at a stretch.

My family, I’ve determined, was built for the caveman days. We would be cheerfully able to withstand any sort of famine, no matter how severe, merely by looking at pictures of food several times a day. Our bodies are capable of extracting calories from simply inhaling the aroma of freshly baked pastries, and once those calories are gotten, we hang on to them with the grim determination of a steel-jawed trap. Losing weight, for all the women in my family, is a long and torturous affair, riddled with exercise programs, copious amounts of swearing, and a tendency to gain a deep-seated hatred of anything that involves the words ‘low-fat’ or ‘sugar-free’.

I’ve had roommates who would simply ‘forget to eat’ and promptly drop five pounds over night. One girl in particular would get sick and consequently not eat for days on end, and then wonder why it was that she was ten pounds less than she was the week before. She was forever sharing her tips on how to lose weight with me. I wanted to hate her, but she was always so sweet and well-meaning and I knew that she simply didn’t understand that people like me who have the metabolism of your average corpse just don’t have the same capability to drop inches as people like her. Years later now, she’s finally reached the point where the pounds have begun to stick and she cannot seem to drop them without a lot of hard work and effort. I’m sympathetic, of course, but inside there is a teensy little part of me that evilly cheers and hollers “Ha! About time you saw how the rest of us have to live!”.

Heredity aside, I know that I need to do this. I’m 31 now and I’m not getting any younger. And I’m making sure to do this right. I’m not doing this for Richard, who has made it very clear for me that he would love me just as much if I were 300 pounds and covered in hairy warts. I’m not doing this simply because I happen to be getting married this year and I want to look good in my dress, because a perk of the Renaissance era clothing is that it’s marvelously flattering to those of us with ‘fuller’ figures. I’m doing this for me and me alone. I’m doing it because I want to be able to view myself naked in the mirror and not wrinkle my nose and say ‘ugh’. I’m doing this because I want to look at pictures of myself and like them. I’m doing it because I want to feel better about myself, because I want to be healthy, and because I know that there’s no better time to start then now. And if I use the beginning of a millenium as an excuse to kick it off, why then so much the better.