A Tall Girl's Adventures in a Tiny World

An email went out to my entire organization today, congratulating me for 15 years of service. [Let's pause. Let that number sink in.] 15 years?! Oh, no. How is this possible? I cringed. I contemplated running to the mirror to pluck gray hairs. I pictured 23-year-old me walking through the doors of that building, thinking it was temporary, because after all, who pursues a publishing career in Delaware? I thought of all the missed opportunities at other companies, mourned all those books I was going to write, imagined my younger colleagues pointing and laughing at my complacency and old-timey thinking. My stomach flipped. I spiraled. Then my friend -- with whom I've worked for almost 13 years, and who has agreed to stick it out with me until they pick up the building and shake us out -- sent me this article  titled "How I Learned to Stop Explaining How Old Things Make Me Feel." It's so darn perfectly, beautifully appropriate for this very moment. No regrets, ...

I've been fortunate in my working life to have a flexible schedule and the option to telecommute. Since Happy was a baby, I've worked from home at least one day per week, and there were a few years when I was at home three days per week. Telecommuting allows me to breathe in and out, to catch up on laundry or errands, to have a day when I don't feel chained to email and can actually catch up on editing. Telecommuting just generally keeps me sane. Now I work from home as often as I can, but always always always on Fridays. It's the only way I can regroup from a busy week. And let's face it: Most weeks have even busier Saturdays and Sundays, so it's nice to have Friday to sit still. The view from my Friday office Right now I am sitting on my deck, sipping coffee with a manuscript on my lap. I'm breathing deeply, enjoying the September sun on my back. The kids are at school. The cat has taken his usual position, curled up by my feet. A wren scolds ...

Hey, look! I'm back in the blogosphere! Blogging it up. Or, as AC/DC would say, Back in Blog. (Too much?) It's been a really long time, I know. And I miss writing, probably more than you miss reading my babble. I write a lot in my head every day...but it somehow doesn't make it out of that small, confined space. Plus, it's true that writing and exercising are similar in that if you don't write every day, you eventually get rusty and stiff, and it's really intimidating to start back up. I mean, once your belly fat hangs over top of the workout shorts, it's really hard to squeeze back into them. But it's a new school year and time for a fresh start ( c'mon, everyone knows September is the new January ), so I'm going back to the gym in the mornings (starting next week, I promise), even though my shorts are too tight. So I'll also try to write more frequently, even just silly short little ditties, because that's what blogging is all about...

I dreamed last night that I was standing on the stairs that lead up to our second floor, with a bucket of cleaner and a large sponge, scrubbing the walls to remove fingerprints. I felt pleased as the fingerprints disappeared, but then looked down at the floor: The cleaner was dripping down the walls and soaking the carpet with blue spots. So I scrubbed harder on the walls, trying to mop up the drippy cleaner, but it just got soapier and drippier, until the wall was covered in bubbles and the floor beneath me was stained blue and soggy. I woke up panting and sweating. It must be Saturday morning. Time to clean. No matter how hard I try to stay on top of the dust bunnies, finger prints, and sticky floors, this is what I'm working with: One child who thinks it's fine to stomp the mud clumps out of his sneakers as he walks across the hardwood living room and that aiming for the toilet bowl is optional. One child who delights in dropping cereal, pretzels, Goldfish crackers on th...