I might need a pen name

To summarize my last post: My current job is perfect in so many ways. But the environment is, in some ways, sapping life out of me. (I think when I learn to find better work / life balance, this will change.)

So, I was thinking about changing jobs. I seemed to have the perfect opportunity lined up, and I was so grateful to just have good things fall in my lap.

Well... The other job changed drastically. So, I called my amazingly patient friend, who is a good thinker / listener, and smart as all-get-out to talk about what I should do. We talked about a lot of things. After talking with this friend and with the company some more, I've decided I'm not changing jobs right away. It just does not seem like the right thing.

But, my friend got me thinking: maybe I need to go back to school. And then I was talking to another friend who mentioned that she knew someone getting a Master's in -- get this -- children's literature. And it's in Australia! And I thought: that would be so great!

So, I'm thinking: maybe I could get a Master's in Creative Writing, with an emphasis in children's literature. (Whether or not I go to Australia to do it is debatable... I wouldn't mind it.)

What do you think?

Considerations: formal schooling is not my favorite thing in the whole world; creative writing is maybe a little useless; it wouldn't really help me if I stay in my current area of Communications -- although maybe just the fact that I have a Master's would help; it's expensive; I'd love to be a (more) published author; it sounds really fun.

Every day there's a [girl] in the mirror asking me, "What are you doing here?"

I have a great job. Really great. It's cool, interesting, meaningful, variable, and just plain ol' good. Especially on days like today: I love being part of the creative, inventive process. It's fun to go to a film shoot, work with people on a script I wrote, worry about lighting and staging, camera angles and framing, cuts and retakes, and just to work with good people and help others relax. I love it.

I love writing interesting things. I love writing things that can change the way people think about something -- in a good and honest way, of course. (I know the PR wrap.) I love figuring out how to couch things, frame them, and make them applicable to different audiences. I love the power of language.

I love art directing -- worrying about what kind of paper to use and what layout best communicates a message. Going to photo shoots to make sure we have have the perfect picture. Thinking about ways to pull out interesting words, phrases, and key messages visually.

I love being able to be part of, and even lead sometimes, teams that are working to make meaningful change. I like being part of the investigational process, coming up with and implementing solutions, planning for various needs.

It's all very interesting. I love seeing how these all interface to influence people and to communicate a message.

So... (you say) what is the point of this blog entry? Are you just bragging about how much you like your job? The funny thing is: I don't.

Why? I don't quite know. And that's why the girl in the mirror is asking me, "What are you doing here?" I am conflicted; sometimes I wonder if it's by nature. But really I think it's just that I know what I am at heart, but sometimes what you are at heart and how your life works out don't coincide. Hence, conflict. So, how does one sort this out? Lately I've been telling people that my job is great, but that -- since I started as an intern -- I'm not ever going to stop being an "intern" to some people mentally, unless I leave and come back. Even though I haven't been an intern for a long time, or even really done intern work. Does that sound reasonable? How do you sort out your life path? Suggestions? Does anyone really ever have it worked out?

Let me think...

Or not. I just learned that your brain stores cuss words in a brain compartment separate from all other words. Moreover, this compartment never erases itself -- or forgets. Swearing almost becomes an autonomic response, more than it is a conscious choice. Certainly it makes it harder to overcome, and more likely to reappear. Interesting, eh?

Of course I have opinions about what this means for people, but I'll keep those to myself.

More fun?

I think it would be really cool if I had the impossible technology that most movies/tv shows have where you can take a still photo, such as seen below, and rotate it around like a 3D rendering. Then you could see better, I could have a better angled picture, and um... it would be fun? Anyway, it's hard to tell from this photo just how blond it is, but it's quite blond. This is the blondest I've ever been.

Collection

I'm not opposed to leggings, at least not as much as I was. I still don't think I'll ever own a pair. But... at what point did they become acceptable office and church attire? They seem the epitome of casual -- which I don't think you're supposed to wear to the office or to church.

Yea! I'm an aunt again. Welcome to the world, little niece. I can't wait to find out what you're named.

Why am I always so tired in the mornings? If I ever get married, I'm going to have to learn to get up with less snooze button hits.

I know that sometimes it's hard to follow Church practices when they don't make a lot of sense -- I mean, does it really make a difference if you drink coffee or tea every once in a while? Does it really matter if you swear sometimes? Does it really matter if... you name it. I imagine when Abraham was commanded to sacrifice Isaac, he couldn't really make that logical in his head either. But he did it. Maybe some things make sense only after doing it and the perspective of time.

Note to self: Don't ever cut your hair short and leave a big eighties poof in the front that's dyed pink with a big white chunk right in the center. (I wish I'd taken a picture.) Especially when you're in your forties.

I never thought that I would be one of those people that starts drinking a Diet Coke at 9:00 in the morning. But, apparently, the daily early morning meeting has made me one of those people -- if it's there, I take it.

Life is happiest when you find joy in the simple things: babies cooing, sunshine, printers printing...

I'm not sure that I have a lot to blog about anymore. (Not that I really did.) I feel like my creative juices are all sapped out. Where did the phrase "sapped out" come from? Making syrup? If so, what's happening to my creative juices? Are they becoming syrup somewhere? How do you get a hold of that syrup and what do you do with it? Is that thought process something I should really admit to? Oh, well. I'll post it. I should post SOMETHING.

Do the Moo Shoo

The last post reminded me -- maybe pathetically -- of a Veggietales song. (In my defense, I WAS a nanny.) It's been stuck in my head for a day or two now (Oh... the things I admit to the world.):

Chicken!
Kung Pow
Chicken!
Mongolian
Chicken!
Sweet and sour
Chicken!
Cashew
Chicken!
Do the moo shoo
moo shoo shoo moo moo shoo muh moo shoo moo moo shoo shoo moo moo shoo shoo
Do the moo shoo
Pork!
Mandarin
Pork!
Barbeque
Pork!
Sweet and sour
Pork!
Spicy shredded
Pork!
Do the tofu
to foo foo to to to foo foo fo fo to n to to n fo fo
STOP!
Break a fourtune cookie...
"Beware of grape with wooden mallet."
Ain't that the truth.

The most random fortune I've ever received.

Ummm... ok.

A thousand words.

Or I guess 8,000. And I guess those all say a little something about me, because this is the art that's hanging in my house.

I think this is the very first thing I hung up. Ah, Paris.


I bought this tapestry in Florence, Italy, but I just found out that it mimics a map created by a Dutchman. So, it memorializes my trip to Italy AND represents my 50% Dutch heritage. How cool is that?


This mirror, from IKEA, hangs horizontally over my couch. I love it. It's dark brown suede.


What is a house without a little Monet, I ask you? I fell in love with Monet when I was 8. Someone gave me a book about Monet for my birthday, and I've wanted a little bit of his art in my house since then.


This is my most recent aquisition. The artist, Walter Rane, came and did a presentation at the request of a good neighbor/friend of the family; I loved hearing about his process and the thought that went into each of his paintings. When he put this up on the projector, I fell in love with it immediately. I asked him about it after, and he said it had been sold to a private seller and there would be no prints. I was sad. So, I was so thrilled and surprised one day to find that prints were being offered; I bought it for myself for Christmas. (Mine is pretty small; I wish I'd bought the bigger one, but I'm happy to have it.)


While I'm showing my churchy art: I literally stopped when I walked past this one day. I couldn't stop looking at it; it took my breath away. I went to the Food Court far more often than normal just to look at it. I think it's gorgeous. So, when I moved out a few years ago, this is what I splurged on.


I just really like this artist: Fabrice de Villeneuve. He's a great vintage artist, and this is among my favorite pieces.


Picasso is a bit like Monet. Everyone needs a little. I love this:


I am missing one more piece of art. It's a painting of the Shakespeare Cafe in London. London is one of my favorite cities, and as an English major, I think I'm obligated to pay hommage to Shakespeare somehow. I love the greens in the painting, but I can't find it anywhere to include in this post. I'll keep looking.

I'm grateful for...

Nearly blown-out speakers in my car. It means I've been drowning myself in good music.

Early work mornings.



The courage to change. And the support of others to make things happen.

Books that make me think. There are few things as valuable as gaining new perspective.

Good examples. Even in the simplest, smallest things.

Old-fashioned manners. I'm always grateful for this; and I don't know why I'm always surprised to find them.

Cinderella Story

Once upon a time, my friends assigned me my most similar Disney princess. Her name? Cinderella. Until this weekend, I wasn't convinced about how fitting that designation was. Then I had my own little Cinderella story. Look at the time on the clock in the following photo:



It's reversed in the mirror, so I'll tell you: it says 9:34 p.m. That's right. I know that the Cinderella story you're used to hearing has an "ending" around midnight, and her happily ever after involves a prince that's charming. My story ends at about 9:34, contains a little less magic, and ends with... you'll just have to see.

You see, Friday night was a Cinderella ball. I'm a pretty girly-girl in many ways, but I don't know that I often feel the need to get all dolled up. I think I'd rather be a girl that looks super cute in a sweatshirt and pajama bottoms than one who cleans up nicely. (Not to say that I am that girl, just that I'd like to be.) Of course there are times I'll get all dressed up, but I just don't get that elated, princess feeling when I do. Call me "odd." Seriously. I might even answer to it.

The "ball" started at about 7, but I couldn't make it to the beginning. I guess I had some Cinderella-like chores to get done before I could go. I told my friend that I would be ready to meet her around 8:30, so I would give her a call to find out the details. She said that would be great and we both went about getting ready. (She thought that she'd probably go earlier, so I'd just meet her there.)

I curled my hair and put it up, put on my fancy dress (Which I'm sick of people calling a prom dress, by the way. It's not a prom dress; I didn't wear it to prom and I wouldn't wear it to prom. I don't know why that bothers me so much, so we'll let it go.) and a velvety shirt -- to make it a little warmer -- and put on my favorite shoes:

I looked at the clock: 8:30 right on the nose. I hopped in the car, and called my friend. I knew the general vicinity of the party, but not the exact address. After a few phone calls, random searching, and a somewhat impatient message that said something like: "I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Call me back," I moved to Plan B. I called her house to see if I could get directions to the party from someone there. Fortunately, her kind sister-in-law gave me the address and I was on track again.

I pulled up to the ball in my Hyundai (not exactly as glamorous as a converted pumpkin, but I'm sure it has better tunes) and geared myself up to walk into the party all alone. I wasn't sure if my friend was there and she was the only person I knew. I'm sometimes brave and I like people, but there's something about that idea that is very intimidating to me. Nevertheless, I trekked forward through the snow in my heels. (This is when it's convenient to have a Prince Charming. Kindly offered arms make very good stabilizers. Thank you to all the gentlemen in the world.)

When I got to the door, it was locked. Yes, locked. I saw the crowd through the window, all seated classroom style (peculiar for a ball), and spotted my friend. I tried to call again. No answer. I tried three more doors -- all locked. I laughed a little and thought to myself, "I guess this isn't meant to be."

So, I hopped back in my car, went home, changed clothes and my happy ending looked a little something like this: