Round Two

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about being put on unpaid leave. I wasn't laid off, per se, but was just put on "unpaid leave" until the work in the office picked up again.

This morning, around 9:00 a.m., I received a phone call from Mrs. Robinson, saying that I needed to come in to get my chair, and that the guys needed my CAD license key back, etc...

In other words, I was laid off without actually being told I was laid off.

Kind of crappy.

I immediately got up, got dressed, and checked the internet for what I'm supposed to do in regards to health insurance. Our firm - er, my former firm - was under 20 employees, so no COBRA for this gal. However, the State of Texas requires that firms grant me up to 9 months on the group health insurance plan, so long as I reimburse the firm.

Whew. I went ahead and applied for unemployment benefits - which I can't receive until the last week in January, even though I haven't received severance pay or anything - and then awaited the arrival of my sainted (and tired) mother, who was loaning me her minivan so I could clear out my stuff at the office.

I showed up at the office, and the first words I said, right after, "Hey, Mrs. Robinson!" were "So I'm assuming this means I'm actually laid off, now."

She said yes, that until that morning everyone in the firm had been working on different assumptions.

Oldsmobile and our book keeper - not the most competent woman - were dead certain that I had already been laid off. Mrs. Robinson was instructed last week to write a letter to the insurance company telling them to cancel my health insurance benefits.

Ahem.

Radio, Scooter, and Pacman were all working on the assumption that I would eventually be back in the office and that my unpaid leave was temporary.

What we have he-ah is failyuh to communicate.

I informed Mrs. Robinson that, pursuant to State of Texas Regulations, I had the right to 9 months of insurance, so long as I reimbursed the company. I didn't mention that, seeing as they failed to go over all my health insurance options with me at the "exit interview" (which never happened), I could file an official complaint with the Texas Department of Insurance.

I'm nice, though, so I won't file a complaint... unless the book keeper tries to tell me that they're going to defy State of Texas regulations.

I cleared out my physical possessions (including my Ice Age III action figures, aluminum desk accessories, and wireless mouse - both of which were purchased by myself) and loaded them onto my Aeron chair, which served as a handy dandy cart for transporting all my stuff.

I will return on Wednesday to download the digital files showing all the work I performed at the office (I took the extra copies of Specifications I had, since the firm already has record copies).

Because of some rumored hiring going on at my former employer's office (not Oldsmobile's, but a different firm... the one that laid me off in 2008), the guyzos all thought I would have a brand spanking new job to go to all wrapped up and tidy in a little bow.

Heck, I was pretty certain I'd have another job, but wasn't really getting my hopes up. I'd been talking with the former employer every week about the possibility, after they first approached me to discuss my coming back.

About thirty minutes after I returned to my apartment, my cell phone rang.

"That was XYZ Firm," I said to my mom, who was napping on my sofa. "They don't have a job for me, right now." I shrugged. I wasn't really certain about getting the job in the first place, and as time dragged on (almost a month) I got the feeling that it just wasn't going to happen.

My feeling was right on target.

So now I'm looking for a job. One I won't have to move to take. There's plenty of great design jobs out there. They are all, however, in Baltimore, or Shanghai. So tomorrow, I send out resumes, and a letter of introduction for my little entrepreneurial venture (which is now up and running), and we'll see how things go from there.

Once again, I'm back to playing it by ear. But this time, I have rent to pay.

Well, S***

I returned to work this morning, and immediately felt apprehensive. After my last bout of unpaid leave back in August, I returned to a clean desk and effusive greetings.

This morning, all I got was, "Oh, hey," and a desktop covered in drawings that were unfamiliar. Nobody really wanted to talk to me.

Dun dun duhhhhhhhh!

I am back on unpaid leave, and not by choice, or because my health still requires it. Nope, I'm on unpaid leave because there isn't enough work for me.

Oldsmobile took me into the conference room, and informed me that I couldn't come back to work, yet, for the reason that there isn't any work for me to do. I have to admit, I saw it coming, what with the hurricane of crap on my desk and the fact that even Mrs. Robinson didn't want to talk to me.

I kept it together pretty well, although when Oldsmobile asked me what exactly was wrong with me (I've explained multiple times but, you know, when you get to be 300 years old, you forget stuff), I kind of lost it. I did manage to tell him that the reason I've been having all these health problems stemmed from the terrible ergonomics of the office workstations, and that I'd spent $1000 on a chair to try to solve some of them.

I think he felt a wee bit guilty, at that, but not guilty enough to say, "Well, you can rearrange the storage room again, then."

On the upside, it didn't matter that I forgot my ArchiCAD license-key at home, after all.

But not really

About to Whine About Things Not Worth Whining About

It's getting a bit slow in the office. We were given the go-ahead today on a project (hooray!), but there's nothing for me to do on it, yet, and it's a little project, and I don't know how much we'll have to do in the way of construction drawings and millwork details, which happen to be my specialty.

I finished my assignment for Radio. He had no more tasks for me.

Pacman? Nada.

Scooter? "Uhhhhh... Yeah, but I need about thirty minutes to mark up the drawings. Do you have something to do for thirty minutes?"

Chortle. "Surf the interwebs."

"Sounds good. Go to town."

Hmmm...

I already spend about 30 minutes each day brushing up on design blogs, making sure I know what's going on in the world of millwork details, interior finishes, and the newest soft-furnishings offerings from companies I cannot afford (are you listening, Century, Henredon, and Hickory Chair? Okay, I know Hickory Chair is listening, but Century and Henredon?)

My daily blog perusal is why the guys were astonished when they said wistfully that they wished we could do interiors and I squealed and cried, "Oooh! Pick me! Pick me! Mrs. Robinson and I can do it!"

So I went back to my desk, with Scooter's blessing, and proceeded to venture into digital worlds hitherto unexplored.

I tell you, most design blogs - that is, blogs devoted exclusively to interior design - are depressing. They're cutesy and try to be hipsterish, riding the wave of zombie mania currently sweeping the pop culture beaches... or something

or they look like Z Galerie threw up all over them

or they have terrible grammar and sentence structure.

I know that my proofreading skills occasionally fall short of the mark or that I end a sentence with a preposition. I know I am definitely guilty of the rampant and irresponsible overuse of parentheses. But I also know that my sentences do not sound like a fifteen year old wrote them, and that I don't egregiously capitalize words in questions submitted to my inexplicably wide readership, the answers to which I will never respond or even read.

And I know that, although my dream house looks like the result of an Andy-Warhol/Billy-Baldwin/Dorothy-Draper orgy fueled by Dr. Pepper and lightly salted roasted almonds, I would never feature an apartment on my blog, billing it as something that is wonderful when in fact it is straight-out-of-the-Ikea-box boring. Unless it is as an example of an apartment that is boring, like so:

The above apartment was featured recently on one of the most widely read design blogs in a post entitled "Why does Barcelona have the best apartments?"

The only thing I see that this apartment has that apartments in Dallas don't have is a radiator.

That's it.

There's the cheapo flat-screen. The Panton chairs. The boring Ikea-ish white chairs. Boring rug. Minimal wall art on a boring beige wall. Light-tone wood floors (boring? Check). Why is this one of "the best apartments?" Why was it even in the running?

I save pictures I find striking to folders on my desktop at work, then email them to myself at home (compressed into zip files) where I print them off and paste them into my little OCDesign collection.

It seems like lately, there are fewer images for me to save, to collect.

Am I just becoming more discriminating (my word) or picky (in the words of an ex-boyfriend)? Or am I jaded after wading through all the cutesy, un-chic garbage (see Little Augury for a lovely tirade against overuse of that particular term)

It's 6:00 : Do you know where YOUR intern architect is?

It's actually 6:15 pm, on the Thursday, and I should by rights still be seated in my cubicle, plugging away at millwork design for a 10,000 square foot house a hop, skip, and a jump from my 700 square foot apartment.

My apartment fits tidily in the master suite.

Instead, I am at home, where I have been since 11:40 this morning.

I awoke with a migraine - to be fair, I went to bed with one, too - and trudged off to work, hoping I could make it through the day. My neurologist recently increased the dosage on my migraine preventive medicine, and it had seemed to be working. Until last night.

I made it through two solid days of rain and storm, and then BAM! migraine when the sun came out. I want to be like the little girl playing outside my building and whine, "That's not fair!" but I will refrain. Even though I did just sort of do it.

I came home for lunch, to bolt down some sustenance and to take a nap, hoping that a slight recharge would help. Also, I took my migraine "rescue" medicine at that point (dose #2) hoping it would help out a bit.

It didn't help out immediately, but it did knock me out immediately. I slept until 1:30. And then I called Mrs. Robinson and told her I would not be back today, because of the migraine.

I went back to sleep, and awoke again at 4:15, still groggy - partly from the migraine "hangover" and partly from the pain medicine I took because my back was killing me. I still have some residual photophobia, and although the sounds of my new washing machine installed by Gustavo and Alan yesterday should be music to my ears, they are causing a bit of a pain somewhere behind my left sinus. Hopefully, that will dissipate by the morning.

It came as a surprise to Mrs. Robinson and the guys that I had a migraine, today. And Radio expressed disappointment that I hadn't informed him about the one I had last Friday (which had actually started on Thursday). But if I told them every time I had a migraine, I would probably sound like a whiny little brat. I don't tell the blogosphere every time I have one.

And why does the Blogspot spellchecker not include either Blogspot or blogosphere in their dictionary? Seriously? Sigh...

At least my migraine is not further egged on by the jumping racket created by my previous washing machine. At least my new one is quieter and less mobile.

At least.

Day of (No) Rest

I decided to put my long weekend to good use by accomplishing as much as possible in a short amount of time. So far, I have done almost everything I intended to do.

1) I went to Container Store - it was torture I tell you! - and bought a cannister for cereal (which gets soggy as soon as I open the box) and a cannister for epsom salts (in which I am supposed to soak every night). I then proceeded to buy a lovely plyboo shelf for my monster 11x17 printer, so I can keep my little 8.5x11 printer underneath it. They seem very happy in this arrangement. I also bought a binder for a later task...

2) I went to Fry's Electronics and bought a DVD player so I can get back to my pilates-lite and a new shredder, because all the medical crud I've shredded this past year did my old one in.

3) I went to Design Within Reach and pretended that I would buy an Aeron chair from the nice guy, David, who waited on me and helped me choose between multiple chairs. I will most likely buy a chair from someone else (gently used if she has the right size for me) after I get her contact info, which is on my computer at work, but not at home.

4) I took the electronic part of my old shredder to Best Buy. They recycle electronics - including small appliances - FOR FREE. Sweet. And I didn't have to drive through a sketchy neighborhood like I would have had to do if I went to the City of Dallas' e-cycling center that's open late on Saturdays.

5) I cleaned house. I sneezed a lot. This part is only about 1/3 finished. Okay, okay, 1/4 finished. I might need to find a housekeeper.

6) Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. Dear God, where does it all come from?

7) I began organizing medical invoices and paperwork from the past year. This took about two hours. It's why I bought the binder from Container Store. So all my bills are organized by date of service with their receipts - if I have them - stapled to the invoices, and the Explanations of Benefits right alongside the doctors' bills and receipts for MRIs and CT Scans and surgery.

8) I got a jump on my income taxes. Say what? Yes, because I have so far spent 1/7 of my projected income on medical expenses, and I didn't want to wait until January or February or something before I started making my yearly spreadsheet. In previous years, I haven't had enough expenses to warrant claiming them on my taxes - I was always just under the minimum you can claim for medical expenses. This year, however, I appear to be well on my way to outstripping that minimum, so I decided to go ahead and start the spreadsheet so it won't be quite so huge come February. I have a couple of receipts that are missing their explanation of benefits, but I'm thinking I can hunt those down on my insurance company's website.

Numbers 7 & 8 are essentially how I am spending my Saturday night. Woohoo! Party!

I am officially old. Heck, I take Centrum Silver (doctor's recommendation, because I need the extra oomph), so I'm practically a senior citizen, right? Right...

Time to Get Envious

In my efforts to increase my level of healthiness, I decided it would behoove me to get a massage.

Ahem.

My muscles are all knotted up in my back, at present, so I called one of the Massage Envy outlets near my house to set up an appointment.

No one answered the phone. I left a message. No one called back.

Apparently, that particular outlet does not need customers.

After Mrs. Robinson went to the Massage Envy at the West Village and raved about the experience, I decided to give it a shot. I called that one and they answered on the first ring, booked my appointment ASAP, and I had my first appointment on Wednesday.

Oh, Dear Reader, it was wonderful.

For 1/2 the price that the Gorg at Nordstrom charged, I had a one hour massage. And because it was 1/2 the price the Gorg charged, I was able to book another one for next week.

Hopefully, these things are tax deductible for medical expenses (maybe if my neurologist writes me a prescription...) but regardless, the first one helped my mental well-being. And I adored my therapist, with whom I formed a bond based on our mutual love of black labs and the 80s.

I thought she was going to hug me when she found out I had a black lab named Major Tom. Seriously.

And she used to do massage therapy at Children's Medical Center for kids who had cancer, so when she found out (from my medical history) that I'd had leukemia, she just about started crying and proclaimed I was a "miracle."

I'm not going to go that far, but I think I'm alright. Major Tom is currently dancing around at my side, and he seems to think I'm pretty spiffy, too.

I ended up joining their fancy membership thingy, because I did a quick calculation on how much money it costs without the membership vs. joining, and I think in the long run it will save me money, since ideally, I will be getting a massage every month.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand Major Tom Shadowmaker just figured out it's raining. If you'll excuse me, I have a neurotic World War I flying ace to console (I think it's shellshock that causes him to get this way when it thunders). Man, Snoopy never freaked out like this...

That Answers That Question

I went into work this morning, and the first thing I did, okay, the second thing I did, was discuss my current health issues with Oldsmobile. (The first thing was deposit my purse and my can of root beer at my desk, but that's not important). Since I cry like a French futbol player, these days, I teared up, and my voice cracked while I tried to explain to him in the least embarrassing way possible what's wrong with me and that it's causing pain.

His response? If I need to work from home where I can lie down, then work from home. If I need to take a few days off, that's fine, they won't dock my pay.

"The most important thing, Ms. Strainedconsciousness, is for you to get well." He assured me that my job was secure because I'm a vital asset to the company, I'm so professional with clients, and because I'm so adaptable within the company. They need me for all the little things that spring up that Radio, Pacman, and Scooter aren't available to do (or, as is more often the case, just don't want to do, because it's boring).

So I've just finished up a bit of commercial specification writing, prone in my bed, and I'm about to make myself some lunch and read for a few minutes - but nothing so mentally taxing as The Economist, because I am still on muscle relaxers, so I'm kind of spacey - and then I'll return to my specifications for the rest of the afternoon, feeling less stressed about work than I have in a long while.

Speaking of muscle relaxers: it is damned hard to type when you're on muscle relaxers. Thank goodness for Microsoft Autocorrect, because otherwise there would be all sorts of typographical flotsam and jetsam all over my usually impeccable specifications.

In an hour or two, I'll give myself another injection and call my primary care physician to raise a point with her about my current treatment, and a point I raised with the surgeon I'm seeing who was kind of dismissive of my point, to see if she thinks it has any merit. Maybe she'll want me to come in to see her, and maybe I can schedule it for the same day as my next appointment with the surgeon so I won't miss work on multiple days (since I'm trying to double-up for efficiency's sake).

Woes Coming to a Close

My apartment was bombed, today. And by "bombed" I mean "the maintenance guy set off two flea foggers." I still have no idea how I came to have fleas in my apartment, unless I carried them home with me after lounging in a friend's backyard (which is the most likely option, at this point).

The big source of excitement for the day (apart from the bombing raids in Highland Park) was having Mrs. Robinson and Pacman back me up against Radio as to why we should not hire a gentleman named Luigi (not his real name, of course) for a contract job we may or may not get.

Luigi first appeared on our collective radar when he emailed his resume to the firm. Mrs. Robinson wrote him an email in reply, informing him that we don't have any positions, right now.

So he called, just to make sure.

Three times. In three weeks.

And then, out of the blue, he appeared in our office with his portfolio and proceeded to hang around for two hours while the guys listened to him lecture about the joys of ArchiCAD and how great he was at it, and then pulled out drawings.

Two hours. Of billable time. Wasted by a guy who didn't make an appointment.

Because we don't have any openings. Which we told him.

I was unemployed. I understand it's frustrating. I understand you get desperate. But no amount of desperation should drive you to interrupt the workday for people and cost them money. Because that's what he did.

He has continued to call every couple of weeks to beg for a job.

To refer to his "requests" as begging is not an exaggeration. His voicemails are along the lines of "Please! I really need to work for you!"

So now, we're looking at possibly having a large short-term workload, and Radio and Oldsmobile were kicking around the idea of hiring someone on a contract basis.

Luigi came up, because Radio feels sorry for him. Radio is the only person in the office that pities him that much. The rest of us, despite the fact that two of us were unemployed for extended periods of time and so should be sympathetic, are immune to pity in Luigi's case. His incessant calling - we've told him we have no positions available, that we have his resume on file, etc... - has driven us all to dislike him intensely.

Do I feel kind of guilty for disliking this man, who I have met only once? Yes.

But I also know that, if we were to hire him temporarily, he would expect us to keep him on permanently, and would probably refuse to leave. It would be like Bartleby, The Scrivener, but in real life, instead of a Herman Melville story (if you haven't read Bartleby, I highly recommend you do so).

So Luigi-Bartleby won't be coming to work for us any time in the future, near or not. I wish him luck in finding a job, but if he keeps his current approach up, he'll never find one.

He needs to start hitting happy hours. That's how all the best architects get their jobs...

Progress, At Last!

What kind of progress? Progress in that our client's son - the one who has refused to say "Hello" to me, shake my hand, etc., has finally acknowledged my existence. I'm going to chalk this up to the fact that I was infinitely less intimidating in my amazing beauty since I was sweating like a hog and slowly growing a lovely shade of pink under the influence of the Texas sun.

The fact that I looked like a condensation covered glass of Guinness (I was wearing a black shirt) was the son's fault, in fact. He decided that a meeting to discuss the project at 3:00 in the afternoon was an excellent idea.

I disagree with him, but he is - or rather, his parents are - the client. So I spent my afternoon sweating and my skin decided to thumb its nose at my SPF 60 sunscreen by getting rosily red anyways.

So there.

I ended up leaving work early, to head home to work, because 1) I felt disgusting and was in dire need of a shower, and 2) I'd been bitten by ants six times since I'd returned from the meeting at the job site.

I was not bitten by ants AT the job site. I was bitten whilst sitting in my cubicle, typing project specifications. With my feet off the floor.

Why are there ants in my cubicle? I can only presume that the combination of scorching heat outside, cool air inside, and errant blueberry muffin crumbs are to blame.

Tuesday evening, I had dinner with my mom, and she bought me a blueberry muffin to eat the next morning for breakfast (thanks, Mom!). I dropped a crumb. And I didn't realize I'd dropped the crumb. And then I felt a sting on my finger.

The ants had scaled my desk and were crawling across my hands. I touch-type, so I don't look at my hands when I type, and hadn't noticed the ants crawling across my fingers as they searched for more nourishment.

The crumb was on my desk shelf, 18 inches below my desktop. Those were some hungry ants. I cleaned the area around my desk, got rid of all errant crumbs, and continued working, assuming the ants would be gone by morning.

I was incorrect. The flow of ants from the crack in the brick wall by my desk had gathered strength and was a veritable storm surge. I abandoned my sandals and put on my boots and asked Mrs. Robinson to please call the building manager to request an exterminator's services, ASAP. She did so.

While I was at the job site, slowly roasting in the Texas heat, making sure I rotated rotisserie-style so the juices would baste me evenly, the building manager came and put out some ant traps with bait in them around my desk to kill the ants, and said someone would spray in the evening so I wouldn't be exposed to the chemicals right off the bat.

Guess what? Ant bait makes ants want to be around you even more. The flow of ants increased, and whether or not they died inside the little traps or not, I don't know, but the conga line of ants in both directions didn't seem to abate any.

I was bitten six times before I informed Pacman - my only remaining coworker at this point - that I was leaving, because I kept being bitten, and it hurt, and it sucked, and I was going home. He gave me a half-hearted "Cheerio" and I flounced out the door.

Hopefully, the next opportunity I have to flounce won't involve ants.

OCDesign + Migraine = Working in Bed

Monday night, around 10:30 or 11:00 pm, give or take a few minutes and seconds, I realized I had a migraine coming on. I took my medicine, shut down my computer (I was working - yes, on stuff for the office), and went to sleep, aided by the anti-nausea medicine, which essentially is like smashing yourself in the head with a rubber mallet, insofar as unconscious-making goes.

I hoped that my preemptive strike would render me migraine-free Tuesday morning, ready to face the day and go to work, albeit a bit groggy-headed and sluggish for the day.

I was wrong in my hopes. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

My alarm went off, and it was literally all I could do to open my eyes. I guess the anti-nausea medicine hadn't worn off, because I was practically sleep-walking as I stumbled to the bathroom to take a shower. I had to lean against the wall, but wasn't really aware of the fact, because I was still so darned sleepy. Asleep, really.

After the water hit, however, I realized that I was leaning against the wall, and realized, more importantly, why I was leaning against the wall: I was dizzy. The room was positively swimming around me, and so I shut off the water - after rinsing the shampoo from my hair, natch - and called Mrs. Robinson to tell her I'd be late to work, that I'd had a migraine the night before and was off to a sluggish start this morning.

An hour later, I was no better. I called back and asked to speak to Radio. He answered the phone, and I told him I had a terrible case of migraine induced vertigo - not uncommon, I'd had it before - and that I was incapable of driving to work. "But I have my files and everything at home with me, so I'll work here," I said, trying to sound chipper and upbeat, although I'm sure I sounded rather more like the losing contender in a heavyweight boxing match.

I fell back asleep, since I still wasn't firing on all cylinders, and came to around noon and battled my way into a sitting position. My head vetoed that idea, so I slid my computer over onto the bed, rolled onto my side, and spent the next two hours researching possible bathroom flooring materials for the project I'm working on, right now. I've actually found one I like, and it's (relatively) affordable. I've emailed a link to the material to my work email and everything. By the time I'd found it, I was starting to feel better, so I put on some non-pajama clothes and sat up, and began working on CAD drawings, which is what I did from around 2:00 until 6:30, when I talked to my mom on the phone. By that point, the vertigo was almost entirely gone, to be replaced by a vague queasiness that I've had lately post-migraine, or pre-migraine, and sometimes en-migraine, so essentially constantly.

After the brief chat with my mom, I decided to venture out of the house, so I made a run to my happy place, aka Container Store, to buy a couple of things and now I'm back home, ready to return to my work.

Hurrah.

Limp as a Wet Noodle

I'm in love. Okay, so I'm still in love with Mrs. Robinson - metaphorically speaking - but she now has a rival for my affections, and her name is Julie. Sweet, sweet Julie.

What, you ask, Could this Julie possibly have done to so ingratiate herself with you, Ms. StrainedConsciousness?

She gave me a foot massage.

But not just any foot massage. Oh no. This was an all-out, no holds barred, wonderful world of - um - wonder foot massage. With rocks. Hot ones.

I went to the usual nail place by my apartment. I rarely get the spa treatment there because it's just so darned expensive. However, it's been a rough week, so I decided to splurge. Suffice it so say, this is a once-every-6-months kind of splurge. It cost the same for a manicure and pedicure as it costs for TWO manicures and pedicures at my mom's nail salon. Or, I could get my hair cut and buy hair product and tip my hairstylist for the cost of this manicure/pedicure combo + tips. But that's beside the point.

Rocks. Hot ones.

When they handed me the little laminated sheet with the prices and services included in the spa manicure/pedicure, I waved my hand and said "Sure. Lavender, please." Yup. You get to pick your scent. Watermelon? No thank you. Citrus? It would have me craving sorbet. But lavender is relaxing. It's soothing. And combined with the awesome deftness of Julie's little fingers, it's enough to leave a girl in a puddle on the floor.

Rocks, people.

She removed my old nail polish, trimmed my toenails, cuticles, and cleaned the toejam out from under my nails. All standard procedure, all done while my manicurist filed my nails and trimmed my cuticles, etc. She used a pumice stone to soften my heels and remove the calluses. Again, nothing new, here.

Then, I saw a glimpse of heaven. Julie pulled out a plate with four artfully arranged bowls on them, the kind you get in sushi restaurants with little mounds of pickled ginger and wasabi that I never use because I don't like either. She took a scoop of sea salt from the foot-condiment tray and began rubbing it over my feet. It was very coarse and tickled like blue blazes. She used a different salt for my calves and ankles, which was less coarse. Then came the lavender pumice cream. Yes, cream with little bits of pumice stone smashed up into it that moisturizes and exfoliates at the same time.

When she was finished with the pumice, she put my feet into the water basin attached to the shiatsu massage chair and rinsed all the salty pumicey goodness off my legs and feet. It also kind of tickled. I'm very ticklish on my toes, okay?

She pulled my feet out of the water, placed them on a nice clean towel, free of sea salt and pumice residue, and squirted lavender scented oil on my legs. At this point, the manicurist walked over with a bowl of water. In the water were 10 river rocks, big enough to fit in the palm of your hand. The pedicurist and manicurist (who had done the same thing to my arms, but not quite as gently) each took rocks out of the HOT water, and began rubbing them over my skin.

Amazing.

This went on for 10 minutes for my hands and forearms, and 20 minutes for my feet. That's the period of time most pedicurists will massage your legs for a pedicure, if you're lucky.

But, oh no, Miss Julie wasn't finished. She proceeded to rub lavender scented lotion into my skin for 20 more minutes. Heaven! Pure heaven!

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a complete and total sucker for having my back scratched, kneaded and pummeled. The same goes for my legs. Especially when there are smooth, warm river rocks gliding over them.

I am now riding high on a wave of endorphins, usually released only by eating copious quantities of bacon or ice cream (I actually just ate bacon as part of my dinner, so, you know, double-whammy).

I love Julie. I LOVE HER.

And I gave her a big tip. I'm not ashamed to buy my love.

Lying Abed All Day

That's what I did Sunday afternoon and all day Monday. There is a definite correlation between weather changes and my migraines, I've discovered.

I've also discovered that migraine medicine doesn't do a damned thing about it. Neat.

The upshot of all of this is that I spent two days on migraine medicine - and missed work on one day - and spent most of today in a fog, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. Had I tried this, yet? Oh. Yeah. I had. Would this work? No. No, not at all. There went two hours. I had, as our receptionist calls it, a migraine hangover.

I prefer alcohol hangovers, I think, particularly because they're fewer and farther between than my migraines, these days.

Tonight is similar to Sunday afternoon and all of Monday - I'm lying in bed. I should be happy about that, though! Right? Right?

I will admit, working from bed is infinitely preferable to work in my decidedly non-ergonomic office chair at work, but at home, there's no one to run out to 7-11 because we all got a hankering for Slurpees.

I would like to randomly make the not-entirely-unrelated observation that Mrs. Robinson is the best receptionist ever.

(Creative Commons sharealike image courtesy of Wikimedia user Guen de Wang who has the coolest name of any of my contributors so far and whose photo can be found at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:7-11_Slurpee_Medium.JPG)

Projected Baby Boom in Dallas

I suspect that, round about the middle of November, give or take a few days, there will be a boom in baby deliveries in Dallas. Why? You're most likely assuming it's because of Valentine's Day, but you're wrong.

The reason for the boom de bebe is the Great Blizzard of 2010.

Wait. This is Texas. We don't have such things as blizzards. And yet, as I write, there is snow on the ground outside - because it's taking forever to melt - and a slew of slushy snowmen. It began snowing Thursday and continued on into the night, knocking out the power at my own little abode for 14 hours.

I didn't have power for 14 hours! As a result, all the food in my refrigerator had to be tossed, so there are some lovely frisbee-shaped discs of frozen-thawed-refrozen soup in my trash can. After I make dinner tonight, I will be taking out the trash. Double-bagged of course.

On the upside, I didn't have to go in to work on Friday, because nobody could/would drive to the office. Only Pacman made his way to the office, and that's because he could simply take the train. Mr. Robinson was snowed in at her house and could even get out of the driveway. Radio and Scooter had to take care of their kids, whose normal daycare accommodations were closed due to the iced over streets. Oldsmobile couldn't get to the office, either - although he dearly wanted to - because his driver couldn't get to him.

What did I do with my day off? After the power came back on, I worked from home, because I thought ahead and brought some redlines home with me. Until the power reasserted its presence, however, I lay in bed in a big sweatshirt under my enormous duvet reading Dwell and The Economist. Not a bad way to spend the day off, albeit a chilly one.

You Say It's Your Birthday!

Well, it's not mine, so congratulations if it's yours. Actually, there are two awesome birthdays, today. Oldsmobile turned 458, give or take a few, and one of my friends/family members had a baby! When I told Olds that my friend had a 10 lbs. 5 oz. baby, on his birthday, his reply was, "That's a wonderful birthday gift." He seemed pleased that someone I love was born on his birthday.

As a consequence of Olds turning 543, today, we celebrated. All day long. Mrs. Robinson decorated his office with balloons and yellow streamers - he was positively delighted - and we took him "somewhere scuzzy" for his birthday, as per his request. When we told him last week we wanted to take him to lunch for his birthday, his request was "somewhere scuzzy." We jokingly told him to bring lots of $1 bills, at which point he remarked that I would need a blind-fold, since my eyes shouldn't be subjected to such horrors.

Where was "somewhere scuzzy?" Adair's Saloon, as mentioned in my May 17, 2009, post (yeah, I had to check to see which one it was. I'm not that OCD). We ordered 2 pitchers of Shiner Bock and hamburgers all around (there were 6 drinking, plus one elderly non-drinking driver - not Olds, thank goodness, but his chauffeur, who is still pretty darned old). Radio, Pacman, and Scooter seemed to think it was amusing to have me drink more than anyone else at the table because I was just doing interior elevations. Thanks, guys.

We returned to the office and ate canasta cake, courtesy of Mrs. Robinson. I think she makes her buttercream icing with Crisco instead of butter, though. It was still delicious, and we all entered a carb/alcohol coma following the meal + drinks + cake. Oy.

I actually accomplished quite a bit of work following the lunch/binge, seeing as we have marketing mailers to send out. The firm for which I work has never sent out marketing materials, before, but we are, next week. As a result, I have 100 mailers to seal after I finish writing this entry. Hooray, work! I don't mind, actually, since I can get through 50 in about 10 minutes. It's just sticking a little sticky tab over the closure. I did 150 at work, today, while I waited for drawings to print.

I'm just good like that.

Then this evening, we had a cocktail party at one of Oldsmobile's friend's homes. So we all left work at 4:45 - a full 3 hours after we finished lunch/drinking - and went and had wine and "horse dervers" at her amazing home.

Her dining room is orange lacquered. The whole thing. I covet her dining room. And, yes, I told her as much.

I met a couple of lovely people at the cocktail party, managed to make them laugh (score!) and then had dinner with Radio, because everyone else had dogs/kids to get home to. Actually, Radio has a wife and son, too, but his wife and son had already eaten, so we grabbed some food. And, because we're in the architectural profession, another beer.

Yay, architecture.

Getting Closer to Christmas!

And you know what that means! Or do you?

It means I get 1/2 of Thursday off from work (I'm out the door at noon) and all of Friday off. It also means that my concentration is completely shot.

At 5:30 this evening, I realized that I wasn't going to get any more work done in the office. Mrs. Robinson left at 5:00 and told me I should just leave, too, as I was going to be the only one left in the office, but I had more work to do. I couldn't possibly leave. I'd been so distracted all day, that I accomplished very little. It's frustrating, but I don't feel particularly challenged on this project.

Challenged = fun project

Not Challenged = surfing the interwebs

I printed off the drawings I'm working on, rolled them around a complete set from an earlier project - for use as precedence - and left.

I went to the grocery store.

I took the groceries home.

I ate dinner at Cafe Express and read The Economist.

Then I went to Starbucks, bought a grande decaf skim milk mocha latte - with whipped cream - and planted my little tushie at a table with a red pen and my drawings.

Those drawings are bloodier than a toro after a bullfight. But now, at least, I have a list of things I can go through on those sheets and cross off methodically. I'm hoping that will help me concentrate tomorrow. I'll poise my yellow highlighter over the pages and systematically go through each label, circled mistake, and required dimension and get them all finished. I'll label the slope of the roof. I'll let the contractor know which wood finish goes where.

I will not look at LOLcats.

Work Work Work Work Work Work Work Work: Part Deux

I will start off by saying that I am absolutely in love with our new receptionist. We ended up hiring the more matronly candidate - the peons overruled Oldsmobile and lobbied hard - and she began her first day of work by completely organizing our materials/products library.

Be still my heart!

She's amazing, and funny, and chatty - but not so much that I can't get any work done. She's the sort of person who will ask if we have anything we need her to do, which is wonderful, and she cheerfully performs any task we have.

L

O

V

E

I ended up in the office Sunday for about 5 hours. Pacman and I missed our deadline Friday, so I went in to see if I could make sense of the bloodied pages he left on his desk. I picked up the red-lines I could comprehend - sorry, Pacman, but I don't know what squiggle-squiggle-circle means - and highlighted the ones I fixed so we won't waste time checking them.

Ahem. Pacman does not highlight the things he has fixed. It's exasperating.

I bet our new receptionist would highlight changes she made.

And now I have to come up with a nickname for our receptionist. Hmmm...

We'll call her Mrs. Robinson.