On safari in his own country

Cedar waxwings hold a briefing.

You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story. - My fortune cookie fortune this weekend.

Talk about pressure!

The cats are hovering around me and my beef stew. Please don't mistake their hovering for affection, you silly geese. They're simply making a display of their disdain for having been reduced from their civilized three meals a day - a full brekkie, luncheon and tea - to the dreadful abuse of two meals with a light snack at bedtime. I'm waiting for the day I arrive home to find them chewing on Sophie who has a habit of taking a nap after school. Perhaps she senses the potential danger because tonight she'd locked herself in her room before crashing.

I drove like a maniac all the way home alternately dialing the home phone and Sophie's mobile, imagining the worst. She'd choked on a piece of stew meat and lay gasping for air, turning a disturbing shade of blue and writing me one last love/hate note with a shaky hand.

I love you so much, Mother. Why did you have to go back to work? Wasn't being my mother enough.....

Obviously, she's fine, only sleeping. I mean, I wouldn't be so callous as to blog immediately after - -  well, I can't even type the words.

Is this time change making you loopy, too? Leap forward, my darlings, right into this vat of confusion.

This morning, five of us - Nate's friend Al spent the night so we were plus one - got showered, dressed, fed and out the door on time. Somehow we managed the feat without any shed tears, broken bones or cross words.

The rest of the week will probably be full of tiny catastrophes and moments resembling the scene in The Poseidon Adventure when the boat is hit by a tidal wave and flips over. I wonder who'll be the poor sap falling face first through the plate glass window.

It's not lost on me that no matter how much night-before prep you do, no matter how organized and planned and stringently practiced your routine, when the tidal wave comes, you're gonna get wet.

By the way, you want to know who really misses me now that I'm not haunting the house all day? Well, I believe I heard the vacuum cleaner weeping quietly in his corner. I haven't tugged his hose in many days. And boy howdy does it show.

It may be part of my sinister plot to demonstrate to the other Goldens just how untidy and rank things can get around here when I stop cleaning. Then again, it could be that I just plain ran out of time this weekend and, yeah, those assholes I live with aren't about to pitch in until I throw a big hissy fit. Which I've decided I'm not going to do because that puts me back in the martyr box in which I've stifled many a time, stewing in my own angry juices and taking swigs from a flask filled with Windex.

Bottom line?  We need an Alice, damn it.

So work is interesting. Very. And damn it, again! I can't say much about it. I'm waiting for my official legal briefing so I know for sure what I can and can't say, but for now I have to ixnay on the oliticspay. See, I work for a labor union and we're preparing for contract negotiations and so I'm not allowed to say much. Which means I really shouldn't say anything because then I won't screw up. Well, I'll try not to screw up. I know I won't give up any confidential info, but not doing anything political? Gulp.

Because you know I'm dying to crack wise about grits, right?

Just know work is going well. Today I was trained on how to work the front desk, answering phones and routing them properly and logging them, greeting visitors, buzzing them in and not laughing too much at them when they pull instead of push the glass door. Sounds easy, no? Well, I was no Shelley Winters swimming toward safety, but it wasn't all bad. I got the hang of it. Nevermind the time I tried to route a call to the woman who was training me only to find that when she went to lunch, she left her call forwarding on and the call I couldn't answer was actually me trying to call --- me. At the front desk.

Thankfully, the caller was a patient man who only wanted to ask a question about something that's called deadheading which sounds groovy like psychedelic travels following a band around the country or, at the very least, lopping off the drooping heads of fading flower maidens. But no. It's about seats.

I've had moments when I had to stop and pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. I'm actually working for a paycheck again. It's something I'd nearly despaired of. There were other moments when I had to take a step back and remind myself that I really should have gotten out more while I was in layoff limbo because it was a bit overwhelming to be around all those people for such long, uninterrupted periods of time.

Thankfully, I handled it without resorting to huffing into a paper bag or consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Come to think of it, I didn't have a drop. I remained clear of head, steady of hand and fully clothed.  I love a good meeting without a hangover. I ate my fill of fresh fruit and hotel pastries and lost a pound. I tried to be indispensible without being too much muchness. I just want to do a good job and be the kind of employee everyone wants to have around.

It's a fine balance. It's like the difference between cheese grits and cheesy grits.