i'm gonna find you, and take it slowly

The dungeon is being turned into a casino. I wish I were making that up.

I've tried posting about this many times in the two years since the news first broke, but I couldn't bring myself to write the words. Construction is now set to start early next year. Maybe that's why it finally feels like it might actually happen.

That place was the beginning of so much, and I had absolutely no idea. I was busy whining about problems with parking and missing my friends while trapped there until the wee hours, night after night. Meanwhile up in the stratosphere, the universe was conspiring with the Interwebs to bump me into H. Eighteen years later, I wouldn't trade the life we've built together for anything in the world.

So many things have changed since 2005. I've had a dozen jobs, two careers and four homes since I last sat in that windowless cinderblock room at a 1980s metal desk with a classic "icon" telephone as my only lifeline to the outside. I've created countless works of art in that time, too. It's no surprise that the trickiest, most laborious projects--obviously, the children--give me joy beyond measure and pride that will bring me to tears if I spend too much time thinking about how wondrous they are and what a miracle it is that they even came to be at all.

After them, however, the thing that I am most proud of is this blog. It is the one endeavor I did completely by myself, FOR myself, putting it out there just to see what would happen. I had all of this inside of me with nowhere else for it to go. And then slowly people started reading it (almost zero people I expected and a lot of people I grew to care about and still worry after--some whom I have never even met to this day, and one of whom I cannot imagine not getting to snuggle up to every night).

There are some really lame posts on here. The embarrassment practically vibrates from them. But I accept that it wouldn't be a chronicle that can settle bets about what really happened without also including busy, buzzing CRINGE. 

I've missed this blog like one of those friends who knew me during those terrible junior high years but loves me enough to lie "Oh Cadiz, you never had an awkward phase!" with a straight face. Every month that went by without a post here was like forgetting her birthday and then getting a cheesy card from the grocery store but continually forgetting to mail it. 

I'm here now. The card is crumpled and I had to add several more stamps to cover the increased price of postage. I don't know what this is going to be; maybe I'll circle back and update some stuff from before, maybe I'll tell you what I can piece together about the last three years, maybe it'll be a bunch of links back to the days when I was too stupid to realize that the clueless protagonist in the romantic comedy was actually ME. I've got that feeling again: There's too much in here that has nowhere to go. Here it comes.

#NaBloPoMo

"Ready or Not" The Fugees

the dungeon is kind of an office building now

It’s five in the morning and I am pumping. I thought I was awake because I had a bad dream someone was trying to hurt my child but after tossing and turning for 20 minutes, then reading a bunch of parenting stories about how to protect my kids from predators, and an hour of catching up with what a blogger I used to follow has been doing the last eight years, I realize this strange feeling is the need to empty the tanks. So I’m pumping.

This is stupid because my kid is going to wake up really hungry in about 25 minutes and I won’t have much to give. So I should stop. 

I have so much to say and no time to say it. One of these days I’ll come back here and tell you about my son, who radiates joy every second of the day—even when he’s hungry—and he *may* even prefer me sometimes to his father, which is surprising and nice. And my daughter, who is very likely smarter than I am already: when I tried to convince her a goblin ate her cookie, she said “no, mom, I really think it was you.”

I am filled with anxiety so much of the time—it used to be the mechanism that kept me in line, but I think it’s veering off into the land of hindering more than helping. I’m probably just paranoid. 

Two years ago I started to suspect I had always had ADD and started talking to someone about it. Then I learned if my goal was to have another baby and not consider taking medicine, there’s really nothing to do except techniques and tools you use “until they don’t work anymore.” I did get that baby (it wasn’t easy), and I’m cycling through those techniques and tools. Still, I’m pretty wound up and easily distracted most of the time. 

Last month I went to Greece for 14 days with my best friends from college, leaving my 9-month-old and 3.5-year-old with their dad. I grappled with unbelievable mom guilt about it, but many people were encouraging me to go—including my husband and mother (who would be taking care of the children). Truly the one sentence someone told me that made me feel ok about going was “think of this as “Jon’s separated pelvis.” And while it was probably a rough 14 days for him, as FaceTime showed, trying to heal a separated pelvis (twice) takes a LOT longer than two weeks. Also? An infant doesn’t understand FaceTime. Recording/sending videos is better when you’re on another continent and your child can’t get to you. That brief but heartbreaking experience is probably the reason this government-separating-families-at-the-border thing has been keeping me up at night, crying.

It took me a full ten days to unclench and start to relax on vacation. I did carry the breast pump with me wherever I went and dumped more ounces of precious milk than I care to admit, but I’d be damned if my kid was going to stop nursing because mommy got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hang out with her friends in a gorgeous place for 14 days of only having to worry about what she was going to eat for dinner. 

Part of the reason I sought the tools and techniques about the ADD was because I was so miserable at work and of course thought that was my fault. Allowing myself to be bullied probably was, though. After six years, I found an oppportunity to report to a different person and, damn, that makes a big difference.

I am typing this on my phone, and while I am wearing my glasses, I’m pretty sure I’m looking at 0.2 font size. The Blogger app has been unsupported for years and this may not even post. Doesn’t matter because I’m the only one who will read this, likely in a few years when I’m up at night worrying about where we will get drinking water when the United States coastlines have flooded and all those people show up in the Midwest to maim us for lake water. 

Oh the sun is up. Perhaps it’s time to go to bed. 

Im willing to bet you can find that exact line in posts from 2006, when I was working in the dungeon. In rather sad news, the castle where I worked is being turned into condos, so half the staff has been relocated to the dungeon. Which is good, because with all those witnesses, the odds a person will be murdered and dismembered have gone way down. 

in a nutshell

Once upon a time there was a very bored twentysomething. Every day, she worked the evening shift and was awake when her friends and family were either at work or sleeping, so she watched one Netflix movie a day (before there was streaming), read books and knit, but she was lonely. One day, she discovered a web log with good writing, started her own and bumped into some random, cool people. Because of that, she became very close to a few of the bloggers, especially Jon. Because of that, they started emailing every single day, then talked on the phone for hours and hours. Until finally they decided they needed to meet: Three years later, he moved across the country to be with her; three years after that, they got married; and three years after that, they had a wonderful baby.

the problem with parking: reprise!

So in seven years of NaBloPoMo, I don't recall missing a day. Until yesterday. This post will be post-dated till 11:59 just so my OCD self will not go nuts looking at the list later, but we all know the truth: I dropped the ball. It happens.

So here is my collection of parking woes from back when I had to drive downtown, park for two hours, sneak out of the big 5p.m. meeting, wait in line for 40 min to get into the lot, not get an official lunch break but eat whenever and stay in the dungeon till all hours. If you can believe it, I truly was thankful for that job.

2005: a review
In which I complain about parking. Here is a taste:

the problem with parking -- vol 3 (july 9, 2005)

the problem with parking is that, when you're in a hurry and you've been trolling for a spot for 10 minutes and finally find one that's dangerously close to an intersection and you accidentally move up too far, another driver can *claim* to think that you were signaling to turn, not park, and then pull a fried-green-tomatoes move on your ass.

then he'll just shrug his shoulders as you contemplate giving him the finger, wasting the entire appropriate finger-giving window, and you end up having to park down the street six blocks. that spot had been right in front.

you just come away wondering where the hell Tawanda is when you need her.

beginnings

Hey, remember seven (!) years ago when I started this blog and I worked in a dungeon doing reports? Sometimes that feels like a long long LONG time ago, and sometimes it feels like it just a couple of summers back.

When I get frustrated and overwhelmed and have too much on my plate that hurts my brain, I just find more stuff to do. I guess the busier I am, the less time I have to think about how busy I am. But that is tiring, so I am going to bed early.

I leave you with this, my paranoid nightmare about being murdered and my dismembered parts being left in a janitor closet to rot by a one-eyed psycho. No one would even hear me scream.

So yes, I keep extra busy to distract my mind, because this is the kind of stuff it comes up with when left unattended.

show this to the police when you don't hear from me

<br>
<br>

the big reveal

This is the story about how I met H, and how you might have known him all this time, too.

MAY, 2005
I started this web log on March 7, 2005, partly because I had been reading other people's work and was inspired, and partly because I needed an outlet to replace the four-hour conversations I was used to having every day (dungeon hours meant I was only available when my friends and family were either at work or asleep). And I didn't want anyone to forget about me.

Around that time, a popular blog written by An Intern In New York named Andy was featured as a Blog of Note. One of the links in his sidebar took me to Jazz...In Strange Places, and Jasmine's "100 things about me" post. I identified with a lot of her list, particularly her love for Nancy Drew novels. So at 2:42 a.m., I left her a comment about the girl detective, chocolate and cats.

Apparently another new blogger, Jon, found Jasmine's 100-things list simply by clicking the "Next Blog" button at the top of his screen, and at 3:41 a.m., he left a long comment lambasting the previous commenters as well as himself. Normally I would have gotten angry, but something about his self-deprecating tone made me hesitate to tear into him about how the Internet was supposed to be about supporting people, not bringing them down (funny how naive I was back then). I went over to his blog and made a case for old Nancy, who really was a pioneer for her time. He replied that he was glad I didn't take it the wrong way and that he was only trying to be funny, not a jerk.


JUNE 2005
After that, we all started commenting on each other's blog posts. Along with Jasmine, Jon and I, there were Omar, Syar, and several other bloggers who have come and gone in the last four and a half years. Soon, Jon wrote his own "100 things" post. My response to it was jon, honestly. i won't even try to explain just how much you scare me. So many things on that list could be said about me, too, except the part about his HATING being barefoot (I'd be barefoot all the time if it weren't for snow). I was impressed at how many of his priorities lined up with mine, what with all the love for siblings, loyalty to friends, mutual appreciation for tv, etc. There were also some bizarre things on the list, like the fact that we've both dreamt of being shot and how he drove from New York to California making only four stops. One of those stops? My hometown. To me, it was a sign.

The comments started adding up, however, and after a few months it was obvious that Jon and I were practically conversating with each other in the comments. One night in the dungeon, Blogger broke down and I realized just how much I missed hearing what Jon had to say. I emailed him, saying it had been nice of him to keep me company all those nights when I was convinced the one-eyed man was going to hack me to bits and stuff me into a utility closet.


SEPTEMBER 2005
I had met Jasmine in person that summer (it's important to note here that at this time it was still perceived as sort of creepy to meet people "from the Internet" so that was kind of a big deal). I tried to get information about what she thought of Jon, whom she had met in California, and she confirmed he's as cool as I suspected. In September I saw Jasmine again in New York when I went to visit Alexandra, and we went out to dinner and to a club.

Those four days had been the longest I'd gone in six months without communicating with Jon, and it was killing me. A few weeks earlier, he had conveniently given me his phone number by sending me a photo from his phone. Alexandra and I had been bar-hopping, and obviously discussing the bizarre long-distance infatuation I had with him as well as the improbabilities of it going anywhere (again, dating someone you'd met "online" at that time mostly meant going through something like match.com, which had a bad connotation because of a friend's bad experiences). With every drink, the urge to contact Jon was getting harder and harder to resist.

So I texted him: How screwed up is it that you can miss someone you're [sic] never even met?

He replied: Only slightly.

The texts kept coming, and I kept giggling in the corner, until Jasmine--who hadn't been aware of our email love affair--said, What are you laughing about so much, Cadiz? Is Jon the one text messaging you? I was so flabbergasted that she'd guessed* that I asked him what I should tell her.

His reply: That you and I are text messaging each other tonight...and that you are carrying my baby :)

What I said next: That's cool, as long as you understand one thing: The children will have Indian names.

NOVEMBER 2005
Text messages led to phone calls, phone calls led to plane tickets, and Jon arrived at Chicago's Midway airport November 4. We went to my favorite all-night diner and then I dropped him off at his hotel. I went back to my parents' house, sad that I hadn't heard trumpets and birds singing when we first saw each other and the next morning I called cc in tears because I thought we didn't have a *connection* in real life. He had been shy and reticent; I was unsure and still processing how different he is from the guys I had always pictured myself dating (i.e. he's not an Indian boy). Both of us were acting really awkward. Jon and I had discussed the implications of this meeting and agreed that it had to happen, that we had to find out sooner or later. And if we didn't have chemistry we could always be good friends. So with that in mind, I picked him up and showed him the sights, starting with hot dogs at Portillo's and a trip to the then-named Sears Tower.

Somewhere after lunch and before we got to the top of the tower, the good old rapport surfaced through the nerves and the tension and we fell into our normal banter. I liked the sound of his voice and that I could actually see the expression on his face. I especially enjoyed hearing the exotic "o" sound he pronounced as in "honestly" (which I pronounce in the midwestern style, "haanestly"). As soon as I forgot about my expectations, things went right back to the lovely way they always had been.

There was a suspiciously short line on the way up to the Sears Tower, and surprisingly few people in the observation deck. It was so dark and clear, we could see lights all the way out to a couple of states. There were a few times I thought he was going to kiss me as we looked out over the glittering city, but I'm really glad he didn't--I would have lost all respect for the guy.

I brought him back to his room and stayed to watch the ten-minute film he had made in college on his laptop. He stars in it as well, and I think I fell in love with him even more after seeing how he looked in college, bright orange corduroys and all. We didn't feel like going to a bar or a club, so we sat through the only thing on tv: It was a Hitchcock film, his only screwball comedy, called Mr. and Mrs. Smith. We laughed about the ridiculous plot and how everything was magically resolved as Mrs. Smith crossed her skis at the end. If only life were that simple.

I went out to California a month later and he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. We've talked for several hours every night since, and have only gone one five-day stretch over the last four years without at least a text message back and forth. I must admit, we haven't yet run out of things to say. And I hope we never do, because today he asked me to spend the rest of my life talking to him, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

Oh and if you haven't figured it out yet, H is Jon. And Jon is H. I love them both equally.

*Jasmine's response via twitter: @cadiz12 @jonmuller I knew it was Jon only because I know how funny he is. Also, your 1,000 questions about him were pretty transparent ;)

we may all be in the same boat now, but the irresponsible people had a lot more fun

The facts are these:

I purchased a property in 2005 that was near the top of my affordability range for three main reasons:

a) It's across the street from dungeon headquarters--saving me hundreds of dollars on gas, rolls of quarters, parking tickets and commute time.

b) It's in an up-and-coming tony area; research predicted a very favorable return in a few years.

c) I had lived with my parents in suburbia for several years while my friends all partied in the city just so I could have enough money for a place of my own.

Unfortunately:

a) My field of business started to slump, and a hiring freeze shut me out of permanent employment there.

b) It was hard to find another full-time gig, so I rented the place out for only 3/4 of what I had to pay every month.

c) I landed a great job--only to be laid off exactly two months later, on my birthday.

d) H was laid off the very next day. It had to be a sign.

However:

a) I got in on a startup company with a solid client and a lot of potential for success.

b) H moved out here to be with me and I could actually live in the place I owned.

Despite all that:

a) I wasn't making nearly as much money and H had a hard time finding something here, so I put the place on the market.

b) My realtor talked me into making a lot of expensive upgrades, such as stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, etc. to help the place sell more quickly.

c) I had to furnish the place from scratch to make it show-ready.

d) The housing market bubble burst.

Then things really started going downhill at the end of last year:

a) H's industry tanked and he is underemployed.

b) Our big client's investors took a hit in the stock market and it canceled our contract--decimating (literally) our company. I was laid off and apparently the boss is continuing on with our smaller clients by working 24 hours a day with unpaid interns.

c) My industry is imploding I am competing with the best and the brightest in my field for few jobs, and haven't secured anything better than short-term projects.

d) H and I do not have health insurance.

e) But what we do have is a FAT mortgage, which unemployment does not begin to cover, let alone living expenses.

f) Everything I managed to save while living with my parents has drained away.

g) The condo association raised our hefty assessments by 10%.

h) So many people are hassling us to get married, even though we barely have enough cash to purchase enough Betty Crocker for a cupcake tower.

i) My place has been on the market for 13 months, and while we show it at least twice a week, we haven't even had a ridiculously lowball offer since the fall.

j) I am 30 years old and my parents are up at night worrying about my future as though I were still 18. My mom refuses to give up her double shifts despite the detrimental eye strain because they're constantly helping us out. Knowing that they are still trying to take care of me at a time when I should be helping them ease into retirement makes me die a little inside every time I think about it.

k) Sitting at home alone all day, sending resumes into a black hole of no/negative responses makes me feel more worthless by the hour.

l) And then there's Citimortgage. Let me just say that I have been filling out forms and sitting on hold for at least ten hours a week since January. I am convinced they are transferring me around and putting me off (such as making me do a lot of work to get into a programs that apparently do not apply to the unemployed, but not finding out that fact until THE END of the three-month application process). All the while I receive three to four calls a day from their automated machine asking me to call them. And I must repeat my history to every new person I talk to.

Something broke on Wednesday, when I finally got a hold of the Citibank representative assigned to my account, a "Ms. Golden," extension 1809501, who the day before had left me a message that it was imperative I call her by the end of the day, then left the office at about 1 p.m.

Ms. Golden informed me (in a fake-sincere tone) that while I had been "pre-approved" by Heather for the Obama-backed program and Citibank cashed that first discounted check to get it started three weeks ago, I was not actually approved. Oh, and I am now thousands of dollars delinquent on payments that Heather told me would be pushed back to the end of my loan if I made that payment that day (May 10, Mother's Day, when I should have been spending time with my mother instead of being on hold with the damn bank).

Golden said that "this is a very large company and all of these programs are rolled out by the government. These things take weeks to be approved. Some of them are discontinued and new ones are rolled out all the time." Heather had also given me a phone number to the MAU department (no one seems to know what that stands for), which I had been trying to call to determine if I was indeed qualified or not, and was told someone would call me back in week. Golden told me it had been my responsibility to call and find out if I was in fact approved. When I brought up the MAU department, she snapped, "The MAU department does NOT take outside calls. And the MAU department DOES NOT CALL ANYONE."

I lost it. Here was the third time in five months I had been told I was "pre-approved" for a program that turned out to be bogus. Another problem is that the mortgage I was given looks like a second mortgage, but it is actually in first lien position. Most Citibank representatives blow me off when they see "second mortgage" and dismiss my appeal without looking at it carefully enough to see that I only have the one.

I got a little irate. Golden was prattling on about how she was "trying to work with me, help me," but I was at the end of my rope. Everything they've been telling me for months has turned out to be a sham. So I likely did interrupt her. (To be fair, my phone connection was wavering in and out that day, so there was a delay--any of you who talk to me when I'm there know what I'm saying. So when I heard silence I would begin to speak and she'd think I was interrupting her again.) Each time our call was disconnected, it would take upwards of 20 minutes of being transferred around (even though I had her extension) for me to get a hold of her again, if at all.

"Miss," Ms. Golden said, "When you are ready to LISTEN TO ME and stop INTERRUPTING, then you can call me back." Click.

I cried for the rest of the day.

be nice: that intern could have a say in hiring you someday

I'm no stranger to working holidays. The dungeon never sleeps, so I spent nearly every holiday of the two years I worked there at the office. That was especially hard on Christmas Eve, but people do what they have to do to pay the mortgage. I can't say that I miss that schedule, but I do sort of miss being able to get sympathy over it.

At my first job out of college, we worked Tuesdays through Saturdays. On a holiday weekend, there was twice as much to do for the Saturday crew because we'd be working ahead, doing Monday's work so no one would have to come into the office on the holiday. And Cc and I sometimes found ourselves—through a twist of politics and bad luck—stuck there on those Saturdays-before-a-holiday with a skeleton staff, trying to do twice as much work with half as many people.

One Saturday before Labor Day, cc and I were in for a doozy: There was only one other person besides the two of us, and although the workload had been reduced, we still had to finish Monday's stuff before we could go home. We usually would leave around 3 p.m., but this day it looked like we were going to be in the office until at least 8. On top of that, some system that we had no idea how to use but relied upon crapped out and we had to call in the boss.

The boss, who had taken over for my other, awesome boss when she got another position, reluctantly came in because he was the only one who knew that system. He wasn't happy about it, but we weren't ecstatic about three people having to do the work of 12, either. He headed straight for a back corner of the mothership, fixed the program and passed our desks on his way out, pausing to ask how it was going. As if the harried looks on our faces and the piles of paper on our desks weren't obvious, I answered that we were extremely behind and it looked as though we'd be there till about 8 p.m. that night.

He responded, "Oh. Well, would you like some wood to knock on?" and sailed out the door.

We were completely stunned. Then outraged. Our old boss would never have let that happen, let alone leave us like that. But after awhile it became clear that he was useless to us and that the work on our desks wasn't going anywhere, so we grumbled and finished up. I don't remember how late we ended up staying.

That was only one of the spirit-stomping comments that boss made to me during my time there with him. I was a bit of an envelope-pusher when it came to creativity, and I don't think he liked that very much. Another senior person pulled me aside a few months into that boss's tenure and asked why he didn't see that sparkle in my eye when we were discussing ideas anymore and if I'd like, he could talk to my boss. That was very kind, but I didn't take him up on it. I wasn't at that job too much longer, and neither was cc.

Last week, we got a whole lot of responses for my current boss's soon-to-be vacant position, including the knock-on-wood guy's resume. He wouldn't be a good fit for the job anyway, but needless to say, he didn't get my recommendation.

streamlining

As you may know, my condo is on the market. And while it's not exactly going excellently (still isn't sold), we've had pretty steady potential-buyer traffic and a few offers, ridiculous as they were (If a buyer can only afford to pay 93% of his/her cash offer up front and promises the last 7% in five years, why the hell wouldn't s/he try to buy a home that's the 7% cheaper outright instead of toying with us?). We love the place; it's small but cute, and located in the juiciest, most touristy section of downtown Chicago. It also happens to be across the river from my former employer. The reason we're selling is because it is no longer affordable—three layoffs between the two of us, working part-time, taking a less-lucrative chance on a startup that will hopefully pay better later, the craptastic job market, the even more craptastic housing market and starting over across the country has put a pretty ginormous crack in the old nest egg. And from what my realtor says, the reason it's having any trouble selling is because people could get more space for the same price if they're willing to travel about 2 miles out of the way. So much for that awesome return I was expecting on the prime location.

So we're biding our time. And streamlining. Cutting nonessential expenses, being extremely choosy about attending events and cooking every meal at home. It's going pretty well, but tricky when you don't have an extravagant lifestyle to trim from and are fussy with your spending habits to start with. Of course I'm sweating over it—worrying is my favorite pastime, after all—and obsessing about streamlining takes up all hours not spent concentrating on work or watching several episodes of The Office in a row (Thanks, Apple, for making Netflix's View Instantly unlimited). 

This streamlining business has spilled over to all other aspects of life: cleaning out the pantry, tearing out what's interesting and recycling old magazines, storing work files in a more efficient way and reorganizing email labels in my five accounts. That last one includes all the posts I had up before Blogger labeled posts/comments emails with the post title, so I have hundreds of them personally tagged with titles. Getting rid of them one by one is making my head spin, but it takes my mind off the worry. In the process, I get to look back over all the stuff I wrote back when my life was so completely different, consisting of searching for parking (don't even have my car anymore), commuting three hours a day (now it's a 15-minute walk), talking on the phone with H (now he's usually in the same room) and not having a social life (well, not everything has changed very much).

Looking back at two tons of comments over the years is a reminder of  how supportive you guys are and that you always give great advice. Got any tips for streamlining/putting my mind at ease? I found a gray hair last week, and I could really do without finding any more.

another seven years of bad luck? no thanks.

Every potential hole in the wall warrants a discussion about whether the safety/necessity of said hole is worth pissing off potential buyers or having to patch them later. 

In our redecorating we got a small table for the front hall, on which I put a fairly large and heavy mirror. I was content to leave it leaning on the table, but H was uneasy that someone might catch a table leg and the mirror would crash and break into shards. I told him not to be so uptight—it's not like Illinois is known for its earthquakes, and tornadoes rarely hit downtown—but I relented. He attached those safety straps people put on furniture so kids don't pull it down on top of themselves. 

It was a good thing he did it, too, because apparently there was an earthquake in the Chicago area at 4 am this morning. I don't believe there was too much damage or any injuries, but my boss woke up and blamed his wife for shaking the bed. And people even felt it in the dungeon.

I sort of remember waking up in the middle of the night, but I doubt it was because I felt the tremor. When my family and I visited my  mom's godmother in California in 1987, there was a 6-point-some earthquake while I slept in a bed on wheels. The next morning I woke up clear across the room, having been tossed around quite a bit without noticing a thing. 

Thank God H went with his instincts and protected that mirror, because these last few years I've had just about all the bad luck I can handle.

milestone: year 3

This weekend I went to dinner with ri and kaiya to catch up. It's been quite a while since we've had quality time together, and ri said something to the effect of You know, I feel like I find out more about you from reading your blog than from sitting across from you at dinner like this. I wasn't sure if I should be sad or glad about that. Granted, it's easy to wander off on a tangent while discussing marriageable characteristics portrayed on The Bachelor. But more importantly our time together is so limited that we often spend it all just getting everyone up to speed on what's happening in our respective lives.

I feel like I need to have a catching up of sorts here, what with all the crazy crap going on that I haven't had time to explain. Let me start with how I missed the third anniversary of this blog last Friday. Which is surprising even to me.

Normally, I post snippets of what people might have missed. I'm too exhausted for that. And here's why: 

Back in 2004 I started working in the dungeon. I was living with my parents and sleeping in same bed I had grown up sleeping in. And while the 36-mile commute wasn't the best—what with the parking and all—I felt a lot better pulling into their quiet cul-de-sac at 4 a.m. than I would have parking on a Chicago city street and walking alone to my own apartment. Plus, I had the whole house to myself because when I was awake, they were asleep or at work. And eventually, the steep discount on rent allowed for more frequent trips to see H.

The dungeon thing was a two-year gig with an option to stay on. Certain factors indicated that I had a pretty good shot, so I purchased a tiny piece of high-rise property that would turn my commute into a seven-minute walk or a $4 cab ride. But because long-term dungeon was not a done deal, I allowed the person who had been renting it to stay there until I found out, even though the rent did not cover all of the mortgage and assessments.

Then the economy started to turn. The dungeon didn't work out after all and I was done by New Year's Day 2007. I didn't find a full-time right away, so I was freelancing and wrangling with tenants. (Apparently, sympathy and being considerate are traits that successful landladies do not have.) And even though I technically had no holes in my resume, I wasn't eligible for unemployment compensation and started freaking out about covering the bills. I was told employers would be scrambling to snatch me up when they saw I had a big-name dungeon on my resume, but the industry on the whole was hit very hard and there were few takers and a lot of talent to compete with.

So I visited Miami. Then Detroit. I courted people in New York and Los Angeles. And then I snagged a full-time gig in Chicago. I was relieved that I wouldn't have to sell my place and could still be local to deal with tenant drama. And live with my mom. And still be able to afford plane tickets to LAX.

Then I got laid off on my birthday. Our last day wasn't until November, so there was a cushion to figure out what to do next. 

Looking for a job and not knowing when or how much the next paycheck would be during most of 2007 was not fun. The stress brought on some health issues, too. So I decided to make the leap and join a startup business. Unfortunately, while the tiny high-rise condo is not far from the startup, the place and all of its high-end niceties is a bit out of my current price range. Especially now that the current tenants have broken their lease and I have no rent to count on.

So this is the plan: 

• The current tenants are moving out next week 
• H is moving here the week after that
• We will stay at the place, renovate it ("Um, stainless-steel appliances and hardwood floors are STANDARD now, Cadiz") and put it on the market—Hopefully this will be my absolute last stint as landlady. Ever.
  
• Instead of paying 5K for three months to have professionals "stage" the place with rented furniture and accessories, I'm trying to buy stuff that will make the current digs look nice and can also work with wherever we end up moving after (when?) it sells. 
• Hopefully H will have an easier time landing a full-time gig than I did.
  
  

All of the above has pretty much overtaken my thoughts (and kept me up at night) for the last few weeks. I'm extremely excited to be in the same zip code with H. It's pretty much the only thing that's keeping me sane. But it's a big step for us; this weekend he's selling most of his stuff. I think I might be more sad that he's parting with it than he is.

Tonight our startup company is having a launch party to celebrate little guys everywhere (but mostly just us). Things are going pretty smoothly and hopefully in time we can build a bigger and even stronger business. The newspaper gave us a small mention, so that's a good start. I'll be toasting to new beginnings.

But that's not all there is to celebrate. Three years of blogging! I'd just like to thank every one who reads what I write here, especially those whom I don't get to see or talk with often. It means a lot to me that you take time out of your day to stop by and comment, and you always give great advice. You guys are the best.

Much love, 

Cadiz

out of the vault

Four years ago I got out of a relationship and got stuck in a dungeon. From there I started a blog, spouting out feelings thick as molasses until they were dripping from the ceiling like stalactites. It was miserable. Nobody knew about it but cc (God bless her, she actually read some of those posts all the way through). I have to say, though, letting it all out helped me get past it. And when all those sticky feelings started cramping my style, I got rid of that blog and started this one.

For awhile now, I've been lurking on indiebloggers.org, a place where some talented people have shared their writing. Basically you send in your stuff and Stacy and The Panel will post it if they like it. From its "About" page:

Absolutely ANYONE can submit - bloggers, writers, non-bloggers, non-writers, anonymous submitters and stick figures - but we are working together to raise the bar substantially.

And

in order to grow as writers, to learn from each other, to have pride in our work, we need to try hard and challenge ourselves.

And

Anonymous submissions are now being accepted and are welcomed.

What a novel idea! "Anyone" applies to me, so I dusted off a post from that long-deleted old blog—a longish recap I wrote while retracing my steps to figure out where things had gone wrong—and sent it in. "Anyone" can also apply to all of you. I happen to see a lot of great writing on the blogs I visit, and it'd be cool if more people got to read it.

Check it out sometime.

no question is left behind

Today I will be answering Becky's contribution to my request for NaBloPoMo ideas back in October:

1. what's your favorite color, and why?

Right now, my favorite color is green. Mostly of the shades-of-grass variety. But I have been known to change it up from time to time.

2. do you miss the dungeon? even just a little?

Yes and no. I absolutely do not miss sitting around till sometimes 3 am in a tiny windowless cinderblock room. However, that gave me a lot of time with my thoughts and a great excuse to write lengthy emails to this guy who lived all the way across the continental United States and realize that he got me so much more thoroughly than anyone I'd met who lives in this county. I don't know if I would have given the idea of him and I a chance if I weren't trapped in that room so often or if I wasn't on such a late schedule that I could devote so much time to getting to know him because of the time difference.

Also, during that time in the dungeon was when I started this blog. I had been going through a very crappy situation that normally would make being alone with my thoughts an absolute nightmare, but because I had the downtime to troll around and find you guys, and the fact that some people seemed to want to read what I was writing, that time was actually therapeutic. The kindness-without-obligation and support helped me fix my broken heart (not to say the love I got from my real-life peeps wasn't totally and completely appreciated, too). I really miss the time I had to myself back then. These days, I rarely have a minute to just sit around and post or watch a movie with no interruptions. But it's not worth not having a life at all. And don't even get me STARTED about the parking.

3. what was the last thing you purchased at the grocery store?

String cheese. Frankly, I think I have a problem.

4. if you could go anywhere in the world, to visit or live, money not being an issue, where would you want to go, and why?

Everywhere! I got on a plane for the first time when I was two and I've pretty much never stopped thinking about where I might go next. I'm obsessed with culture, food and traditions, so I think I'd want to hang out with all kinds of people and learn about how they live and maybe write about it or take lots of pictures to share with people for whom money is an issue. A lot of the problems in the world today are because people are so trapped in their own little bubbles and don't take the time to see things from some other point of view. Some places on my going-there-when-I-have-the-money list are Iceland, Japan, Brazil, Ireland, Kenya, southern India, Mexico and South Dakota.

one challenge i think i'll save for later

When I went to visit my brother in Alabama last month, I noticed a glass jar on their kitchen counter with the words 'FESS UP scrawled on it in permanent marker. There were about three coins in the jar, and my brother's use of obscenities seemed pretty seriously curbed.

I was impressed. Mostly because I have known him to be quite a curser at times, which has never bothered me because I can be quite the curser myself. My dirty mouth is especially jarring to people who haven't been around me much because I come off as a sweet little ethnic girl who knits and bakes zucchini bread. And that is mostly true--until you're sitting in the passenger seat of my car when I'm following a chronic braker or I'm bumping up against a big deadline and starting to lose it. At those times, there's a veritable hailstorm of four-letter-word combinations, complete with fist-shaking and voice-raising.

I blame my line of work. In the Waiting For Reports world, there can be a lot of last-minute do-overs and attempts to accomplish what would normally take eight hours in what is closer to 20 minutes. And one common denominator of all the places I've worked is that the more important the assignment, the more drops of the F-bomb. It's not every day you hear "b*stard "and "c*cksucker" flying around the office and realize it's an exchange between your supervisors about that evening's schedule. Granted, these words are never used against anyone personally--they're just an expression of the stress that we can sometimes be under. It's so prevalent that one of my colleagues at the last place would play this Bud Light commercial every morning after she started her computer. You know, just to get in the mood.

H suggested I get my own 'Fess Up bucket and put in five bucks every time I slip up, "so then you can come visit me ALL the time!" He tends to exaggerate, but I do think that I probably should try and vent my frustration some other way. But even though I love myself a challenge, I refuse to put myself on the jar system. As you may have seen from the last 30 days, I really go out of my way to keep promises--even if that means telling my boyfriend to busy himself with something else for an hour every night he's in town or take myself to a library under construction to make sure I've maintained my oath to Nablopomo. Once I sign up for something, I'm in it for the long haul.

But dammit, only for those hauls that I think I can manage.

but it would have been cooler with the song

I'm not going to lie; I had a great childhood. And part of what made it so quacktastic is Duck Tales (you know, along with all the love and nurturing I got from my family). That fine-feathered program was only one of about 68* shows from those carefree days that I look back on with a great deal of fondness. My heart still melts just a little when I remember how I would dream about having enough money to take off my spats and dive into without worrying I'd get a concussion.

Sigh. Those were the days.

I love all my favorite shows from yesteryear in much the same way, and that cheesy sentimentality is probably what makes me a target demographic for Transformers: The Movie 2 (let's not forget about the original 1986 bigscreen adventure, Transformers: The Movie, which was animated). I saw that one and probably all of the original American episodes, too, because back then my brother and I just loved to watch those Autobots wage their BATTLE. to. DESTROY. the EVIL. FORCES. OF... THE DECEPTICONS.

H is a fan, too, so of course we went to see it when he was here, and I liked it. A lot. That has come as a surprise to a shocking number of people, in my opinion. So let me break it down (WARNING: MAY INCLUDE SPOILERS):



GRANTED:

* The girls were dressed like hoochies, which I have been told prepubescent boys (another major target audience) like to look at as well as technogeekery, things blowing up and elaborate car chases. And while I adore that last one myself, the whorified getup on the girls--peroxide/dark roots and stiletto heels ensemble doesn't really scream "government analyst," and skirts that are wider than they are long don't lend a lot of cinematic credibility when it comes to taking apart a carburetor--was irritating. But what do I know? Regardless, what are the young chickadees watching this going to think? You have to dress like a tramp if you want your brains to get noticed? Ugh.

* The CGI work was great. But sometimes, especially during the fight scenes, it was hard to differentiate Autobots from Decepticons.

* The battle scene was a little convoluted and went on too long. I understand that was probably an attempt for reality, but it didn't stop me from dozing off during part of it (I have a reputation to live up to, after all).

* Product placement? I'm not a big fan, but the truth of our Tivo World is that it's here to stay. Hell, it's been here for ages, even if it was subtler before. Besides, anything's gotta be better than seeing Jennifer Garner bark, "Get to the Ford-F150!" in Alias. How credible is a double agent who has the time to say all that when she's chasing a baddie or trying to avoid getting assassinated? Didn't she learn anything from Batman?

* Aside from a stuttering speech to impress the girl, there was no reference to the show's original kickass themesong. It was short, original and catchy, (something that is missing from television of today, but that's a post for another time). I thought they might've even used a little snippet of Gnarles Barkley's "Transformer," but no.

* Some of the main characters weren't even alive when the show came out in 1984.

HOWEVER:

* The girls were the ones who most reliably proved to have enough brains to save the day, and on multiple occasions. Ole girl analyst is the one who spotted the problem (thank God she wasn't reduced to flirting with somebody to get attention), and junior-hoochie proved to be very handy with mechanic stuff and had some impressive backwards-towtruck-driving skills. For reals.

* They had the sense to use the original voice of Optimus Prime. If they hadn't, the movie would have been total crap.

* Bumblebee has always been my favorite, and he still is. Answering questions with song lyrics is classic '60s Herbie-style fun. And I was still chuckling about the scene featuring No Mercy's "Baby Come Back" even as we left the theater. But I do think it's beyond creepy that people can feel comfortable making out on a car hood knowing that the car can comprehend what is happening on top of it.

* It was an improvement on the original. The television series wasn't known for its technology or the strength of its screenplay, and even though this film is a piggyback on something old--which i generally despise--at least it was better in all aspects save for themesong. It's not a corruption of something that was fantastic in its own right and should either be remastered and re-released OR LEFT THE HELL ALONE. I'm looking at you, Alvin and the Chipmunks remake: As cool as he is, Jason Lee is NO Dave Seville!

* I was sad when Optimus Prime died in the The Movie 1, so I'm glad they had a whole new story.

* Even though he's everywhere at once right now (can we say Jude Law in 2004?), Shia LaBeouf was very endearing. My heart went out to him in a very Boy Meets World kind of way. After the movie, H and I caught the tail end of an Even Stevens marathon in which a curly-headed Shia was eating a soggy philly cheesesteak in the ocean with his surfer buddy. Adorable.

Aside from all that, I probably loved the movie most because it took me back to those great days. I was surprised I remembered so much about the characters--even down to Decepticon names like Bonecrusher and Starscream. I wonder if people who never watched the show had any idea what was going on during certain scenes. For me, somehow, watching the robots transform in and out of disguise was comforting in a warm, fuzzy, nostalgic kind of way.

But the experience wasn't complete without going home and watching this on YouTube.




*One night when I was stuck in the dungeon especially late, H and I were e-mailing back and forth about the Scooby-Doo themesong. That discussion turned into a lengthy treatise and compilation of all the significant cartoons we watched as kids. I have searched high and low for the 2006 planner in which I recorded the list, to no avail and my great frustration.

And the card attached would say

Now that I work during the DAY! (No it hasn't gotten old yet), I can check out all the cute little city shops that taunted me back when I was on dungeon duty. So to make up for lost time, I leisurely browsed around in Greer, weighing the value of each and every item in the store with my hands, my heart and my wallet.

There are so many clever little things in that store, among them a pack of tiny thank you cards. I thought they were cute, but didn't buy them. And then somebody gave me one.

The 1 7/8" by 2 7/8" card, on a stripedy bedspread.

And on the back:

"Please reuse"

You know how I like to follow directions, so I carefully tucked it away for just the right moment and have sent it along to a very deserving recipient. CC went to Greece and Cyprus and brought back a souvenir that was just perfect for me:

An age-old Hellenic symbol to protect me from haters.

Everybody knows how superstitious I am, especially cc, who researched and explained the how this symbol is used to ward off bad things, from curses to bad-hair days. And, while I haven't decided if I completely believe in that stuff, I do know that I need all the help I can get--especially in the departments of catching trains and matching clothing. Thanks cc, you rock!



Speaking of people who rock, Radioactive Jam says I'm a




How awesome is that?

YOU rock, Jam. You got an honorable mention and you're a boy.



I happen to think Jinius rocks. Recently, she nearly gave up on her blog but decided to give it another shot. Plus she can appreciate the subtleties of Golden Girls and has a near reverence for food. Keep on truckin', Jinius!

fashion-impaired in the a.m.

One definite downside to this whole working-days concept is that for years, my brain learned to shut itself off between the hours of five and nine in the morning, which is exactly when some key daily decisions need to be made. Mission Critical choices, such as what I'm going to wear.

These days I need to be up at 5:45 a.m. at the latest to make the carpool to get me to the train by 6:45. The express is so packed, I usually have to stand and wobble around in the aisle,walk, then wait at least 20 minutes for the bus before riding to my stop between 7:45 and 8 a.m., from which I walk four blocks to the office. It's a trip with quite a few stops, and a lot of in-the-public facetime.

That's cool with me, because I like the tranquility of getting to the office an hour early and organizing my day. And I don't mind the standing around and watching people. But it also means that people can stand around and watch me, too. So imagine my dismay when, as I stood on the platform waiting for the train and taking note of all the cute clothes my co-commuters wore, I look down at my own ensemble and realize that it's hideous.

I must have been half asleep when I decided the gray herringbone trousers perfectly complement my purple-and-gray patterned silk blouse. Except at 5:30 a.m., the tungsten light of the closet can be deceiving; my shirt is actually brown and purple. So I was people-watched during the train ride, the walk to the bus stop, the wait at the bus stop, the bus ride, the walk to work, all day at work and the reverse home in an outfit that didn't really match.

Of course I exaggerate. The brown is only readily apparent when you're within fifteen feet. But just like in that generic sidewalk footage of "Americans" that nightly news often runs with a voiceover about obesity or heart-attack statistics, there are A LOT of people walking around downtown in Chicago close enough to have noticed how badly I see color in the morning.

But I was fine; I don't know any of those people anyway. I buttoned up the black sweater I keep in the office for chills and kept it on all day, even though it was 91 degrees F today and so humid we were practically swimming around outside. I was even feeling pretty good about it until I caught sight of an old Dungeon colleague on the bus to the train. I gave her a hug and found out she takes the same train to suburbia, so we sat together and caught up on gossip and she told me she's taking classes at the community college to pursue a degree in--wait for it--fashion design. I was mortified. Especially after we had a lengthy discussion about how hard it is to find pants that fit, and how much harder it is to draft patterns that flatter your figure. I am fairly certain she has now deemed me a coordination cretin who puts together not only unmatched ensembles, but ill-fitting ones as well.

Something has to be done about brain dysfunction in the a.m. Perhaps I should have pp come over every weekend and set my clothes out for the week, because getting up earlier is definitely out of the question and I cannot be trusted to dress myself.

i can get back to inhaling now

Ri once described my appetite for books not in terms of reading, but "inhaling." It's always been that way, ever since I sounded out the adventures of The Poky Little Puppy for myself. Recently she asked me for a recommendation and I consulted my notebook (I list ones I've heard about and then when I've read them, I give each a two-line review and a grade. Shut up.), only to realize I hadn't read anything new since last October. That's a really long time for me, especially if you consider how many precious commuting hours I've saved by working from home this year. Unfortunately, I've spent most of that extra time on the world's worst hobby: worrying.

Approaching the end of year two on the dungeon contract, it became very clear that I didn't really want to work erratic night hours much longer. What with the fact that I interacted with my boyfriend more than I would have if he lived in my own time zone and my mother breathing down my neck to procreate, it seemed the grandchildren of her dreams just might stay there if I didn't join the land of the living. But I didn't know what I wanted: another great opportunity with night hours or a less interesting gig with a schedule that allowed me to see the sun?

For months I freelanced, working from home and paying out-of-pocket health insurance. I transitioned back to being awake during the day, talked to people in other states and different industries and tried to figure out where I belonged. And all that time I worried. So much that I didn't sleep well, wasn't productive, didn't follow through as thoroughly as I should have. And I rarely did anything fun because I couldn't allow myself to relax.

I went to Miami. Then Detroit. I courted people in New York. I e-mailed companies all over the place and called people who knew people. And suddenly some big-time decisions had to be made. I obsessed. I asked for more time. I obsessed some more. I ran it by my friends and family. Repeatedly. Some told me I'd be stupid if I did one thing. Some said I'd be nuts to go with another. I was paralyzed with indecision.

Right around then, Rolling Stone published its 40th anniversary issue. It was shiny and red and I read it cover to cover. I don't know if the discussion of the turbulent Sixties resonated with my turbulent state of mind, but I couldn't put that thing down. And then, on page 132, I got my answer. In an interview with Rolling Stone's Keith Richards, Kurt Loder asks, Any life lessons you'd like to pass on to that younger generation?

"First off, don't do anything if there's not joy in it, a sense of exhilaration. A day is a day, and each one is going bye-bye, and you've only got so many more in front of you. Friendship is probably one of the most important things in life. Apart from your immediate family, it's about friends -- the ability to make friends, the ability to forgive friends. And their ability to forgive you. It's just the ability to enjoy other people's company, really. Then you've got it all, man. The rest of it's gravy."

Right then I knew I'd have to turn down a wonderful job opportunity because if I had to work odd hours in a strange city where I didn't know anyone, at this point in my life it wouldn't matter how great the gig was. I decided to take my chances in limbo a little longer rather than be stuck and unhappy far away. And it worked out for me: A few days later I got an offer from one of the places I've been freelancing. They created a permanent position for me. Working during the day! Not on weekends! Not on HOLIDAYS, either! And I can take the train, which means no more parking!

I don't have to be able to see cc to know she's reading this and rolling her eyes that I got inspiration from a man who allegedly snorted his father's ashes, but someone who's been rocking as hard and as long as he has must know a thing or two about a thing or two.

Even though it's not a book, I decided that because of its heft, the front-to-back way I tackled it and what it did for me, Rolling Stone's The Fortieth Anniversary deserves an entry in my notebook right under the scathing review of Atonement:

5/07

The Fortieth Anniversary
Rolling Stone

Interview issue; what the greats went through in the Sixties is still relevant. Eye opening.

A

catching up with my queue

H has seen a lot of movies. Seriously, a lot. One night when I admitted I hadn’t seen any of the Terminator movies or (at that time) any of the Die Hards or Rockys, either, he seemed to be infected with a touch of cinematic superiority. He’ll deny it, but I could hear it in his voice. However, that was strictly Hollywood. As soon as we compared our numbers to incorporate Bollywood, my cumulative digits became a whole lot more competitive.

When I got a subscription to a mail-in DVD service, I felt like I could finally begin to keep up with everyone else in my demographic. Also, the "magic" mailbox in the lobby of my dungeon office made for a very fast turnaround. Back when I worked those crazy night hours, there were weeks where I'd put away a movie a day. As the statistics below show, I have used Netflix to regain the street cred I missed out on during all those formative years when I was forced to live without cable-- all the movies I'd only heard about. But really, those little red envelopes kept me sane while I couldn't hang out with any friends or family. Here’s the breakdown:

Movies that have come to my house, were seen and returned since December 6, 2004: 184

Movies to which I have awarded five stars (out of five): 20

Movies to which I have awarded 1 star: 12

Movies to which I wish I could have awarded zero or fewer stars: 1 (I'm looking at you, The Puffy Chair)

Sets of DVDS of television shows on this list (at least one season): 5

Movies that were actually released between December 6, 2004 and June 1, 2007 that I watched within that time period via Netflix: 12

Movies I watched not in English: 24

Movies I watched not in color: 16

Movies I watched that were musicals: 21

Movies I watched that were musicals not in English or in color: 6

I would sit there in the dungeon, browsing movies, rating ones I'd seen (currently at 836) and adding interesting recommendations to the queue to be sent to my house. I spent a lot of downtime doing this, which is probably why there are so many. But looking at the list, I felt guilty about having 317. So I vowed to keep it to no more than 3oo and I have culled the queue down to 294 upcoming and six that are saved for when they will be released on DVD.

I gladly work days now, but that means that my free time isn't all mine. Don't get me wrong, I love being able to pick up the phone and talk to people when they are actually awake, but it also means I have to share the remote control and must watch such interesting-but-not-what-I-would-have-chosen treats like a National Geographic's Dangerous World episode on lethal roads. Or cricket. Plus, with my hefty nightly Hindi soap-opera schedule, these days those little envelopes collect quite a bit of dust before I get to them.

But I'm not worried. Watching movies that have been out for a really long time puts distance between myself and the hype and often I've forgotten what I'd heard about them when they came out. Several old movies with twists have been killed by people because they assume everybody's already in the know. Citizen Kane is a fine example, but the worst was Chinatown, which I had to take off the list hoping that in ten years I'll have forgotten what I couldn't help but read on accident. (Putting SPOILER ALERT at the top of a list in small type isn't enough of a warning, Wired Magazine.)

Perhaps one of these days I'll sit down and take off all the movies that aren't readily recognizable to really cut into my list. Actually, probably not. There will have been so much time between when I made the picks and when I get the films that each envelope becomes a lovely surprise-- sort of like flipping through the channels late at night and catching a cool movie I'd only heard about right at the beginning. You know, except without the threat of getting sucked into an infomercial.

last day (pt. 2)

when mel and i got to the karaoke bar, a few people were there already, sipping on mai tais. we hung out and swapped stories about the company until the rest of the crew arrived and the festivities began.

not everyone sang, but i held anyone who had promised to take the stage to their word. and though some may not have been happy with their performances, i thought everybody was fantastic. i can't believe it'd taken me, a girl who even sings along to commercials, so long to experience coordinated lounge singing. i got on stage and the mic started to shake violently (which seems to be a trend this year). or maybe it was just my voice. i realized that even though in my head i can sing along with ms. karen carpenter, there's a distinct difference between your range when no one's listening and the one you have when you get up in front of a crowd. i had some trouble holding the low notes, but i didn't see anyone cover their ears. regardless, it was my party and it was really fun. here is our collective contribution to the entertainment of the evening:

"summer lovin'," from Grease (duet)
"what's up," four non-blondes
"crocodile rock," elton john
"night shift," the commodores (VERY appropriate considering the company)
"margaritaville," jimmy buffett
"you give love a bad name," bon jovi (a boisterous quartet)
some frank sinatra song that had everyone mock slowdancing up front
"nuthin' but a'g' thang," snoop dogg featuring dr. dre (duet) with cadiz dancing backup
"superstar," karen carpenter

we closed out the karaoke place and because we were having so much fun, we moved the party around the corner to a bar that had a dance floor. my supervisor TORE it up on the dance floor, proclaiming, "THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN THE SINGING!" i didn't agree completely, but i'll admit that after getting on stage, being silly getting our groove on seems like child's play.

it was a great evening. because it wasn't close to the office, was on a thursday night went till 4:30 a.m., i'm happy so many people came out and stayed so long. someone pulled me aside at the bar and said she wished i'd leave every week. yeah, i'm going to choose to believe she meant that she was enjoying herself. and considering the circumstances it sure beats the usual sendoff tradition, which would have had all of us standing around at the local dive bar discussing how i don't have anything lined up and all the things wrong with the people running the company.

i think i've got my karaoke fix for a good while. but if i have a hankering to serenade again, i know just the people to call.