Going to attempt to be gentle with myself

I was supposed to have a brand new year, a brand new me, with the start of a Celtic new year, Samhain, November 1. Didn't happen. I worked until 6:45 tonight and barely made the 7:40 train to Beverly. And then had to drive 30 mins...

I, of course, have no one to blame but myself. No one is holding a gun to my head making me work 13 hours. No one is telling me that "sorry, I couldn't get to it" isn't a legitimate excuse when you're clearly working more than 10 hours a day. Still...

But tonight I called YogaChick, who gave me a bit of perspective:

"You ARE being really hard on yourself. Just take a step back and stop looking at what you haven't done and look at what you can do. So, your new year didn't happen Nov 1. Maybe it happens Nov 3. And people know how great you are. What you do this week, or next, won't really matter in the long run.

I know she's right. And so I shall try to begin this year's new year from here on in. A video I found on YouTube can only help.



I have a plot and some character ideas this year as it is, so the rest should be gravy. Plus, here's anticipating I actually succeed in doing something for me .

Enormouse Sense of Accomplishment

We're LIVE!

The test that I have been slavishly toiling away at promoting and publicizing and touting and recommending -- because it IS the coolest thing since sliced bread (well, as far as language psychometrics go...) -- is now fully functional. Our first test taker will sit the exam on Friday in New York City.

It has been a long, tough slog. It has been challenging, it has been life-sucking, but it has also been amazing, inspiring and a fair amount of fun.

And when we had our team call this morning and the Ops Lead over in London said, "well, folks, we're live!" I found myself clapping and grinning from ear to ear.

So, to all of my readers who have put up with the tales of CBL and the moaning and wailing and gnashing of teeth, I say thanks. Seriously. Thank You. Because this moment of satisfaction is really -- REALLY -- worthwhile.

Another List

Here's a list of things I've learned this week from GoodBuddy:

If you cut yourself shaving, a band-aid is the best first plan of attack

If your cellphone gets wet, popping it into the microwave for "a second or two" will not help

If you reference Molliere and Office Space together and/or more than once in a single conversation, stop talking.

And the hits just keep on comin.

Imagine that

GoodBuddy and I went to see Paranormal Activity over the weekend. Not great. Not bad but I could have predicted the ending about 20 mins in and I think they missed the opportunity for a lot of character and plot development that would have made it much more compelling. But what do I know?

But here's a real horror story for you.

Before we left, GB decided (well, I decided for him) that he would look less grubby if he shaved. And because he's GoodBuddy, he cut himself shaving. And instead of putting a band-aid on, he proceeded to bleed -- all over himself, his clothes, my clothes, my furniture, my floor...

He didn't have any other clothes to change into, so he left the bloody sweatshirt on for the trip. We get to the theater and he goes to throw some stuff into the trunk. (You can't leave anything to chance in Danvers.)

"Ooooh, that woulda been hard to explain if we'd gotten pulled over."

"What's that?"

Trunk of the car held exactly the following:
1 pick axe
1 shovel

You can't make this shit up.

They're just so ... French...

I have never really had a problem with the French. I took French in high school, although I was never very talented at foreign languages (ironic that). I love Eddie Izzard who is a big fan of "doing it in French." I love baguettes and wine and perfume and Les Miz.

Still ...

Today, it was raining and cold in the Big Apple. After 10 full hours of CBL, I had a long walk down 7th Ave. with heels on, holding an umbrella and dodging tourists. I can't tell you how many puddles soaked me up to the ankles.

I wanted to take refuge. I wanted to grab a hot pretzel, a cold Diet Coke and put my woolies on. I wanted to curl up on an uber soft mattress and rent a couple of chick flicks.

Instead, I walked into the hotel amidst what can only be described as a Flock of Frenchies. A whole crowd of them, completely taking over the lobby. I wove my way through them to the elevator, desperate to get to my room on the 25th floor. Along the way, I lost half the hot pretzel I'd gotten. Salt littered the way like I was Gretel hinting to my trailing Hansel. (mixing cultural metaphors, I realize.) An up arrow lit up, a door opened, and I jumped into the waiting car.

And then...

In piled the French. Men and women, all for some reason stinking like grilled meat. Five, six, eight, ten people crowded in. I squealed quietly and shoved myself further into the corner. Fur coats and leather jackets pressed in against me. Slowly, the car elevated, stopping floor by floor by floor.

People spilled out, but still no one moved to grant me some breathing room in my corner. I still stayed squashed, staring at the back of a coat with the words "Pont Neuf" emblazoned upon them.

Finally, I heard, "Qu'est-qui vingt cinq?'

"Vingt-cinq c'est moi!" I exclaimed.

You shoul have seen how fast they moved out of my way! Maybe they really didn't know I was there. Maybe they just didn't care.

C'est si bon.