So this is how it feels...

OK - so, ya'all know I truly and wholeheartedly believe that The Universe puts you where you need to be when you step into it's flow... right?

So, when there's a million reasons to get to the Morrissey concert early, but you get there late, and when you walk up to the queue at the exact time as someone else, and when that someone else is also on their lonesome and that someone else is smart and a Morrissey fan and British and his favorite movie is (for legitimate reasons) Donnie Darko and he's a progressive Professor of Political Science, well ... that's the Universe talking. Right?

Goodness, I hope, right.

Because, for the first time in years, I feel freaking giddy. I mean, can you hear the smile in my words? Can you sense this ridiculous ear to ear grin?

Guess I gotta trust in that there Universe thingy.

To his credit, he DID email me yesterday after making it back to Connecticut, where he's a professor. And his email DID include a question - which COULD be seen as an opening for a conversation.

But maybe he's also just being nice. Because he's British. And polite.

To quote my favorite movie of all time: "I hate that Goddamn, it's wonderful to be alive feeling!" Because it's oh so very wonderful and oh so very awful.

If he never writes/calls again - I had a really amazing night.

But, oh, I really oh so hope he does.

And, as my brilliant, insightful, YogaGirl friend pointed out: "You can either believe he will. Or believe he won't. So you might as well believe he will."

Too Many Notes

My best friend and I share a love of the movie "Amadeus." In particular, we enjoy the portrayal of Emporer Joseph by Jeffrey Jones and his memorable line about Mozart's opera:

"I liked it. There were just ... too many notes."

This is how I feel about a lot of things. Like CBL ... I like her. She just has ... too many notes.

It's a way of saying there's something that bothers you about someone that you can't quite put your finger on. And, sure, there's lots of things about CBL that I CAN point out that bother me. She emails me at 7 at night and tells me to call her to discuss a project after I've worked 12 hours. She sends 30 emails in a night, several of which are all responses to one single email you've written. She throws temper tantrums in restaurants because she thinks everyone is picking on her. But these are all specifics.

There's also this elusive quality that makes me grit my teeth. Even when she's trying to be nice or she's not being particularly insane, she drives me batty. Maybe, as my wonderful therapist suggests, it's just because I spend so much time or energy dealing with her that ANY intrusion into my life is too much. (And, that's only goiing to get worse when she moves out here this spring.) Or maybe it's because I try so hard to surround myself with people of substance and rich spiritual lives that I see right through her vaporwear. I don't know. It just feels like ... too many notes.

Of course, when I get to feeling like this, I should also point out that I am a total heel. Because, in reviewing a presentation draft I'd sent her a few days ago for a big meeting with our division president she replied like this:

"It's really great, but I think you should do a better job of highlighting your accomplishments. You've done so much really fantastic work this quarter that you should really toot your own horn."

Hi there, I'd like a little salt on my foot please.

So, we''ll see how it goes with CBL live and in the flesh all week. We'll get to hang in Boson and be BFF's Forever! And we'll see if I can maybe focus on her good points and drown out some of those extraneous notes.

How Old Are We?

So, this week I was down in our nation's capitol hanging out with CBL and our VP of Marketing. It was a VERY entertaining week.

Aside from the fact that the Veep Marketing and I had some ... ahem ... nice chats that said lots without exactly saying anything, I would have to say the highlight of the trip was when CBL threw a temper tantrum at dinner.

Yep, a temper tantrum. Complete with pounding fists on table and a teary storm off to the ladies'.

I'm sorry, did you say you were forty-seven? And a Vice President?

The tantrum came about because I had reported in on a meeting I'd had wherein someone in Europe had opted out of a program we're running. Not because the program sucks or because they don't like us but because they don't have the bandwidth or budget and it doesn't fit into their strategy. Pretty straightforward, right?

Apparently not.

CBL decided it was a personal attack on her and everything she tries to do. "You just don't understand! I'm so tired of doing everything for the global team and not having anyone appreciate it! I'm so tired of being picked on. You just don't understand!"

Of course, I'm paraphrasing. The tantrum itself went on for about 15 minutes. And then during the taxi back to the hotel. The elevator ride to our respective rooms. And well past breakfast the next morning.

(And don't get me started about how I had to calm her down because "she was so late and had no time to eat and she was just going to get a Chai because she didn't have time to eat and she had to arrange a cab and it really sucks that people expect her to do so much because then she winds up running herself ragged and she's exhausted and starving and she doesn't have time to eat..." You get the point.)

Because I'm in a good place, loving my yoga and feeling centered and grounded, I can laugh at all this. Of course, it doesn't hurt that I know in less than one month, our illustrious President will be in Boston and has specifically requested one-on-one meetings with the entire Americas team. To, ahem, find out how things are going.

Oh, the things i could share....

Voiceless

For the first winter in many, many winters, I have been "under the weather." Usually, each year, I get REALLY sick for about three days and then, boom!, I'm done. All better, thanks. This year, the disgusting head/chest/sinus cold that I've been fighting has lingered and lingered and lingered. And now, I have completely lost my voice.

On Thursday, I gave into feeling sorry for myself and whined to my wonderful therapist, "I just can't seem to get better! And now I'm losing my voice!"

At which she pointed out, "There might be something to look at there."

Even my snot has metaphysical meaning.

You Might Be White Trash If...

I love my home. I have a huge backyard, I'm one mile from a beach in either direction. I have lots of room to "play" and a gourmet kitchen. So, yea, there ain't a whole lot to complain about here.

Of course, it is a White Trash Hood.

I don't actually live on a road. It's more like a cul de sac where the road is a giant, gravel parking lot. None of the houses have a front yard. And at any given time there are no fewer than two cars on concrete blocks, in the process of being repaired.

Oh, did I mention, I live next door to a gas station/convenience store?

(Non-sequitor. Recently, when I cajoled GoodBuddy, who was whining about running out of beer. "Quitcherbitchin. I live next to a Packie." At which, he began laughing hysterically. "That's my little optimistic flower. You don't live next to a gas station. You live next to a Packie. Glass half full!")

But yesterday, I witnessed the pinnacle, the epitome, the piece de la resistance of white trashiness.

Within the foot of snow that blanketed Gloucester, not only was our parking lot/street completely plowed. There was a path snow blown between us and the Packie. Because, God Forbid!, we walk the 10 extra feet to the end of the road to reach the store. No way. We gotta cut across the garden separating the two properties. Our beer could get warm if we took the long way around!