The sky outside my office window is delicate this morning, like pale blue silk swirled with cream. Even though the sun is up, it isn't fully daylight, and a wash of pink shrouds the world the way a bridal veil hides one's face. For a moment, all is still, the space between breaths, and then the quiet morning is blown away, quite literally, buy the wind that comes whistling through the trees sounding like a steam engine's stuttering whistle as it pushes past the cracked-open windows of my house.

The wind seems to be a prairie wind just now, of the sort that both Willa Cather and Laura Ingalls Wilder both wrote – ceaseless, constant, almost a being in its own right, alternately a howling monster and a whispering stranger, a brutal enemy or a caressing lover. Last night, tucked into bed with small dogs pressed against me, the wind was a comforting sound, easing me down into the waves of sleep.

This morning, though, the bluster is sort of hollow. In another life, one as recent as two months ago, I'd be staying home, making tea, writing in bursts like gusts of wind. Instead, I'm dashing out this blog entry, and heading to Starbucks for a triple venti latte and (because my mood calls for it) a butter croissant, on the way to work.

At work, with doors that encourage you to step through them in digitally devised pseudo-female voices heavily laced with the gentle tone one uses when addressing the criminally insane, and windows that allow us to see the world from behind their hermetically sealed panes of tinted glass, the wind is left outside. There is no breeze, no taste of outside, just stale office air, recycled, re-used, reduced to something LIKE actual air, but not quite IT.

And the wind is left outside.

When we moved back to California from South Dakota in 1998, I opened an account with BofA as the bank we were using in SoDak had no branches west of the Rocky Mountains at the time. I've never particularly liked anything about them, other than their tendency to be pretty much everywhere.

When we moved to Texas, we opened a local BofA account, because BofA California and BofA the rest of the world are on different computer systems, and while the ATM cards let you withdraw from any machine, you cannot deposit into a California account from a Texas ATM, etc.

But now I work for a really big financial institution, and as employees are given spiffy perqs like free accounts with instant overdraft approval and features one generally has to have constant, large balances for, for free, and as I've just spent far too long fighting with BofA's customer service (and I use that term in the loosest possible manner, as really, they wouldn't talk to me (even though they always have before) because Fuzzy's name is listed first on our checking account, and therefore the ID linked to the online account is his, nevermind that the man has to ASK ME what his ss# is, most of the time), I'm actually considering moving banks, even though we have so much stuff on autopay that it will be a total hassle.

So I'm seeking your input, because all of you are intelligent, net-savvy folks with a range of patience with customer service that pretty much brackets my own. Tell me about your bank? Not details, of course. And do note, I am doing other sorts of research as well, I'm just curious about what you love and hate from a customer standpoint.

And yeah. Comments are screened. Poll Follows under separate entry.

It might be the result of a triple venti (nonfat) cinnamon dolce latte consumed while doing countless “high cost loan” worksheets during the afternoon training session today, or it might be due to the storm front that has finally arrived (although we've only gotten minimal rain), cooling and moistening the air, if not the earth, but I'm antsy and wired today. I came home (after a post-work dinner with Fuzzy, and a post-dinner trip to buy cute office supplies) considering taking the dogs out even though it's full dark. It's only eight-thirty, actually, and our neighborhood is pretty safe, so I might, still.

I haven't felt at all energetic in a while. I've felt both bored and boring, dry, stale, stagnating. I've jotted some stuff in my new moleskine, but the pretty journal is largely unadultered by my messy scrawl, and I haven't been near a computer long enough to compose anything.

I've surfed a few blogs, but I have no focus for blogging right now, more interested in waiting til I decide where I want to go with the blog this year. I know that things will change once I'm back on a schedule more suited to my normal sleep patterns, but, like Kate in the fluffy but cute “Kate and Leopold,” I'm already feeling that Sundays are tainted by having to go to work on Monday, though it's not that I don't like my job (hate the training, but like the actual job), as much as the HAVING to be there. If it were optional, even if the option was psychological, I wouldn't have to fight this trapped feeling, and wouldn't have to endlessly, silently, internally chant, “It's not forever, and it doesn't define you.” (I've put that in the blog often enough now that it should be obvious this is a real issue.

I don't post about the day to day stuff at work, because it's work, and I've always tried to keep work out of my blog. Always. It's too dangerous not to. I'm not good with euphamisms, or cute blognames for real places and people, so if I tell anything it will be everything, and that's just really unwise.

I wake up in the middle of the night and feel suffocated. I like the money, but I don't like having to have a schedule. I feel like there's never enough TIME, and I don't like living this way. I'm losing my sense of balance. I haven't written or IM'd with certain people who mean much, and give much, and I feel bad, but there's just no time, or when there IS time, the energy is wrong.

*Breathe*

It's only been a month.
I have to give it time. Find a rhythm.
Remember to breathe.
Yeah.
That.

A friend at OD mentioned hearing a radio discussion about a chair with a built-in juicer that is apparently all the rage at strip clubs. So of course I had to google it. . . let's just say, it brings a whole new dimension to the notion of “fresh squeezed juice”.

My First Moleskine

Originally uploaded by Ms.Snarky.

Ms. Eclectic and her enthusiasm for these retro-chic notebooks are what finally caused me to succumb, but the word “Moleskine” has been flickering around my head for over a year – I think I have WarriorPoet(2), over at OD, to blame for it really. But I'm not entirely sure.

In any case, the black notebook with the graph-paper pages beckoned to me from the shelves of Barnes and Noble, tonight, and since I was in a writing mood, and my feet hurt, and I'd already picked two books, I decided that the time was ripe to purchase my very first Moleskine. I smiled when I opened it and found that it really did come with a postcard (with a quotation from Italo Calvino)…a notebook with inspiration to write! How clever.

(If you're one of the three people left on the planet who doesn't know why Moleskines are cool, go here, and read all about them.)

The picture in this entry was taken with my camera phone, hence the poor lighting and focus, but I think it captures the spirit of cafe creativity really well.

I have to go now. There's writing to be done.

And yes, this is in addition to the red leather journal.

The brown wrapper and silver foil used to mean somehing special to me. They used to mean a magical few moments with sweet darkness melting on my tongue while a smile spread across my lips. Alas, the silver foil is long gone, replaced many years ago by a plastic mockery of the old wrapping, and to my utter disappointment, more than the wrapping has changed.

Unwrapping a Hershey bar used to be special, even a little mysterious. The slightly stiff outer layer of paper would whisper at me when I peeled it open carefully, or hiss when I went for the more visceral RIP. The foil would uncrinkle with a metallic sigh. The dark chocolate would be revealed, it's sections waiting to be neatly broken and shared among all present, or simply savored one at a time.

Tonight, when I ripped open the slippery plastic painted in classic Hershey silver and brown, it clung to my fingers with staticky insistance, and I had to fight to make it fall to the table top, for later crumpling. And the chocolate? Well, perhaps my palate has been spoiled by too much chocolate noir, tempered with Godiva raspberry bars and Dan's truffles, but my Hershey bar resembled chocolate about as much as my chihuahua resembles a wild wolf – there was a slight relationship, but not much more.

Am I too much a snob because I no longer find pleasure in the simplicity of a Hershey bar, or is it the candy company that is failing to put forth a product worth savoring.

Maybe a little of both.

So, I was watching “Before Sunset” yesterday, while sitting on the couch in a Nyquil-induced altered state,and there was this bit where Ethan “I so need a shower” Hawke's character was talking about the concept of writing an entire novel that takes place in the space of a single song, and I thought, “Now THAT would be really cool,” and I've resolved to play with it at some point.

* * * * *

Earlier this week, the chick who desperately needs hair style help on Surface quoted Albert Einstein on imagination, “Imagination is more important than knowledge,” and I remembered writing that down in one of my “magic notebooks” at some point in my life (probably eons ago in high school AP Chemistry), and liking the notion…this inspired me to set up my digital commonplace, something I've been meaning to do, and have never gotten around to, though friends have started THEIRS. Anyway, if you're curious it's here. It's a work in progress, and not really planned for public consumption as much as my own ease of use, but hey, it's there, so read if you want.

* * * * *

My new favorite drink is Starbucks' Cinnamon Dolce Latte (though I generally order it with non-fat milk, and foam instead of whipped cream). It's a perfect morning drink, and goes really well with a plain croissant or some fruit, but works well in the afternoon as well.

* * * * *

I still can't shake this cough. I'm not really SICK, as much as dehydrated, and the cough is a reaction to that and to the really bad air we've had lately. There was a grass fire across the street from work the other day, and in my head I can still smell the burnt-popcorn-like stench of flaming grass. I wonder if this feeling of dryness I have is more mental than physical…almost, I think it is, but I bought a humidifier anyway.

* * * * *

My posting will be spotty for the next few weeks, as I rebalance my schedule, my job, all sorts of tiny personal things. I feel sort of stale, and need to recharge the batteries and consult with my muse. She's teasing me with those lovely blue Ty Nant bottles, you see, and that won't do.

I woke up groggy today, thanks to taking antihistamines far too late at night to be anything but annoying, but sleeping in the car, drinking a lot of coffee, and laughing a lot at work have all helped to melt away the benadryl-haze, and now, in the wee hours of Thursday morning, I find myself pleasantly tired, and ready for some kind of change.

It's as if something clicked in the back of my brain, and has tricked me into thinking it's all downhill from here, and I can stop pedalling and just coast for a while. Not that coasting is something to aspire to – it's NOT – but once in a while, I think it's okay to just breathe and…be…without any specific plan.

Except, not having a plan is sort of my plan, at least for a while.

Also, with Holidailies nearly over, I'm thinking of new blog designs, and maybe a new title. We shall see.

Lauren Weisburger

Everyone Worth Knowing was exactly what I needed to read in during December. I'd been on a book hiatus, not reading much of anything new for a couple of weeks, and then I'd started a new job, and needed light reading to pass the time during lunch (I'm determined NOT to get in the habit of expensive restaurant lunches), so when I saw that Lauren Weisberger (author of The Devil Wears Prada) had a new book out, I HAD to have it.

I was not disappointed. Targetting the PR industry instead of the publishing this industry, this time, Weisberger gives us quirky characters who could be people we actually know, too much coffee, and just enough trendy brand- and name- dropping to make even a soccer mom feel like she's in the know.

I'm sending my copy off to a friend, and I can't wait to hear what he thinks of it.

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