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MissMelisshttp://www.missmeliss.com

Taking Responsibility

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So, I completely and utterly fucked up a file at work. Granted, the client has been less than honest about his income, was late in getting his package back to us, etc, but, still, I’m not good at failure and I hate making mistakes.

I stewed about it all weekend, and as a result I’m tired and crabby.

So, I emailed the bosses, and told them the truth, fully expecting blasting and to be fired or something. Because, you know, I always expect the worst.

Instead, I get told, “Don’t stress; it’s no big deal, mistakes happen, and we’ll work it out.”

I really want to be an underwriter.
There’s so much less stress. Real or not.

In other news, I’m taking the test to renew my notary on 5/15. I’m not worried about it – the information is pretty much common sense. Not like the real estate licensing test, the main fault of which is that it was written by Realtors.

It is far too easy to work in this industry.

Chlorinated

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The lenses of my sunglasses make my skin look tanner than the winter-pale it really is. Winter-pale with sallow undertones. Singularly unappealing until enough sun has been soaked up. Today, I got a start on that.

The pool is still just a little chillier than I’d like, but with the warm sun, the balmy breeze, and the dogs basking on the hot cement deck, I stil had fun splashing around. I used a couple of floats to simulate the same motions as on the machines at Curves, and it felt good to be doing those motions in water. Calming.

I stayed in til I was pruned, and my lips were beginning to turn blue. I hadn’t worn a bathing suit, just a tank top and clean underwear, because finding the bathing suit wasn’t worth the effort. Fuzzy came, grinned at my see-through-when-wet attire, and wrapped a fluffy sun-warmed towel around me.

(It’s my own pool. No one can see into it unless they’re sitting on their roof or standing on a ladder at the fence.)

I sat down, still wrapped in towels, to answer an email message, and do some online bill-paying (I LOVE that feature), testing my arms to see if they felt hot. I tend to forget to wear sunscreen. They didn’t. They don’t. I got lucky. The smell of sunshine mixed with a hint of chlorine was all around me, though, and I was getting cold.

I padded into the bathroom to shower, noting that there were faint strapmarks, at least. A hothothot shower never feels better than when you’re really cold and a bit damp, from weather or from swimming. I stayed too long under the spray, but I was still finished, dressed, before Fuzzy even began his own shower. It’s Saturday, and we were lazy today…I made an omelette earlier, but otherwise we’ve accomplished nothing.

We’re going out to find dinner, and to buy a DVD I really want. I’m excited. I have the taste of grilled chicken on my brain, and really want some tonight. Or a grilled hamburger. Summer foods. Summer Saturday.

Even if it is only May 1st.

Tra-la! It’s May!

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Tra-la! It’s May!
The lusty month of May!
That lovely month when everyone goes
Blissfully astray.

I’m lusting today too. Not for a person (Fuzzy, you know I adore you, that’s NOT what I meant), but for change. And more money. And a more stable job. Less commission, more salary. And finally, at the age of 33-for-a-couple-months-longer I know that I do, in fact, want to be an underwriter, and having a goal is good.

Tra-la! It’s here!
That shocking time of year –
When tons of wicked little thoughts
Merrily appear.

My wicked thoughts are only partly centered on the man still asleep in the bedroom. I bought a flat of strawberries from the guy who stands on the corner and sells them (he had mangoes, too, but I have no use for a flat of mangoes). And last night, despite the fact that strawberry seeds make my lips itch, I had a small orgy of fruit-eating. They were so sweet and succulent, that they brought to mind fleeting images of all the amazing things you COULD do with them (I mean recipes. No, really…)

It’s May! It’s May!
That gorgeous holiday
When ev’ry maiden
Prays that her lad
Will be a cad…

Actually I’ll take Fuzzy just as he is, thanks, but he is being extra sweet lately, as if he knows I’m more stressed than I’m telling, or just possibly, as if he’s clinging to me because I’m in a “lets make eight gazillion major life changes” mood. There’s a reason opposites attract. I’m a kite, blowing back and forth in the winds of change, and he’s the string, anchoring me firmly to earth, and not letting me fly too far. My poor, patient, stoic husband…change doesn’t go down easily with him.

It’s mad! It’s gay!
A libelous display!
Those dreary vows that ev’ryone takes,
Ev’ryone breaks.
Ev’ryone makes divine mistakes
The lusty month of May!

Broken vows. Is it breaking a vow to seek to leave a company that gives you tons of flexibility even though you maybe aren’t earning enough? It’s a hard trade off. I mean, I like leaving at three, but I can feel the company failing, and it makes me edgy and unfocussed. I’m not sure if this makes sense, but if the company was an entity, a living being, this one would be having internal bleeding. I could highlight everything wrong with it, but not here.

And then, what about the vow to myself? To grow, to advance, to not stagnate. Aren’t the personal vows one makes at LEAST as important as the vows made to external parties?

Whence this fragrance wafting through the air?
What sweet feelings does its scent transmute?
Whence this perfume floating ev’rywhere?
Don’t you know it’s that dear forbidden fruit!
Tra la la la la! That dear forbidden fruit!
Tra la la la la!

Sometimes I wonder if I’m cursed never to feel content, stable, or entirely happy with what I have. I’ve inherited some kind of itchy foot, and it’s harder and harder to control it.

Poor Fuzzy. He’s so patient.

He must be terrified.

Note: Song lyrics are from “The Lusty Month of May” from the musical Camelot. Complete lyrics can be found here.

Unexpexted Gifts

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I’ve had a few comments recently from people I don’t actually “know,” – people who aren’t RL friends or long-time net friends, or bloggers I’ve been reading for ages, and I have to say that each of these comments has been a wonderful gift.

A trackback ping from Liz led me to her blog, and I’ve discovered a woman who has a lot of the qualities I’d like to enhance when I’m a bit older. (Just a bit, because age is becoming less and less important as I inch toward 35 and 40).

And Jexia left a response in my livejournal that made me giddy for over an hour, just because it was so delightful, as well as her comment here.

They are not the only two, of course, just the two who are most prominent in my mind at this minute. In fact, every comment is a gift, of sorts, even the ones that are just a smilie, or a virtual hug. It’s not so much validation, as a sense that we bloggers are a sort of community.

And that’s really cool.

T3: Goodie Two Shoes

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::Goodie Two Shoes::

Onesome: Goodie– What is your your favorite “goodie” you treat yourself to when you’ve finished a project or maybe even just survived a long day? Ice cream? …a long bath? …a good book?

Books aren’t a goodie, they’re a requirement. New pens, I guess, or new music.

Twosome: Two– Quick! Two things that make you smile! No thinking, just write!
Fuzzy
My dogs

Threesome: Shoes– …and how about your favorite pair of shoes? You know, the ones you look for an occasion to wear! (Yes, guys that ratty pair of tennis shoes does count…)
I recently bought a pair of rubber thongs with really thick soles, and a bit of a wedge shape. They’re ugly as sin, really, and were a whopping $7 at Target, but I love them. They’re so comfortable, and they make my feet look damned sexy.

Questions from The Back Porch

Moral Dilemma

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The problem with caring about a cause, an issue, a concept, is that at some point your caring, your committment, are bound to be tested.

I knew, when I joined Curves, that the owner of the parent company was a fundamentalist Christian. I read on the CurvesForum, the night before my first session, that there are some franchises that play Christian workout music, and while I respect the right of anyone to worship in any way they want, I made up my mind that if confronted by such music, I’d ask them to change it. Admittedly, in the privacy of my own home, I also joked about the concept of Christian workout music. Even Fuzzy, who grew up Baptist, found humor in this. As he said, “It brings a whole new dimension to ‘Jesus, Lift Thy Cross’.”

Then, as did many people, I read in various places about how the Gary Heavin, the founder of Curves, donates a portion of the profits to anti-choice organizations. And this…this troubles me. In fact it’s made me heartsick.

While my time at Curves has been brief, I’ve never been to a gym that felt comfortable, and non-judgemental. I get a kick out of the old Chinese woman who challenges you to jogging races on the recovery boards, and am vicariously proud of the highschool student who comes in alone after school, and quietly goes about her workout. I even enjoy the cheesy “hooked on oldies” workout music. It’s hard to dread the next machine when “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” is chorusing in your brain.

And at the same time, the thought of going back in there, now that I have this knowledge, is giving me the same, “Lightning shall strike me down” feeling that I had while sitting through an extremely anti-semitic Christmas sermon, the first time I visited Fuzzy.

I could stop going, but there’s no other gym in my neighborhood that is female-only, inexpensive, and offers drop in circuit training. If I had the money, I’d open my own franchise, but alas, I don’t. I could donate an amount equal to what I spend to a pro-choice organization, but that wouldn’t really be more than a band-aid on my conscious.

And so I’m torn, and I’m tired. The two are not related. I’m burnt out by work, by life, by the last few days of heat. I’m just…tired. Stressed. And what I want more than anything is to retreat from the world and sleep for a week, because right now I’m not sleeping. Or, I am, but it’s fitful and unsatisfying.

I wonder if my sleep is disturbed because I’m so stuck on this whole Curves issue.

Roastless

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I’d planned to cook a roast tonight, but it was still rock solid when I got home, so we went with plan b – pasta primavera. I forgot to add the salt and pepper, but other than that it was good. Asparagus, mushrooms, zucchini, onions, garlic, cherry tomatoes, a little cream, a little cheese, and some herbs. (As I was sittng here recounting this I realized I also forgot the peas and carrots. Oh, well.)

We used spinach fettucini, and the vibrant veggies on the green pasta were tranquil and springy, healthy, and delicious, aided by the cool evening breeze and lovely conversation.

Roasts aren’t so important.
And there’s always tomorrow.