As I sit here at my desk, attempting to finish a report that doesn't interest me one iota, I occasionally look up from my work. I've seen a witch, a passable Keanu Reeves Matrix impersonation, Satan and a doctor. Funny thing is, I don't fully appreciate their efforts, nor do I mentally smack myself for not coming up with a clever idea for a costume of my own.

This workplace has sucked the whimsy out of me.

Maybe it's in the lost and found somewhere, waiting patiently for me to miss it enough to go looking for it. For the time being, it can be still and make friends with the hats and gloves, the earphone sets and the wide assortment of key chains.

Happy Hallowe'en. May all your goodies be calorie-free.

Okay, can someone email me and tell me why I'm such a big, dumb dog?

Pattering after everyone, working my ass off to achieve, simply wanting to please? I'm Odie, for fuck's sake.

And why do most people see a person who lives to do a good job, then proceed to treat said person like something they stepped in? Although at the same time, they still want you to continue performing (most likely taking on the lion's share of their workload) so their lives are not disrupted in any way. Also, they have the benefit of walking away feeling better about themselves for the credit that's been heaped on them from on high.

I'm not saying I crave the limelight to the exclusion of everyone else, I just want to be included. I don't want to sit at my desk, fighting back tears because they screwed me over once again. I am well aware that's how they get their jollies. I'm not a member of their team but I work like a mule to make them look good; who wouldn't take advantage of that, I guess.

John Mayer, baby!

http://www.johnlabattcentre.com/calendar/112003-03.html

I'm going alone. Yes, that's right, alone. I'll make friends with the little girlies on all sides of me, we will sway and swoon and sing all the words to all the songs and I shall be a happy camper. I'll buy an outrageously priced t-shirt which I will sleep in, the better to induce Mayer-esque dreams.

John Mayer, baby!

I'm gearing up to figure out how to participate in an online auction.

The stuff I'm seeing in the previews is absolutely awesome. Check it out and tell your friends!

I just finished a monster project for my boss. Well, truth be told, it's 66.6666666% done, but the rest will wait. I keyed 1,000 Social Insurance Numbers today. Thank heavens for my discman and my mix cds!

I'm now cramping up nicely.

On a lighter note, I must go home and do laundry, pack and clean the Jeep in preparation for my trip south in the wee hours of tomorrow morning. There are few things I enjoy more than opening up the vehicle on one of the 400-highways as the eastern sky turns from midnight blue to fifty shades of blues and pinks as the sun makes its way westward. What with my love of cars and remotes, I might just have a touch more testosterone in me than is medically recommended.

I've been asked to speak at Homecoming! Only because someone else dropped out of the panel discussion, mind. It has to do with me starting my own business. I don't have much to say yet, but I'm sure I can fudge a few introductory remarks on the decisions that brought me to where I am now, and the rest of the time it's just fielding questions. No worries, mon.

Wish me luck!

I had a big, juicy entry 75% done, and the computer crashed. After all this time, you'd think I would learn to do these things in a Word document. I'm a dumbass.

You would have loved it. It was all about my *not* attending JournalCon. It was full of longing and imagery with a theme and a motif thrown in for good measure. It was 100 times better than the drivel you're reading now. Sorry.

Here I sit, fighting the rage. I want to be a real writer, someone who can bring forth the giggles, or make me think. I want to turn a delicate phrase or grab my keyboard by the tail and make people's minds draw a magnificent picture.

Someday.

I can't get a ministry session to open on my computer. So, it's 8:53 on a Tuesday morning and I am allowed to leave my CLOSED sign up until my login decides to pop up. Students sit in their chairs not ten feet away from me and glower at my incredible luck. I have already checked my email, scanned the 3WA Active Topics Page and applied my cuticle conditioner. I should really pay my MusterCurd by phone, but that might be considered actually taunting the kids. Not that this concept bothers me at the moment.

Early October is always a bad time in the office. We've just spent five weeks releasing huge amounts of student loans to (for the most part) immature, rude, grumpy kids who want their money so they can spend the lion's share of it on rent for the pricey condos some profiteer built across the road, and on beer. Lest you think I am old and bitter and mislead, I have actually had boys turn on the charm to try to convince me not to take a portion of their loans to pay tuition for those exact reasons. The remainder of my opinion was formed by the conversations I've overheard in the washrooms and walking to and from the parking lot. I know the deal.

Part of my morning ritual is putting the dog out for her morning constitutional(s). There are times, trust me, when I suspect she's only dancing at the back door to go out and bark like an idiot at the insane squirrel posse that likes to taunt her from the telephone wires. But that's sort of playing roulette with the carpet, so I usually give in and let her out.

This morning, I opened the back door and was hit with not only a blast of arctic air, but snow flakes! Freakin' snow flakes! This isn't right people. I mean, I know I live in Canada where it's supposed to be this wall of snow and ice at the Windsor/Detroit border, but that's just a joke. (Or a sad commentary on those Americans who choose not to give a rat's ass about learning anything about us, short of memorizing the words to Blame Canada).

I had to dig my winter coat out of storage, and was horrified when I saw the state of the leather. It needs a drink of that wonderful spray I buy at Danier that gets me all high and makes my coat audibly say, "Ahhhhhh". At the last second, I snagged my scarf and gloves too. Better safe than frozen. Then I had to rethink what I had been planning to wear. Skimpy black summery dress pants, a silk thong and a light sweater simply wouldn't fly today, my friends. I opted instead for an Eddie Bauer polo, jeans, N!ke socks and my thick Columbia hiking shoes. As I put on my jeans, I noticed that Lisa at work was not too far wrong when she commented last week, "Nice pants, Baggy Ass Girl". Charming, non?

With only minutes to go before I was officially late, I ventured downstairs to the pile of laundry beside the dryer. This pile contains clothes that are a) too big, b)too small or c) I probably shouldn't be seen wearing in public. My packrat tendencies won't allow me to get rid of anything unless it's moth-eaten, horribly misshapen or covered in bleach speckles. Today I was looking for a pair of jeans. My old size 12 Eddie Bauer jeans.

Almost trembling with anticipation, I drew them up my calves, over my knees, around my thighs. It's usually at this point when they won't go any further and I wind up eating a box of chocolate chip cookies or a loaf of toasted bread. This time, gloriously, they slipped gently over my hips and sat, waiting to be buttoned.

Today, life is good.

I don't think there's any way to say this without sounding like a dork, but my eye doctor appointment was quite pleasureable. I've always liked my doctor, and when I asked him a couple of questions at the end of my checkup he spent another 20 minutes with me, showing me PowerPoint presentations of laser surgery and another surgery that entails replacement of the lens behind the cornea, a la cataract surgery. I'm also looking into those contacts you can wear, nonstop, for a month.

Then it was off to the frame room! I had recruited my Mom and the frame lady to make my decision for me, since I just don't do that sort of thing. After trying on almost every frame in the joint, we settled on one that is a lovely caramel colour, and much the same shape as Dana's glasses. Which is good, since I was looking for something a tad more dramatic than the basic wire ones I've had for years. $314 later, I made my appointment to pick them up next Tuesday. I must truly be a shopaholic, if even that sort of shopping makes me tingle in all the right places.

I also spoke with the infertility doctor today. Unfortunately, The Boy has to endure another date with a plastic cup before we attend the orientation session revolving around my first date with the turkey baster. Ain't technology grand?

My final call of the day involved the dentist. I always try to book an appointment with them in the evening, and he only works late one day a week. At this point, the earliest I could get in was mid-November. They like to harumph a lot when the appointment is months after I should go but hell, I haven't had a cavity in almost 15 years, so another eight weeks isn't going to make a big dif.

The positive note of the day is that the much-dreaded pink eye isn't materializing. Score! An addition to the positive note of the day revolves around the fact that the season premiere of Angel is on tonight. Bonus score!