I’ve finally settled in to my new office at work. I’ve set out my family pictures and my dying lucky bamboo.

I often find myself gazing longingly out my NEW HUGE WINDOW.

I can’t tell you what a difference the natural light makes after being in a windowless office with the ambience of a broom closet. I can tell you if it’s hazy, sunny, cloudy, partly cloudy, partly sunny, hailing, raining cats and dogs, drizzling rain, or spitting snow. Want to e-mail me and ask me what the weather’s like? Go ahead!

This is the sixth office I’ve occupied at my company in six years. Granted my entire company moved from another building about three years ago and there were at least three departmental moves this most recent round, but I am hoping this office “sticks.” Through the years at the other two companies I worked for I experienced the full monty of workplace setups: the shared cubicle where I literally rubbed elbows with my office mate and heard all her “business,” the private cubicle where I could kick off my shoes in peace, a private office without a window, and a shared office without a window.

I’m definitely staking out my new office because not only do I have a window, but I am now directly across from the kitchen slash break room, which, as we all know, is the hub of workplace action. I can keep tabs on the days bagels are brought in to celebrate a big sale, the all-important coffee supply, the people who never put their dirty coffee mug in the dishwasher, and the People magazine stash. I think I’ll sprinkle some extra bagel crumbs into the crevices of my keyboard to stake my claim.

I’ve already managed to insert my foot in my mouth by talking about how much I love having a window to one of my co-workers who reminded me that she works in a cubicle. (I’m in good company, though, with the FIMD.)

Come to think of it, maybe I need to bring bagels for everyone tomorrow before a secret plot to move me to the mail room starts brewing. Of course a situation like this may call for Krispy Kreme extra glazed.

So I think I’m killing my lucky bamboo plant I have here at the office. It’s in a fun little whimsical jade green pot encircled with frogs. My stepmom bought it for me at a flea market while we were in Florida last month. Aren’t frogs also supposed to be lucky, or am I delirious from hunger? (I am running on coffee and a few bites of Miss A’s abandoned cereal bar.)

I moved it from the window to my desk when someone pointed out that, although it was basking in the sunshine streaming through my window, it was directly underneath the air conditioning vent.

Anyone have any advice?

A black cat also ran in front of my car yesterday so I don’t want to take any chances.

Monday is not my best day of the week. I am usually frazzled, wrinkled, and stressed.

But today?

The girls were fed and dressed by 7:30.

We left for daycare and work by 8.

In a clean car.

I am wearing “new” white pants from Banana Republic (hand-me-downs from my mom, so technically they are new to me)…and they are still white.

Miss C was excited beyond belief because she and one of her best friends at daycare are wearing the same skirt today.

I thought I’d made a mistake in a document I’d sent to a client for work, but it turns out I didn’t.

Two out of three beds in our house are made.

I am caught up on laundry.

I listed a few things on eBay last night and people are already stalking them.

I have a vague idea of what I am making for dinner.

I heard some vintage Dwight on the radio on the way home (now you know I have an inner honky tonk girl just dyin’ to get out.)

And yes it’s a fine day, despite the fact that when I got home from taking the hubby a turkey sandwich and started to make one for myself I couldn’t find the package of sliced deli turkey anywhere. I called the hubby to make sure I hadn’t put the package of meat in with his lunch and then he asked, “Have you checked the yard?”

“Sh*t!”

Click.

I went outside and sure enough there was the tell tale mangled plastic package on the ground. Of course I’m the idiot who left it out on the counter and didn’t shut the dogs out.

Oh no, Jack’s not feeling guilty.

And yes, he’s notorious for doing this sort of thing.

As a woman of many words, I am very surprised to find myself searching for a term that describes the desire to tell the woman who walks into the ladies restroom just as you are washing your hands that the overwhelming aroma they’ve just been knocked over with was there when you walked in, too.

Yesterday was our annual company summer outing.

We had it a little early this year as my company is doing a lot of stuff this year. How’s that for vague? I have a rule about not blogging about work, even though I know one of my co-workers comments occasionally, but this is pretty harmless. I think.

We headed to a local park for a cookout. An afternoon softball game was scheduled and we had two croquet games set up for those of us weaker in constitution. That would be me! I love me some croquet in 80-plus degree weather! Especially since we were much, much closer to the coolers of bottled water and the beloved shade. At one point I just quit drinking water, dehydration and urinary tract infection be damned, because I was told to avoid the public restroom at all costs. I seriously considered heading to the woods and peeing behind a tree, but I decided that wouldn’t be a good move considering my boss as well as the president and CEO of our company were both present. But seriously, I would rather commune with Mother Nature’s porta potty than a nasty public park restroom with no soap and toilet paper.

Before the afternoon softball and croquet games kicked off we had a few relay type races. The second race was a potato relay race. We had to put a potato between our legs and run, walk, hobble, or jump as best we could to an appointed marker and then head back to the next person where we would hand off the potato. Immediately into the race we all figured out it was a much faster strategy to place the potato inbetween our upper things, pretty close to our crotches, and squeeze it while we hobbled the relay as best we could…none of this wimpy between the knee stuff.

I’m just glad I was off today because I’m sure there were a lot of hot potato jokes circulating around the office.

I have a marketing meeting every Monday and I’m the only mother at the table.

One of my co-workers is getting married and was talking about how she was relieved that her formal family bridal showers were over with and that it would be nice to have all the family co-mingling over with.

I just had to pipe in…

“Wait until you have kids!”

Oh dear Lord what has become of me?

At least I didn’t do any finger wagging.

Ugh.

I don’t want to be the working mother killjoy of the office but sometimes I look at the glass half empty. It’s not that it is impossible to live a charmed, balance life, and I have a fairly flexible job, but I don’t think anyone can prepare you for the sometimes craziness of marriage and having kids and working.

But then there are days when I am fully in my game, I get to work early, I get projects finished before deadline, I manage to cook dinner without burning anything and I get a couple of loads of laundry done and actually folded and put away and the girls go to bed by 8:30.

And then there are days, like Monday, when my inner crotchety old lady tries to come out. I have noticed that I’ve started bringing home jelly packets in my purse from the Cracker Barrel and that can’t be good.

This entire post about former Beverly Hills 90210 star Ian Ziering reportedly being asked by Playgirl to pose nude cracks me up. I never watched much of 90210, but I was a junior in college when it debuted. I was more of a Melrose Place kind of gal. In fact, I think I still have the Melrose Place soundtrack on cassette tape.

Speaking of Playgirl, somewhere along with my collection of 4-H ribbons and school yearbooks is an autographed magazine filled with nekkid men that will surely be a family treasure to pass on to my girls when they are at the appropriate age.

I was working in the “branding and media services” department six years ago (that’s corporate BS jargonese for internal communications) at a large company here in Nashville. This was pre-kids when I still had that ambitious twinkle in my eye to get my grubby hands on the corporate ladder. My boss was named a VP and they restructured the management position over my department in such a way that it was actually not out of the question that I could qualify for it since I had 10 years’ of experience at the time.

Being little miss ambitious, I applied for the job and lo and behold I was flown out to Houston to interview with the head corporate person in charge of the new division. I did not get the job, but I came home with an autographed copy of Playgirl which was a great story to tell my all female co-workers.

During the flight I ended up sitting next to a very tall Italian man whose ego just about knocked me out of my seat. The Italian Stallion and I chit chatted for a while and he told me he was traveling on a book tour. This instantly got my attention since I am all about all things of the literary/publishing persuasion. I thought to myself, “OK, maybe this guy isn’t a shallow all brawn, no brain kind of guy.” He then proceeded to tell me he had recently been named the Playgirl magazine Man of the Year and he was touring the country. He pulled out his black satchel of goodies and the flight attendants were practically falling into his lap. Luckily the only thing he pulled out of the bag was a handful of magazines and a black Sharpie. There’s nothing more awkward then flipping through a magazine and looking at nude pictures of a man sitting right next to you. I mean what do you say? Nice tan? Who’s your stylist? How’d you get all that grease out of your hair?

Any way, I’ve always wondered what happened to the guy since he wanted to break into the entertainment industry. Ahem.