Notes from staff meeting in November, after calculating the estimated hourly salary of all present and concluding that the money could be better spent on an AIG-style retreat:

There is no excuse on earth for devouring anyone’s time this way. For the love of Pete, set us free.

Time to break with reality.

If it’s all an illusion, play with it. Don’t be so damn timid and obeisant and compliant. Talk back.

Refuse.

Say no.

The world won’t stop. And don’t be afraid to walk away. Two years of wasted hours is more than enough.

(Doodle of palm tree and sunrays through clouds over rippling water.) (Flower and vine border)

If I were free and could be at home, how would I spend my time?

Mountain Week.
Beach Week.
Move ‘em Out Week.
Dance in Underwear Week.
Wear Pajamas All Week Week.
Eat Only Ice Cream Week.
Sleep Late Week.
Walk at Dawn Week.
Sunbathe Naked on the Roof Week.
Sew Two New Outfits Week.
Crank Calls Week (with Caller ID disabled)
Use “Basically” and “Utilize” in Every Sentence Week.
Opposite Week.
British Accent Week.
Drunk By Noon Week.
Curse Like a Sailor Week.
Be Ten Minutes Late Week.
Show Up a Day Early Week.
Don’t Answer the Phone Week.
Sing Instead of Talk Week.
Embarrass Teenagers Week.
Disrupt Dull Meetings Week.

That’s almost six months of wacky self-indulgence. My creative juices would certainly be flowing enough at that point to think up another six months’ worth.


God is pitying us. We’ve made up silly outfits and gathered in rooms where no woman present has hair in her natural color, all so we can feel obliged to suffer through these interminable and ultimately meaningless meetings.

Our lives include hours, even YEARS, of doing things  we don’t want to do and think we have no choice but to endure.

And all of that (except the hair—this mousy, gray streaked, once-blonde is my own, thank you) is absolutely true about me, even when I think I know better, because I’m as cowed by others’ expectations as anyone else.

Why do I think that I have to keep doing these things I hate doing?
 Why do I still make my decisions based on fear?

Nine years is the limit for my last two addresses. January 2009 will be 9 years at the current address. What is about to happen to help me move on?

Meetings like the ones in the last few weeks—and all through the last few years—are huge flashing signs from the Universe that are telling me that I am not aligned with my purpose and that I’m not where I belong.

Being categorized as an INFP could become my explanation and excuse for all sorts of rebellious behavior. I could stand up in this meeting right now and say, “GOT IT! THE POINT WAS MADE 45 MINUTES AGO. THE HORSE COULD NOT BE MORE DEAD.”

(Doodle of ragdoll splayed on floor with x’s for eyes and a swirl of stars and asterisks and “at” signs over her head. Other rag dolls in suits are standing over her with hands on hips trying to figure out what’s wrong. Star border.)