quislet

This morning was nice. I slept like the dead, and awoke in that almost-hung-over sort of blissful stupor that can only come from living well and sleeping with utter abandon. The sky was drizzly in a sleepy sort of way, and traffic wasn't too bad. My dear #2 had her ducks in a row and we didn't even fight over her daily school-prep routine before I dropped her off at school. Ah, the joys of fathering a pre-teen daughter...

Work started out in a lazy but directed manner, with a list of important but perfectly attainable goals waiting for me. Feeling the uncharacterisic dearth of the usual firedrill upon firedrill that my boss begets daily, I picked my way through my table of to-dos. I had worked my way to just about halfway down this list when "el jefe" summoned me into his office to meet a visiting engineer from Brazil.

You see, I'm the new point man for all things Brazilian on our team, tasked with schmoozing and hiney-kissing our poor, disgruntled brethren in the land of samba and cachaça. This was all well and good, really just "smile and nod" time because the pointy-haired Cuban can't stop trying to do my three- and four-syllable job in two-syllable words. But then he invites said Brazilian to lunch, and off-handedly invites me. I really don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth (or a theoretically free lunch, either), but lunch is the time when I *escape* from the boss. I had already coordinated an outing to a new place that is supposed to make killer Cuban sandwiches (which, if you haven't yet tasted, you definitely should!), and now I had to un-coordinate my attendance.

This really bummed me out. I'm perfectly capable of handling the necessary politicking, but my methods and those of the boss-man are nearly antithetical. The ensuing clash inevitably proves to be painful, to say the least. Regardless, it's my job, and it pays the bills, so I resolved to shine even under the ever-cloudy skies that surround this man who claims to manage me. Lunchtime came, and then it went. He left without me, and he even had to pass my desk to leave. That sucked.

After a particularly intense bout of cursing the man, his ancestors, and his progeny, I shuffled off to the cafeteria with a little cartoon raincloud hovering just over my head. I suppose you could say I'm a little bitter. A ray of sunshine broke through when the sandwich lady had red bell peppers and deli mustard today. She's a sweet slavic woman who makes sandwiches with love, like a mother instead of with precision, like a chef. There is a place in this world for each of those methods, and they're both wonderful. The sandwich was so much fun that I decided to forgo my ascetic beverage choice of water and instead splurge on a Diet Dr. Pepper (I didn't win the contest under the cap, though).

I spent the afternoon navigating through a political morass that has become like unto a Bermuda Triangle stretching between Fort Lauderdale, Mexico City, and Guayaquil (the #2 city in Ecuador). With inimitable skill and consummate genius, I think I have finally managed to out-flank the gutless (and witless) account team into either admitting their lack of strategy or asking for my help. This job simply cannot be done in two-syllable words, regardless of what my would-be taskmaster thinks (with no small effort on his part, I might add). Did I mention that I'm bitter?

Looking toward the undeniable bright spot in my day, I tiptoed out of work early to jet off to my hair appointment. [Cue the suspenseful part of the soundtrack] I have this thing about people who cut my hair, you see. It could probably be classified as a phobia. I have to know the person who cuts my hair *really* well. It's clearly a trust issue. The same lady has been cutting my hair for seven years now, and she's a beautiful, delightful, extremely talented woman from upstate New York. I adore her. She works wonders, and she's even learned to work with my Faire beard. I got to chat with

ginger_rose on the way to the salon, and decided to make her usual stop to pick up the mail. There was a stack of mail full of the typical junk and holiday catalogs, and there were two boxes. One from Amazon (still unopened, probably containing some cool Florida gardening books I ordered), and one from...Seattle? Did I order something from Seattle? Well, who's it from? U...T...I...no way! [Cue the Snoopy Dance music] My utilikilt came early!! They said it would be at least six weeks!!

Not only did my utilikilt arrive (it's a tan mocker, if you're wondering), but it fits *and* I got to wear it to my hair appointment. The cherry on top was when one of the hairdressers started asking if I was regimental, and then had to explain the concept to the rest of the hairdressers. I left that place a very well-groomed man with a bevy of beautiful women discussing the questionable existence of my undergarments. Michael Jordan, eat your Hanes-wearing heart out!

I ask you, is there any better way to redeem such a day than this? I think not!