Climbin' the corporate step stool

I don't usually blog about work, but I kind of want to brag a little bit so I hope you'll forgive me.

Today it was announced at work so I can officially share that I was promoted! Hoo-rah! Now I have a "Manager of..." title and will have a direct report. Which means that I'm supposed to be a Grown Up Lady who is in control of her business.

This also means no more jeans and ponytails at the office.

Which is a bummer. I was really getting used to not wearing pantyhose and high heels everyday.

This is my problem, folks. I can do casual. I can do business appropriate (actually the official dress code at a former job). I totally fail at business casual, even more so considering I work in a "creative field". Okay, I work in the Arts. So nothing sexy like advertising going on over here...

Any of my fashionable hard-workin' lady/man (I don't exclude) friends have any opinions about rocking out jeans and a ponytail/clipped up hair do while still looking all professional, respectable, funky, grown-up lady like? because I'd love to hear them!

I'd, uh, also like to be comfortable and able to get dressed in like, 10 minutes, if possible.

Red cup!

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Starbucks released their seasonal holiday drinks yesterday. I'm sipping my first Gingerbread Latte of the year, only to discover with disappointment that I'm finding it too sweet. Christmas is ruined.

I Hate/Love Adult Ballet Class, or, How to Humiliate a Megan

Adult Ballet class is not easy, people. I hate it. I have a new love for ballet, an incredible respect for people who do it, but seriously. I hate Monday nights from 7-8:15.

The first time Gary held my hand was on our fourth date. (How gentlemanly!) Remind me to someday tell you the horrifying tale of our first kiss. Because let me tell you, it's a miracle he even called me again, let alone that we're still dating and share a postal code.

So anyway. On that magical fourth date evening, the first words out of his mouth upon clasping my hand were, "ooh, clammy hands."

This is relevant because last night, I was forced against my will to HOLD HANDS with another woman over the age of 20 and SKIP.

Did I mention that we are encouraged to wear tights and leotards?*

And the whole time, running through my head was:

pointedfeetbackstraighttummyinbumtightOHMYGODSWEATYPALMSpointedfeet

Adult ballet is HARD, people. Not only because it requires grace, class, and elegance, but also because it makes you want to die on the inside.

*tease. I wear yoga pants. But I get glares from Miss Ballet Instructor, who is alarmingly scary and I might actually consider the leotard and tights combo to avoid any further scorn.

AND ANOTHER THING!

Dear Facebook,

Please stop prompting me to "reconnect" with ex-boyfriends. Um, thanks for the daily reminder of my youthful stupidity?

Hugs and kisses,

Megan

Things that Chap my Hide: November 2 Edition

This morning I reveled in the joy of the end of Daylight Savings time and actually responded to my alarm clock, getting out of bed at an appropriate time.

I leisurely had breakfast, did up my hair, put on makeup, even dressed myself in an outfit with coordinating accessories. It was going to be a good day!

Then I got ready to leave our apartment and noticed, on my way out the door, that I had a giant run in my tights. We're talkin' knee to ankle. Brand new tights. Why do I even bother?!

I hate you, tights, for making me scramble to choose a different outfit, fussing up my hair and making me miss the early bus. I arrived not early to work, looking mussed and haggard, as always. Thanks. A LOT.

Secondly, what is it with me and bringing random cans to work for lunch? Last week I brought a can of fruit cocktail. To work. For lunch. This is not an appropriate lunch. Today at least I have a can of soup. But that's it. Grumble.

Thirdly, the sound of the printer at work is driving me crazy, but everyone else has either a) deserted us for greener less insane pastures or b) has the H1N1 and is too sick to come to work. Dang you all.

I'm the Marquess of Grumpsalot today, peoples. And I'm wearing cheap synthetic new shoes from Payless that are blistering my tiniest toes juuuust in time for my ballet class tonight.

Tacos!

I was scolded again yesterday for failing to post before either the morning coffee break or lunch time.

I didn't realize that I was providing important procrastinatory reading materials- but noted.

Today it is windy and cold and I still have a headache. I am looking sadly at my frozen entree lunch (not smelly version) and dreaming of a time, say 5:30ish, where I'll be able to strip off this pantyhose and put on fleecy pants and eat tacos.

Oh, Tuesday. Half way to Wednesday which is half way to the weekend. The only good thing about you is the promise of Tacos.

What's the good thing about your Tuesday?

ONE THOUSAND POST FIVE!

Holy Mackerel.

One thousand blog posts. That's insane, peoples. Can you believe that I can't commit to writing a mere 10,000 words of fiction, but I can churn out a thousand posts full of mindless drivel in a mere 3.75 years?

Well, I did. And to celebrate, I'm sitting at home with a migraine that has lasted about 22 hours. Red wine didn't kill it, advil didn't kill it, caffeine didn't kill it, tylenol did nothing, sleep didn't help. I'm out of ideas, people, and that doesn't bode well for the next thousand blog posts.

Anywhooodle, the end of October looms, and with it the promise of my favourite month of sulking, brooding and jazz-listening shimmers softly in the distance. November is upon us, bringing the annual Butter Chicken and Love Actually marathon, the red wine and sad bastard music pit of despair, and the annual anxiety over how I could possibly procure meaningful, touching, one-of-a-kind and yet, cheap holiday gifts for my family members.

Huzzah!

Also, I'm kind of wavering on joining NANOWRIMO this year. For those not in the know- that's a pledge to write an entire novel in the month of November.

Because being a novelist would finally give me the excuse I've been looking for to consume even more coffee.

Gender Equality and Apartment Living

Saturday night Gary and I were getting ready to go to a fundraiser party to support a local children's charity. We only have one bathroom, but I've been doing a tandem you shower while I apply makeup dance since I was old enough to wear makeup, so it's not a big deal.

Gary was in the shower and I was minding my own business, blow drying out my massive head of hair when the lights went out.

After a year of running my blow dryer on the RAZOR ONLY outlet in the light fixture, THAT was the day the breaker blew.

Now, I thought the whole reason I moved in with a man was to avoid the following situations:

Negotiating with Vermin
Garbage Duties
Heavy Lifting
Anything involving electricity

I am perfectly capable of dealing with all of the above on my own, but y'know, sometimes it's refreshing to not have to worry about standing in the dark trying to remember where the breaker box is.

The breaker box, for the record, is down the hall.

Gary, being in the shower so both wet and unclothed, did not volunteer to get out of the shower and resolve our situation.

So I padded down the hall, swung open the door to the utility space and started fiddling with switches.

Did I mention that the garbage chute is in this same room? And that the door closed behind me? And that the room is pretty creepy to begin with? And that when the really nice lady who lives at the end of the hall flung the door open to throw her garbage down the chute I scared the CRAP out of her?

Yeeeah.

So anyway. Note to self. Try to hold door open with foot when restoring light to apartment.

Or get boy to do it.