Yes, I've been writing up a lot of blogentries lately, haven't I? That's because most everyone at BIPC is taking their vacation. There's not much to do, I am excrutiatingly bored and must pass the time at work looking busy. This entry will update you to all (well, maybe some) of the drama at BIPC.

First the sad news: My favorite work friend, MB, quit. He's been gone a week. It's for a good reason: He has plans, and he plans on going places. Now BIPC will be an even less fun place to work.

After BIPC let a bunch of people go about a month ago, I told my boss that I had "some ideas" about where our department could go -- excuse me; "grow" -- when I didn't really have much. He kept asking, so yesterday I whipped something up in about five minutes. To my shock, today he told me he is going to be discussing my ideas with the kahunas!

Perhaps I've been too hard on myself about work. Perhaps I should shut up and accept my lot in life. My suggestions, if taken, could keep me working at BIPC but take me away to another location -- BIPC is like that; like cancer we're everywhere. Is that what I want? Would it be jumping from the frying pan into the fire? I think MB said it best: Golden Handcuffs.

A similar BIPC dilemma is this: I've heard some rumors of "opportunities" back in my old stomping grounds. I have missed my life in Colorado. I loved the sunny outdoors there, my group of supportive friends. But, faced with the possibility that I could move back, I wonder if that would be like, uh ... moving back.

Changing the environment would not resolve any larger problems. If it's going to be more of the same ole same ole, then I gotta find a way to not get worked up over valueless jobs. I must get over being single and growing old. Colorado Springs is an economic backwater, and it ain't exactly raining men. If I move somewhere, then shouldn't it be to a place that offers some serious economic and LTR action?

I HATE it when people complain about something, and state that they "know" what would make life better -- and then when it might come to fruition, do an aboutface. I do NOT want to be like that.

HugShyHermit A Oh, but my rental there, I like it so much. It has airy rooms with lots of windows, eleven foot-high ceilings, a small fenced front yard with a view of Pikes Peak. I get a pit in my stomach imagining a breeze moving through the open windows -- I can hear it in the leaves, smell the flowers, see it blowing the curtains at the windows. I see Grace sitting at the door, watching the squirrels. I like my neighbors. It's within walking distance of Red Rocks and the Thai restaurant.

HugShyHermit B Stop being attached to "things"! Don't move so fast. I need to really see what's out there. I've got a resume ready -- blanket the world with it! I should try to parlay my present career so-called into something more creative, more edgy.

HugShyHermit A But... Maybe what I need is a braindead job, then I can devote more time to writing. I like writing. And maybe, just maybe, writing likes me. I could continue looking busy at my p.c. and type away hoodles. Just like now.

HugShyHermit B And what about what I told C & D? That my next move would be to a place where I would settle down permanently? Am I prepared to do that with Colorado? Sure, I lived there for 8 years -- can I live there for twenty? What about Boston? Or Cincinnati? What about a place where it's urban, hip, and I know I like it because I've had experience living there?

HugShyHermit A Like Denver.

*sigh* So I don't know what to do.

No sooner is the scarlet velvet costume discarded than I hurry home to blat out another blog entry.

It's completely different what you experience back stage than when you are in the audience. What you hear instead of the orchestra are the dancers' feet -- rhythmic thumping and drumming as they twirl, run, cascade. With the Nutcracker, it is very 1-and-2-and-3-and-4-and, like the sound of patty-cake. The floor is slightly built up -- a level of plywood or rubber matting or something -- and it "gives" when you move. That's so the dancers won't hurt their feet on a non-pliable surface. (You probably already knew that, didn't you bloggies?)

Also: Everyone talks during the performance. To each other on stage while they're performing and from the wings. "Is it a full house?" "Watch this jump coming up, see if she makes the octoople spin." And it's no backstage sotto voces either; it's normal speaking tones just like you're on the phone or in a meeting or something. Everyone claps and cheers in the wings as their colleagues complete difficult moves. I didn't think you could devote any brainpower to anything other than the dancing -- it's not like it's the Macarena or something. But maybe it's different because everyone's done the Nutcracker so many times. Or maybe it's because they're Professionals.

And: I'm pretty amazed at the physical ability. I can't even touch my toes! Being so close, you can watch muscle groups gliding, contracting, molding, moving in tandem. It's fun to watch. On many levels.

One of the highlights this year has been volunteering in performances here. I really don't know much about either opera and ballet, and being this close brings a new appreciation. (Between the two, I think opera wins out for me.)

Pleasant dreams... Don't let the sugarplum fairies bite!

The times they are a-changin. My blog, technically, is no longer accurate. You see, last week, I turned 41. Yup. 41 and cornered, working on a new chapter: Too young to be old, too old to be young. (Or whatever.)

More so than in awhile, I feel something positive is about to happen. I made the arrangements with the moving company for early January -- back here to my duplex in Dayton. No, I'm not at all happy to be leaving Cincy. But I'm doing this with an end in mind: I'll fix the place up "real cute-like", pay off debts at the same time, and be ready to sell when my new job comes along.

And my resume: I've been working on it, and C, D and my dad helped. It's looking pretty good, and it, too, is ready to fill anyone's e-mail box. I've never looked for a job in the electronic age: My present career (yukka yukka) began in 1997 by mailing in a hardcopy. Articles suggest you save it as a text file so that anyone's system can read it -- and I did that. Some folks wrinkle their noses at the monotype font format with no extras, but I feel it looks fine. In fact it even looks kind of cool.

That leaves my love life. Well, it sucks. I do my day to day stuff, and have my little hobbies so I don't become too much of a shut-in. I keep telling myself I need to embrace being single and what's so great about being coupled anyway? But that's very difficult to do. With my daydreams, I imagine "him": sitting watching a movie, laughing over chinese, sitting out back with a drink mulling over the day. I'm Doris Day, with tattoos and sideburns.

Yes, Doris Day. Gimlet in hand. Lounging about in glorious technicolor, amidst piles of clothes, books and dog hair. Mmmm, Tony, pour me another jigger of Happy, will ya? I should keep doing things on my own that I like to do. And -- *sigh* -- I suppose that even if dates are rare, I've been lucky, so to speak, when I need to be. Que sera, sera...

It had occurred to me I hadn't had a car-crash dream in a very long time -- then I have one. I was driving along fast, highway fast. I was fiddling with the CD player and when I looked up, one of those ugly Hummers was coming at me full barrel and head-on. It was lemon yellow, and my eyes or consciousness or whatever you have in dreams focused right in on the silver front grill -- H- U- M -M -E -R -- shooting at me, lightning speed.

What the hell? These must have something to do with the direction my life is taking or something, right? Maybe it's about my career and making a certain amount of money -- and whether it's worth the cost? What better dreamtool to dreamderail a dreamcareercrisis than the ultra yuppie Hummer?

As far as I'm concerned -- bring on 2004: I'm ready! Here's looking at you, Doris!

Standing backstage at the music hall during tonight's dress rehearsal, one of the dancers struck up a conversation:

"Are you one of the guards?"
"Oh, I only aspire to be."
"You could be me; I'll give you the costume -- it's easy man."
"I think the audience would demand their money back."
"Oh no, half the time they don't even know you're there -- their focus is on the dragon."
"I'll keep that in mind -- I'll watch and maybe I can take your place next year."

chortle chuckle guffaw

I hate reading others' blogs where they squeal about a cute guy that maybe looked at them, so all I'll say is that this guy intimidated me. Maybe I'm so used to dealing with bar trash I don't know how to handle something different.

Participating in the Nutcracker Suite is definitely not for those insecure about their masculinity: My costume is a subtle shade of crimson neon with white piping, pink shoes with cottonballs, and a hat with a cotton-candy feather. We guards carry giant candy canes and strike poses during the middle part of the ballet. Yes I know: very somber and butch.

I volunteered to be an extra here to do something fun -- and to hopefully meet some eligible bachelors! My own stereotypes about the ballet have been dashed: Everyone flashes wedding rings, wifeys and kiddies. The dancer who taught our moves cracked off-color jokes about the female dancers, including the one who is his wife.

What do I have to do to get a date around here: Get arrested?

Here I am at work on Sunday, trying to finish up my annual review. Talk about Creative Writing!

When D picked me up for breakfast at the Vernon Manor this morning, the radio was reporting Saddam's capture. Wow. At the restaurant, too, before they switched to NFL Football, the talking heads were in full launch: The photo they used of Saddam looked more like a retired businessman, harried from delayed flights and lost luggage. "Oh look, they've caught whatshisname," said W, one of the folks in our breakfast group. I couldn't catch any of the details.

At Cost Cutters this afternoon, I asked my hair therapist if she'd heard the news, "Oh yes." She said, snip snip, "They said something about it this morning." Just then the news came on, but a coworker turned on the vacuum machine before I could hear anything. "SSSssh!" my stylist called over, but the woman couldn't hear over the noise. When she turned the vacuum off, the radio had already returned to Billy Idol's "Eyes Without A Face" on the Best Hits of the 80s, 90s and Today.

I'm going to reward myself for completing my review by doing a little "artwork" for an improved blog website that features graphics. hee hee....

I spend so much time believing all the lies...