Helo, Mr. CrazyMan

I work from home. And on occasion, I have to make very important phone calls. I mean, we're talking 212 area code phone calls. And every time, I have to very carefully plan when these calls take place.

You see, Helo is still a puppy, albeit a 95-lb (and quickly fattening up) puppy whose shoulders come to my waist. And Helo has very specific times during the day in which he likes to be a crazy man.

Now whenever it's revealed that Helo is the reason I can't talk before 11am or after 3pm, I always get the same, sweet, well-intentioned but highly ignorant response:

"Oh, I LOVE dogs!! Don't worry about it! We'll be fine, I'm sure."

No, my friend. No we will not be fine. Because unlike most puppies who can be ignored during their romp around the dining room table or incessant banging into your leg. when Helo plays, couch cushions are flying through the air, the rug is skidding across the floor, and every once in awhile, my lap appears to be the perfect launching pad for his ginormous frame.

In other words, when Helo decides it's time to play, my work day comes to a screeching halt.

Here's what a very tame play time looks like...anyone want to suffer through the no-holds-barred version?

The month I was called Al

Once upon a time, when I worked at a marketing agency, my boss, who always referred to me as amanda, starting calling me AL in his email correspondence.

At first I thought it was just a simple error. A brain bubble, if you will. Because it was quite clear that my name was not Albert, or Alfred, or Aldo, or Alonzo, or Al Borland, or Alchemy (although I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to that last one).

But the mistake continued. And it got to the point where not only was I AL in email correspondence, but I became AL when he wanted to visit my desk to ask a question and AL when he greeted me upon entering the conference room.

I laughed it off, of course, because I am nothing if not a good sport (and highly aware of when I may be missing the big picture), but this activity continued for the better part of a month or so until it dawned on me...

The dawning occurred after a mass email went out, in which my boss not only referred to me as AL, but my coworkers Dennis B. and Erin A. as DB and EA.

So AL wasn’t a short form of Aldous or Alma. AL were my new initials. (Without the periods, of course. Because we know how tiresome periods can be when sending off quick emails). I just hadn’t realized it yet.

All of my assumptions of him being funny or mischievous or cryptic couldn’t have been farther from the truth. He was merely being accurate.

While I was left with the sudden realization that I’d be suck with a man’s name for my initials for the rest of my life.

The One Moment I Was a Celebrity

Sorry to state the obvious here, but I am not a celebrity. I know, surprise, surprise, right?

The closest I ever get to being anything near a celebrity is when I'm thrown in a room with a bunch of unpublished writers. At that point, my celebrity status moves up a half a notch. But even so, if some REAL or even a quasi-celebrity like the Progressive girl walked into that very room, I'd be abandoned in seconds. SECONDS!

I tell you this, because a funny thing happened to me at BEA.

BEA (Book Expo America) is like the big north american book trade show. All the publishers set up booths and show off their goods, and it's literally one of those events where you turn the corner an "OH! There's Tim Gunn!" Then you turn another corner and "OH! There's a really tall Harlem Globetrotter!" and then "OH! There's Michael Ian Black!" (Though I did not know his name at the time...I had to Google it. But I recognized his face!).

So, I'm at this event, and it was just after I was sitting in a rest area, secretly Googling the name of the guy across from me (he seemed really important...turned out he was like an investment millionaire). I walk away, and this random guy walks past me and then I hear him go:

"Megan?! ... Is it...could it be...?"

My heart stopped. What if he's talking to me?! What if he thinks I'm...famous! Oh man. THE PRESSURE! What do I do?! How do I crush his hopes and dreams? And how can I live with myself after experiencing the high of a real celebrity?!

After much contemplation (that took about half a second), I hesitantly turned around.

Yes, the guy had been talking to me. Yes, his face bore the most expectant, hopeful expression.

And yes, all of that came crashing down when he realized that I was in fact not Megan.

And felt bad for letting him down. So bad, i almost apologized to the guy.

Sorry for not being Megan. Sorry for ruining your day.
Sorry for not giving you fodder for your blog.
But look on the bright side! You gave me fodder for mine.

why I could never run for president

In my line of work as a literary agent, I attend writers conferences throughout the year. At many of these conferences, they have these things called panels in which experts in the business sit up front facing the audience and answer questions.

Now I’ve participated in a number of these panels, and they always remind me of presidential debates. I’m not sure exactly why. We never really get into any tiffs up there on stage. There’s occasionally a disagreement or two among professionals but for the most part we respect opinions and try not to make each other sound dumb. So maybe it’s the lights? Or the microphones? Or the use of a moderator? Or the fact that there can be 100+ faces staring back at us, expecting us to say something brilliant and inspiring and insightful?

So anyway, this past September I was on an agent panel at ACFW. Now this is the big gathering for Christian fiction with about 600+ in attendance, including new and published authors, big-time editors, publishing house marketing people and more. So I guess you could say of all the agent panels that I participate in over the course of the year, this is the big one. The one that’s most like a presidential debate.

Well this particular year, someone must have slipped something into my drink. Or perhaps a fellow agent paid off another agent to subliminally fill my mind with ridiculous and useless analogies. Because in the middle of the panel, in the middle of answering a question, I somehow found a way to fit the word “cannibal” into my response.

Moderator: What productivity level do you expect from your clients? Is there a number of books per year that you’re looking for from a client?

(Laughter away from the microphone as Agent Steve Laube says he looks for 12 books per year from each author).

Me (in all seriousness): Every client is different. Now if you take a hiatus... If you decide “I’m going to go visit the...uh...cannibal people” or whatever. We don’t like that.

(Tons of laughter. The sound recording fails to capture the many baffled looks I get from my colleagues).

Me: I was reaching! I was really reaching.

(Laughter).

It’s pretty safe to say that never in the history of ACFW panels had the word “cannibal” been used without associating it with martyrdom. But I used it! And not only did I use it, but I acknowledged that I used it! And everyone laughed. And I’m pretty sure someone tweeted about it later.

So this is why I could never run for president. Because all of my good ideas will be buried by all of the crazy that comes out of my mouth.

And instead of being the candidate with the great plan for world peace or civil liberty or flat tax, I’d be The Cannibal Candidate (or better yet, Amanable the Cannibal) whose deep dark secrets include eating lots of meat (never free range), researching the Donner party in high school and being momentarily obsessed with PBS’s Northwest Passage specials in 2006/07 (in which cannibalism was an outcome).

Do I have your vote?

Amanda Luedeke is Back From the Dead - post 1

Note: I'm going to do a series of posts to kind of wrap up the past few years. A new chapter has begun in my life, and I just feel as though I need to take a minute and reflect on everything that has happened...things that I either couldn't or didn't feel comfortable talking about here, I can now share freely. So I apologize in advance if the posts feel a bit preachy or judgy. I just need to be able to take some time and sort through my thoughts. To catalog where I am at this moment in life. And I also need to catch everyone up. Because the good thing with all of this (one of the many good things) is that Swedish Pankakes is back!


It's been awhile.

Of course the obvious reason for my absence would be lack of interest. I mean how many people at any given time start a blog and then lose interest? Probably nearly everyone. But for me, it wasn't a lack of interest or a lack of content.

It was a lack of time.

Ugh, I hate myself for pulling the time card. Aren't we ALL too busy? Don't we ALL make choices each and every day in terms of how our time will be spent? And don't we all make time for what's really important?

So maybe instead of saying I didn't have the time, I should say that some things were going on that made this blog less of a priority. Way less of a priority.

Last summer, I became a literary agent with MacGregor Literary. Now this was one of the biggest blessings of my life, because I've seen the business...I know how rare it is that someone gets such an opportunity while they're still in their 20s. And I also know how even more rare it is that this should happen to someone who came from outside the publishing world. Someone who happened to be in the right place (for me, it was a Barnes & Noble) at the right time (during an author signing) and make the right impression (still not entirely sure how this part happened).

And so it started. After a year or so working as an assistant, I became an agent. The only problem, was that publishing money is slow money. You can work on a project for a year before you see so much as a dime in return. So, because Tad was unemployed, I had to keep my day job.

For the past year, my life looked something like this:

Work the day job: 8 - 5:30 pm
Go for a run/workout: 5:30 - 7:00 pm
Make and eat dinner: 7 - 8:00 pm
Work as an agent: 8pm - ???

Weekends involved a good dose of work.
Holidays, too.
Vacation time went to attending conferences.
And as for personal time?

As the summer of 2011 approached, things with agenting got more demanding. I had 5 clients. And then I had 10. 15. 20. I rearranged things with my day job to allow myself Wednesdays off and still that wasn't enough. I quit working out, dropped out of all my church commitments, abandoned this blog, and stopped hanging out with friends.

Was it fun? No.
Was it easy? Nope.
Was it worth it? ...

The world is full of people who say they want to do or be something. Of people who have dreams that they're waiting to realize. Goals that they're sitting on. Hopes and visions that they keep locked up in their head, waiting for someone else to do the dirty work or make that job offer or start up that business or finish that novel for them.

But the world is also full of people who take their dreams and goals and ambitions and do something with them. Self-starters, they're called. Entrepreneurs. Visionaries. And in some cases, workaholics.

This whole process has moved me from the first category, to the second. I was a thinker...a dreamer, and now I'm a doer. An achiever. I have a deeper understanding of what I'm capable of and the role that I play in this life that God has given.

And at this moment, the sky is the limit.



Friday was my last day working the day job. And tomorrow is my first day as a full time agent.

So was it worth it? You tell me.

Est. 1983

I really hate including my graduation year in my literary agent bio.

I mean I really really hate it.

It makes me sound as though my college degree is one of my top credentials. As though I'm one of those "Class of '06, baby!" losers who wants every single person to know exactly where I studied and who I graduated with.

And I didn't even go to Princeton or Harvard or Yale. I went to a tiny school in Indiana.
Doesn't really scream prestigious academia, does it.

The truth of the matter is just the other day, someone asked me if I was still in school ... a question I get far too often. And everytime, I just want to scream "No, I'm not still in school. In fact, THERE ARE PEOPLE MY EXACT AGE RUNNING BILLION DOLLAR BUSINESSES AND LEADING NFL TEAMS THROUGH THE PLAYOFFS."

Do you think anyone would ask Jay Cutler or Aaron Rodgers to have their dad contact the service station if their car broke down? Of course not! In fact, they probably don't even get carded at restricted movies or have to tell their insurance guy that they don't qualify for the "good student program". And they're 1983 babies just like me.

So with a heavy sigh, I'll send my bio off to the conference organizers, my 2006 grad date in big, bold letters.

And maybe while I'm there, I'll walk around with a Jimmy John's Est. 1983 t-shirt. Sure, I'll still be one of the young-uns. I'm ok with that. I'm just trying to avoid people asking if I'm agenting as part of an internship (true story).

Any other ideas? BTW, mom jeans, lipstick and a darker hair color are out of the question.

Sidenote: I realize the Jay Cutler/Aaron Rodgers reference was random ... but I'm SO excited for Sunday's game that I couldn't resist. Go Bears!

about things and goings-ons (insert clever post title here)

I’ve been waiting for over a year now to celebrate my Swedish Name Day on this here blog, and what do you know? It came and went and I didn’t say a word. Blast. Well, I’ll get it next year.

The truth of the matter is that I’ve just been too freaking busy. It shows, I know. My posts are few and far between (not that anyone cares) and yet my life is offering up so much good blog fodder that it’s driving me crazy. So just please bear with me. This too shall pass … eventually. Maybe in 2012 when the world comes to an end?

To talk a bit about my busyness, I’d like to direct you to MacGregor Literary’s website. Oh yeah. That tween in the family photo on the home page? That’s me. But I’m not a tween. And that’s not my family. They’re my co-workers.

I’m a Literary Agent! And I feel so very blessed to be given this opportunity. So blessed, in fact, that this post about me feeling sad because I’m older than Jay Cutler and have nothing to show for it is suddenly a bit ridiculous. Because Ha! At least I’m on a winning team!!


P.s. My bio pic is way cuter.

This Morning - as depicted by my classical literature self

It just so happened that the time I was to get up this morning was also the time Tad was to be leaving for work.

And, it just so happened that when I groggily awoke five minutes before my alarm and turned to see Tad still sound asleep, I realized that something was horribly wrong.

“Tad,” I said probably a bit too harshly, “you’re supposed to leave, like, now.”

A flurry of covers and sheets. A moment of aimless wandering. A few “Arghs” and “Grrrs”. The morning had begun.

Though I lay in bed and contemplated his demise for a moment or two, I eventually got up to help him make it to work within a somewhat decent time frame. What can I say? The loving warmth of a bed is a temptation few are able to overcome.

I made his sandwich, leaving him to the intricacies of finding pants. And a shirt! And socks! And his toothbrush! And all seemed to be going along smoothly until more huffing and puffing told me something was amiss.

Alas, the ring was amiss, for it was missing.

Thirty seconds were wasted on locating the ring, but not in vain! For we all know the dangers of going to a place of employment without proper marital status identification (though a recent study showed that women are more likely to pursue the man with a ring …)

And it just so happened that he was out the door in good time and made it to work in time for the time clock to round in such a way that no one would know the truth.

And it just so happened that because of the morning’s events I, too, arrived on time for work, which isn’t generally a problem for me but can be from time to time and definitely is if you consider three minutes after the expected arrival time to be an example of tardiness. (It's a very consistent three minutes, I must say).

Funny how that is.

Back in the Groove

Everyone knows that returning to work after a 10-day vacation is brutal. I don’t care who you are, or how much you love your job, any sane person with a life would agree. (This may be taken to mean if you don't agree, you don't have a life.)

So to ease myself back into the brutality and avoid having the longest week of my life, I decided to go about work with a lighter attitude. A casual approach, if you will.

Because I knew if I would jump in and start thinking about all I had to do and all the deadlines I had to meet and all the words I had to write, I would maybe die. Because you're never worried about dying when you're traveling on the interstate and Holy Cow! We're going 85! But you're always worried about dying when you go from zero to 85 in half a minute.

So to coast my way to normalcy, my new casual attitude involves accepting 8am meetings without flinching, brushing off any requests that include me working at the speed of light as non-issues, and above all, not stressing.

And so far (I'm now into week 2 of this plan) it's working beautifully. So much so that I feel relaxed enough to take the time to write this post. Relaxed enough to have left my laptop at work. Relaxed enough to enjoy the hilarity that is every day office life.

Like the fact that whenever this one girl in my room decides to politely holler across the room at someone else, a giant dump truck or semi or ambulance decides THEN is the perfect time to hit a huge bump and cause all sorts of auditory mayhem.

Every time.

And then every time the recipient of her question asks "what did you say", the racket stops.

Only to start again when she repeats the question.

And if you're wondering if this entire post was created just to have a reason to share the above story, you're right.

Sorry, I'm Married

During my 1.5 year stint as a steakhouse waitress, I managed to acquire one whole phone number. Well, 1 and a half if you count the 16 year-old who insisted on handing me his seven digits while his absolutely mortified mother tried to convince him that I was way too old for him, therefore making the blossoming relationship illegal (and me almost a predator!).

And it was a good thing she talked some sense into him, because let me tell you I was ready to hand in my apron and run off to Mexico with the kid right then and there if he asked me to.

The REAL phone number was scribbled on the back of a receipt. And, if I remember correctly, the tip was about 10%. Scoff. Mutter. Scoff, scoff.

Sure, there were times when I preyed upon unsuspecting males, but I had a definite type. Worn Chuck Taylors, mousy hair, black t-shirts, optional acne, metal-studded leather belts. You know, the sort of single teenager who didn't know if he wanted to be a rockstar or play Halo for the rest of his life. He was my victim. Especially if he came out in groups of three or more.

Alls I had to do was be really really mean and sarcastic, while showing my love through endlessly abundant complementary rolls.

They'd each pay for their $10 or $12 meal with a twenty and tell me to keep the change. And I'd come away from that table with thirty or so dollars.

It was beautiful. And shameless. And quite lucrative.

So this evening, as I walked to my car from Cold Stone (had to cash in on my complementary birthday sundae!), I almost didn't hear the guy call from across the parking lot.

"Excuse me."

Walk, walk.

"Excuse me."

I turned around, ready to say "No, you can't use my phone", or "No, I can't give you a ride" but instead he said this,

"Can I have your phone number?"

Uh. "Sorry," I said, "I'm married."

And as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I felt like I was lying to the guy. And I suddenly wished I'd have accompanied it with a "I'm sure you're a nice guy, but . . ." or a "you know, I hate to say this, I really do, but . . ." because somehow those sorts of intros make it seem less like I'm lying (and scared! and annoyed!) and more like had things been different, the guy would have had a fighting chance.

And then I realized that the New Year is days away and the schmuck probably just needed a date.

Well, he certainly has a few things to learn about choosing your prey.

Nurses (IN NEED)

It wasn't until today, that I heard of the plight of American nurses. They are in need. They are in Desperate Need. And to aid them in their suffering, you and I have the opportunity to join their ranks. It won't be pretty, but it will be well compensated.

So, what say you?

Huh?
What was that?

You don't want to spend 24 months in training only to find yourself in need?

That's okay. There's an even better deal out there...

If you're between 25 and 29, you get to cut that learning time in half and make more than ever. And that whole being in need thing? Turns out this deal doesn't involve nurses in need, but rather a need of nurses!

Who would have thought?!
I'll see you in the ranks.


This has been brought to you by AdVantage - making sense of ads since 2009.

Desperate Writers Call for Desperate Emails

". . . I can send you a few chapters, if you'd be willing to take a look. Then you'll see. Then you'll know. I can't communicate well through email, but I promise I'm better once in Microsoft Word. Just take a look. It'll be worth your wild--I promise you."

Sigh.

No thanks, lady. I happen to cherish my wild very much.

Sweat Shop Stories

Odd things that were said at Tad's interview today:

"Just so you can be aware, here's what you do if you sew your finger: just leave it there and call for me. We've had this happen to three people. Two were able to just leave it there until I came and got the needle out. The other one got scared and jerked his hand away. It took 6 weeks for it to heal because it wasn't a clean cut."

Please keep in mind the needles are the size of the tips of ball point pens.

"And now I'm going to show you something that happens to everyone. You see, to sew, you have to keep your foot on the pedal. Well (and this WILL happen to you), it's easy to forget about that and accidentally tap it when you've got your fingers underneath. And here, look..."

Wham! Wham! She demonstrated what happens when the pedal makes a certain part of the sewing machine slam down.

"See? It's so fast, there's nothing you can do. This will happen. Your fingers will be crushed."

"Well, look forward to seeing you on Monday!"

The Worker

One of the saddest things I see on a near-daily basis is an older man, probably in his 50's or 60's, who stands on the corner of Clinton and Rudisill with a cardboard Little Caesar's Hot N Ready sign in his hands. He paces the corner, sign held out but not up. A hat shields his eyes.

Tad said he saw this man on a bicycle, once. Riding toward the restaurant, his visible work attire giving away his intended destination. He didn't try to hide it. He didn't cover it up.

I don't know who this guy is, what he's been through or why he's now operating as a minimum wage employee. I can only imagine he's a recent layoff victim--a factory worker through and through who's been forced to try his hand at what may seem beneath him. Yet he doesn't give up. He doesn't give in. He keeps on, shift after shift. And every time I see him, I wonder at his determination to make it. To get through whatever it is that has put him on that corner. To come out victorious.

For us, it's a constant reminder that others have it much worse than we do. And we can complain about Tad's unemployment and my hopelessly broken down Volkswagen and how we can't spend money on this and that, but at the end of the day neither of us is holding a sign on a street corner at 55 years of age.

Unicorn! Thus sayeth my boss.

With the proliferation of social media commentary within the market place, specifically within the blogosphere, there is great opportunity to extract data and do so in a meaningful way. I'm just looking for a way to expedite the process and multiply our efforts within the space, and with the integration of our social media compass and other tools, there is great opportunity for that process to provide meaning to the client.


My boss is the most jargon-y person I have ever known. He's like a walking social marketing textbook. It isn't uncommon for him to bust out stuff like the above snippet in casual conversation. It took awhile for me to get used to it and catch up with his ridiculous vocabulary, but I'm finding it easier to follow his train of thought . . . and, in turn, provide actual answers to his questions.

But every once in awhile, he throws a curve ball. A sentence so syllabic and Webster-ed that I sit there with my mouth hanging open and drool gathering on my chin.

The worst part is when he follows it up with a one-word question. Except it's not a question. It's a statement that is looking for an answer...a question, posed as a statement.

Today was no exception. Only I wasn't the recipient of his craziness.

"Means," he said, eyes focused on my co-worker, his expression indicative of an expected answer.

*crickets*

He may as well have said "Unicorn" or "beach ball" or "armpit".

"Means," my co-worker repeated after a moment, clearing his throat.

My boss nodded smugly.

I laughed aloud. It was nice to know I wasn't the only oblivious person in the room.

Fuhrer Assistance

Thanks again for your email, Julia. Please, let me know if I can be of fuhrer assistance.

Amanda, Customer Service


Gasp! That's bad. That's very very bad. Have I made this mistake before? I use the word "further" in nearly every email...what if I've offered Fuhrer assistance to multiple people? In multiple countries? And what if they cash in?

Fuhrer assistance? What is that? The help of a dictator? The promise of oppression in the name of non-oppression? The squelching of dreams of freedom? The sudden offer to participate in a diabolical plan for world conquest that may or may not, according to some individuals in Iran, include genocide?

Better be sure to proofread from here on out. Don't want to make any promises I don't intend to keep . . .

Notes of the Past

One of the most powerful ways to relive a memory is through scent. A friend knew this, and during our stay in Turkey you could find her in her room every morning, spraying a certain body splash and taking it all in. Now, I'm sure, every time she smells that particular fragrance it takes her back to the days of sweltering heat, lamb on a stick, olive Lays potato chips, and no coffee to-go (though I think the latter affected us more than it did her).

I accidentally managed this effect while in Russia a few years prior. I had an inexpensive, 9 or 12 oz. bottle of a sort of tropical melon fragrance that I used on a daily if not bi-daily basis. Every time I happen to stumble across that particular bottle in a box of old items (I never use my fragrances up entirely) or accidentally sample it in the Wal-Mart body splash aisle, I am transported to a place of blistering cold, dogs with no homes, bacon Lays potato chips, and a longing for Lenin to return.

The second most powerful way to relive a memory, I have found, is through sound. I have a shortlist of albums that remind me of where I was and what I was doing when I first truly became engaged with those songs.

Here are five albums that, when played, remind me of different times:


Parachutes by Coldplay:
When the album released in 2000, the popular track "Yellow" held me. The music video was nothing more than a ridiculous at-home-video, but I loved it. I broke down and purchased it a year or so later, but it didn't get adequate playing time in my boombox until my freshman year at college (2002). I'd never heard anything like it nor have I heard anything similar since. Coldplay veered off in a different direction afterward, and well, the sounds of Parachutes will always be just that: the sounds of Parachutes. Every time I hear this album, I am once again in room 106, my roommate Kim doing homework on the bed across from mine and our icicle lights glowing brightly.


Transatlantacism by Death Cab for Cutie:

I was a sophomore in 2003--the year Transatlaticism came out. I hadn't heard of Death Cab before, but was a goner once a friend showed their performance on Letterman (or was it Leno?). This played endlessly in my room, that year, and I'll never forget the moment of panic when realizing that I had purchased my first album with language I would have to hide from my parents. Needless to say, that moment of panic came and went rather quickly, as the sheer perfection of the album formed nothing but love and admiration in my heart for the indie group from Seattle. Listening to this album reminds me of have a double room to myself, sleeping through my Dr. Wes exam, pulling all-nighters and boys.

Speak for Yourself by Imogen Heap:
I've had a slew of female celebrities I've wanted to be. The most persistent, however, was Imogen Heap. This british electronica/pop rocker stole my heart with her collaborative effort as Frou Frou, and the moment her solo album hit the shelves in the summer of 2005, I was there. I took her music to Antalya, Turkey, where I listened to it while seated on our apartment's balcony, overlooking the busy street and monorail below and Mediterranean in the distance.

Our Endless Numbered Days by Iron and Wine:

My return from Turkey brought with it a list of new artists and albums to purchase, as the people responsible for putting the trip together fed my hunger for music. Iron and Wine was one such artist. I had graduated college and in the midst of a 6-week living arrangement with BethEmily when this album entered my life. It followed me out of that apartment and into one of my own, filling the empty walls and floors with its rich sound and at-home feel. It reminds me of those few years I spent living alone, eating rice and potatos and waiting tables.

Girls and Boys by Ingrid Michaelson:
Lastly, I present you the album I brought with my while touring the Chicago suburbs. As an Admissions Counselor in 2008, my primary travel zone was the Chicagoland area. The fun, upbeat songs on this album carried me from traffic jam to traffic jam, school visit to school visit, college fair to college fair, and pizza place to pizza place. This was also the album that witnessed my run-in with homes of my past. Not once. Not twice. But three times. This album reminds me of when I was truly doing something I loved in an area of the country that I'd marry if it were legal...an area I miss so very much.

Called to be an secretary

It's funny how your calling can hit you at any moment out of nowhere. Mine hit me whilst checking my Gmail:

Why, yes! Yes, I've always wanted to become an secretary! I cannot think of anything more fulfilling or thrilling than being an secretary. As a young girl, I dreamed of one day going to school and learning how to become an helper of many sorts. An typer, an filer, an scheduler--AN SECRETARY.

And now? Now, I have an key. And I'm going to unlock the door to my future.

Better write a check for my fee Info!

Men with Jobs Are Hard to Find

We're getting ready to head out, because Tad has a second interview for the position of Team Member at an upstanding and up and coming food service chain. I know, I know. But this is especially exciting, for, if hired, he'll have the chance to move up the chain of command. And then he'll stop saying things like:

"A college degree is only so much toilet paper."

and

"I spend $100000 on nothing. Nothing!"

and

" [INSERT NAME HERE] has a job! [INSERT NAME HERE] has a job! What do I have? A $100000 piece of toilet paper!"

We commemorated this event with a taco dinner.

When Counting Blessings Doesn't Pay Off

Today has seen no fewer than five* torrential downpours. And, because Fort Wayne was a rice field in a former life, the entire city flooded. Within seconds.

My drive to work consisted of 1) me fearing that the 1990 Honda Civic wouldn't make it through the 6-9 inch pools of water, and 2) people getting wet.

As I braced myself upon entering yet another flood zone, I noticed a poor soul on a bicycle. Covered with a green rain poncho, the man was doing all he could to keep his hood up and the bike on the sidewalk.

Until the truck in front of me tore through one of the flood zones, dumping gallons of water on the unsuspecting bicyclist. GALLONS. You have no idea. It was like splash mountain.

I really felt sorry for the guy. His shoes must have been soaked. His face definitely was soaked. And his poncho was suddenly very unnecessary.

How lucky I was to have a car! How fortunate I was to not be splashed upon or given an unwanted bath! How blessed!!!

The next thing I knew, an oncoming truck tore through another giant puddle.

The water shot through my open window and splashed my face to the point where I could no longer see through my glasses.

Somewhere, a heavenly Being was laughing.

*during the writing of this post, the number had to be changed from 'four' to 'five'.


August 16
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