Ed lives at the top of my street. Ed has lived at the top of my street since 1940 and has never left. Ed sits on his porch and likes to complain or criticize. A lot. Here is a list of the top 3 criticisms lobbed my way:

-God, girl, you are always running, why don't you get up earlier?
-Why do you wear those high heels- YOU'RE GUNNA BREAK YOUR NECK!
-Why you gotta always be working on your house?

...assorted other comments about where I ride my bike, why, our recycling, our dog, our cat, what time we come in.

Bill lives next door. Bill is older and is mentally challenged. He had lots of keys and things attached to his beltloops and pockets and he loves to greet me whenever I am coming or going. Greet with a lot of hugs and if he can get a wet kiss in, he will. Which becomes a challenge since, as Ed points out, I am always late. Which then presents another problem because if I do not greet him properly, he gets "mad at me". Meaning when I enter the scene, he likes to bellow out that I am "mean" and all the other friendly neighbors have to look at me, the mean, late girl in high heels. Awkward.

Barbara rides the bus with me. She is darling. She gets her hair done at Mr. Earls. She loves to talk with me about fashions.

Since I've re-instituted the contact option (and chose this lovely template, which I must change), I was contacted by an old friend I worked with at Wired who I havent spoken with in 10 years. He was the most hard-working guy on the advertising side but got fired out of the clear blue sky for seemingly no reason by our two insane bosses.

The first office was super shotty, a third floor loft space with a chain linked fence at the top of the stairs serving as security, patchy peices of carpet, exposed brick walls. I christened the storage area in the back as my home. Some boxes and old equipment were pushed aside to carve out room for a wobbly wicker table leftover from ? and an even wobblier wicker chair. An old mac was plopped on top. My desk! I was thrilled. It was dark back there, and the fibers of the maroony-brown carpet were pulling away, making for nice yarn-snares for people running around in hurry. This was the Grotto.

In place were a duo of ad pros, the aforementioned lunatic bosses. A conservative looking woman in POWERSUITS and an Australian with the world's worst dandruff and oral hygeine. Oh, and a charming habit of rolling in late in the morning with the dandruff and nonhygiene, reeking of corn whisky.

Powersuit had a habit of yelling at me from the "office" the twosome shared only a few yards away. For anything. Everything. She had a robust-sized posterior, usually parked on her chair, from where she would bellow. Loud, too, like I was a little girl upstairs who was about to miss the school bus. HOOLLL-YYYYY!!! Panicked, I'd trip over the carpet and spill into her office to have her blame me for something I'd never heard of. In fairness, they were successful in filling the first issues of the magazine with paid advertisers. This sort of success, however, produced grim results. Every time. A contract would be negotiated over the phone, the reciever would slam down and paint-peeling shrieks would sound off. By the time I'd trip into the office, the posterior would have been removed from the chair and could be seen high in the air with her legs wrapped around the whiskey-dandruff partner. I shudder.

The end of their stint with the magazine was not without drama. I seem to recall they left in the middle of the night only to then have my phone ring days later and in hushed tones I heard: "ITS ME--DO NOT SAY WHO YOU ARE TALKING TO...NOW, TELL ME WHAT EVERYONE IS SAYING". Oh, the drama! I sort of miss it.

Must rant, now, from my Achievement Zone:

Who are these people who must be the first to blurt news? Who? Its a race! Pant, pant. I don't get it. But I am starting to. Which helps somehow.

Just sat through a generally dreary yet palpably tense status meeting. I actually had some good news to report-- a project I (and only I) have been slaving away on. I drew in a breath, and a woman (unrelated to project) bellowed out my cool news before I could form a word. BAAARK. (This is not the first time, by any stretch, in the by the by category.)

These people are the same sorts that tell the punchline to other's jokes, blab the ending of a story. Irksome. They are the same people who as kids got too excited at birthday parties with sticky, too-red faces, or the sort of kid friend who wouldn't want you to go home. Ever. "Wait! Look! See? Look at my Tuesday Taylor doll. Bionic Woman!? Wait! Look! LOOK!" The sort of person who always bought everyone beers. Ah, I can appreciate them now. Heh.

The following statements have made my day:

"I have to go interview someone now. Think it would be bad if I just pulled her in a conference room, put my head down on the table and fell alseep?"

"Next to the words craft and offering, I think the most abused word is now appreciate. 'I appreciate your concerns with the entirity of our creative campaign.' Bullshit. 'I appreciate the fact that you want to put thumbtacks in my eye sockets! Best, Suzy'."

"Yeah, I am looking for that info, its somewhere here in my office. Cube. Whatever."
"You mean your Achievement Zone."

Hellz yes. Acheivement zone. Make Every Day Count!