Thanks, Roadchick and Churlita, for your encouraging comments, and thanks to those who wrote wonderful off-blog emails.  Things have just been so crazy. I know my most recent posts are missing the expository narrative that visitors to this space grew used to reading over the past two years. A video here, a sentence there. Give me a few weeks and, if the new gig is not a 60-hour a week kinda place, I’ll be a better blogger.

Something Churlita said about hoping I’m not wasting my time at the new job struck me, though. First, I hope I won’t feel like that, either. I am one of those people who has to have a complete buy-in to the mission of my company before I can get out of bed in the morning and sit in rush hour traffic to get to my desk. Sounds stupid, you don’t have to tell me that. Especially since I left the poverty of non-profit work for the semi-middle class of corporate cubicles, mission buy-in gets harder. My resume says one thing (writer, community relations) and I am pigeon-holed into another (cubicle monkey who will proofread the back of a cereal box). Years and years of taking an offered job because I was offered nothing better has given me very little faith in the purpose of having a job. Remember all those dates with jerks and assholes because, at the time, it seemed better than your staying home and watching Murder She Wrote with your grandma? Then one day, you woke up feeling shitty and used by the latest asshole, so while suddenly looking forward to the next season of Matlock, you called Grandma to let her know you were free for the millennium? It became like that with me and jobs that I stupidly took for the paycheck without considering if we were a good match. I just decided that I no longer wanted to work. {As an aside: my grandma’s hourly rate for keeping her company was exceeded only by her benefits plan, but family, God bless ‘em, didn’t think the 24-hour sports news channeler and Wheel Watcher was a legitimate line of work and, in a bloody coup,  I was ousted from my position of full-time grandchild and diet Fresca fetcher]

I am hoping this: if I can go from a lifetime of dating assholes to being undamaged enough to receive the Sweetest Lover Ever, I can go from a lifetime of sucky jobs to being undamaged enough to receive the benefits of a people-first corporation who hired me for my writing, but has no intention of sticking me in a cube to proofread Word documents written in 12-pt Comic Sans.

God, please don’t let this be another time waster. Um, thanks.

So I gave notice to my current job. No, not the Tupac-inspired I’m up outta this bitch notice that I gave to the space center, but a real, submitted resignation letter accepted by my manager and HR. All in advance and shit.

My last day is Wednesday, and I start the new gig the Wednesday after that. I have, like, a four-word long title which says absolutely nothing about what I’m expected to do, but it will sound appropriately confusing and official on my digital resume, I suppose. I’ve been re-elevated from lowly writer to something very senior sounding. But to keep up my basic skills, I’ll try to convince my new manager that I totally need a blog.

So ends the longest temporary work assignment ever. Exactly 14 months after what was to be a 45-day project. What I will miss: doing absolutely nothing for eight hours while listening to 3,000 iTunes playlists, chatting with Q, and waiting for the bell to ring. What I will not miss: doing absolutely nothing for eight hours while listening to 3,000 iTunes playlists, chatting with Q, and waiting for the bell to ring.

Hey, look at that: is it lunch time already?

We haven’t been neglecting our space on purpose, just lots of off-blog things going on. I mentioned to Q that maybe we have too many good things going on at one time, which is much better than too many bad things going on, but still…Anyway, Q had a good point that they are not happening all at the same time, we are simply aware of what’s coming. And that, he says, is called planning.

I might marry that guy one day. He is so smart.

I found a list of life changes and took an online stress test out of curiosity. Nothing terrible or unusual. I’ve highlighted some that apply to either Q or me and crossed out some that don’t apply. Having a little fun, I left a few untouched. If you are bored enough, you can guess in comments what life changes we have planned.

Or, take the stress test yourself and let us know if you need any type of psychological help. We may know people.

In this moment in which I am in my cubicle not even bothering to fake it, halfway napping, my eyes closed, leaned back in my chair with my hand on my belly full from lunch, I am checking in. Thanks, Michele, for the motivation.

What’s been going on with you?

I’ve been spending a lot of time following the general election campaign for the U.S. presidency, wondering when it became acceptable to capitalize the P in president when it is not being used as a proper name/title. Yes: President George Bush. No: Barack Obama in his campaign for President. Yes: Barack Obama in his campaign for president.

Where are our fifth grade grammar teachers when we need them?

Q and I took the kids to SeaWorld in San Antonio this past weekend. Surprisingly, we all had a great time. Pictures as soon as I find the USB cable for my camera. I say surprisingly because it was hot as hell, and I was in no mood for an amusement park that day. But once we the adults got into it, it was all good. The Shamu Rocks Texas show is a must-see (from beyond the splash zone).

We are still working on lessening our 650 miles to somewhere around zero. We’ve got a crazy idea that just may work. Stay tuned.

Speaking of staying tuned: for those of you planning to crash with us in Vegas for our procrastinated wedding, abort abort abort. Vegas is off. The wedding is still happening, but it will be a very private affair, and I’m sorry for rescinding the open invitation. Emily Post will take me out back and shoot me later on tonight in retaliation for so many other transgressions, the least of them being the Vegas thing.

I would like Dude From Next Cube Over to understand that using the telephone is so last century. Soooo much easier to email the file he is discussing at 600 dB and get digital feedback. Quietly. Privately. But some people don’t feel they are working unless others can hear them working. Did he just spell out our Web address? Someone get him a hyperlink, please!