From "Mike Mulligan's Steam Shovel"
Focused on the way we tell stories online, offline and in person. Public relations and marketing specialist by day, marathoner, writer and crappy crafter by night.
My husband made the mistake of mentioning this morning at breakfast that we need to find our Halloween costumes. He does not understand that the search is all consuming. Must. Resist. More. Dress up.
For now, say Aloha to Kiki.
I heard what sounded like about 20 pigeons having a fist fight outside my window. Turned out to be 20 pre-schoolers holding onto a rope while walking down the sidewalk, doing their best impersonation of owls. So glad I didn't throw a shoe at them.
Me as the Lunch Lady at a fundraiser at my office in 2008.
Doesn’t matter how good you are at saying goodbye, change stinks. Doesn’t matter that you have talked about your final day at the office for the last two months, it doesn’t make it easy to actually walk out the door voluntarily - with no other job lined up. Doesn’t matter that only two weeks ago you were already ready to be done already, it’s not any easier once departure day shows up. It is days like these that I remember that I am in fact a total pansy and my big talk doesn’t stand a chance against my sentimental nature.
I remember driving away from college with a pick up truck filled with my belongings, probably listening to a country song, crying as we drove out of town. I remember driving out of Manhattan in a rented Oldsmobile mini-van that looked like a stuffed pasta shell with all of my belongings smushed against the windows, my friend Dan looking at me like I had just run over someone with the car, crying and unable to breath. Now it’s departure time in Seattle, I’m leaving my office where I worked for almost four years to move across the country again. Each and every time, driving away scared as anything that nothing will work out, then reminding myself that it has been proven time and again that everything does. If I could get myself to shut up and drive everything would be fine.
The days leading up to the departure you start to wonder if everyone will forget you once your gone. Then folks write you emails in a sing-song “here, write in my yearbook”kind of tone saying that they will never forget you, but sometimes you feel like you know exactly who will. You start to wonder if you have helped to make a difference, then remind yourself not to care, but you can’t help but want for everyone to tell you how much of a difference you made.
When you voluntarily leave, you have time to clean out your desk. This gives me time to sort through years of papers, shoes, novelties, all sorts of junk. I cleaned out 14 pairs of shoes from under and around my desk. I haven’t worn 12 of them in over two years. And yet they moved with me through three desk moves. Now fours years of work memories are packed in three bags and two boxes.
Now comes the time to hand in the security card and the key to the locker room, kind of like a sheriff handing in his sidearm and badge. You know you didn’t do anything wrong, it just doesn’t feel quite right.
I might as well just shut up and drive away.
Among the shots: the life ring from the Adventuress; the engine signal from the Arthur Foss, a beautiful old tug; the Swiftsure, not a wooden boat, but still pretty; a graceful little dingy; a tall ship and a Kenmore Air seaplane; masts from the tall ships docked in South Lake Union; lucky number seven and a decorative paint job making the name "Norene" look so much more romantic than it usually sounds.
