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Choose Laugh It's snowing. Again. I noticed this when I first woke this morning (around 5 a.m.) and there were merely a few tiny flakes occasionally blowing down. Now, it's an all out downpour. I look out the window of my office, and it's just perfect, beautiful, constant, consistent, measured. I am in awe. I am, however, no longer overwhelmed with glee at the prospect of more snow. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and as I said to the co-workers who sit nearest me when I came in this morning, "It is possible to grow tired even of things which are pretty." (I followed this up with, "Hmm...That could also explain the endings of my relationships," which garnered a rather lengthier bout of giggles from the two married men who sit next to me than I'd expected. I thought about clarifying whether I was referring to myself of my partners as the "pretty things," but decided it was best to just leave that ambiguous, and instead, started thinking of David Bowie songs, "Oh! You Pretty Things" and "The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell," in particular.) Then, I went through the usual morning order of operations: Coat, hat, scarf and gloves off (I walk a mile across town to my office, now), shaken of snow, and hanging; e-mail checked (no one ever sends me anything interesting...wah); packages tracked; last night's backup confirmed; responded to "service requests" (replaced the PDF of the directions to the office on the server, re-installed printer's on a user's computer); considered exactly how much work I'm going to have to do in here over the weekend; started chatting with people about upgrades to their computers, whistling "Let It Snow" as I walked through the office. At the refrain, one of the partners recognised the melody, turned and stared at me with a bit of an incredulous look and started laughing. I said, "Look, the way I figure it, you laugh, or you cry, and for now, I choose to laugh," and put my name on the calendar as being out tomorrow. (I MUST unpack my life; I cannot find ANYTHING in my apartment, and I haven't had sufficient free time over the last few days to deal with unpacking & putting away & sorting & throwing away & cleaning & hanging & settling, which is desperately required. I've not yet even managed to sleep in my bed since I moved; I've ended up on the couch, which it should be noted, is long enough for me to lie down comfortably, straight and flat, which I find impressive.) I have developed a reputation for "whistling while I work," which everyone seems to find very amusing and a bit ironic. No, it shouldn't be particularly surprising, given that I am a musician, that I would incorporate music into my demeanour, but I'm also known for being, at least on the surface, a bit wry, and as one friend put it, "terminally mellow" (Said friend is currently doing aerial work in Japan, leaping off high places, I believe -- amazing woman). I belie that impression every now and then, though, as certain members of the staff realised a couple of months ago as I strode through the office whistling Dusty Springfield's "I Only Wanna Be with You". It was as though everything in my path ground to a halt, and people stared. (I had previously come in one morning whistling Rodgers & Hammerstein's "My Favorite Things"; that actually turned out to be a miserable day, which I think is somewhat fitting since, if you slow it down, that becomes one of the saddest melodies I think I've ever heard.) Incidentally, the partner who turned and laughed at my "Let It Snow" this morning just stopped by my desk to say the song is now stuck in her head. Tee-hee...I AM the Devil. If there's any doubt as to the verity of the last statement, after singing the Ash Wednesday Mass last night, I went out, for the second night in a row, with some of the other singers, as well as a few postulants to the clergy, for Mexican food and an excessive amount of beer. Whatever I'd worked off in the moving process, I must be putting back on with alarming alacrity. I think I'll hit the gym tonight. And tomorrow. Hard. That will be much easier once I'm settled into the new place; I can convince myself that a regular schedule is a good thing once things appear more regulated. "Don't hold your breath, but the pretty things are going to Hell." (Thank you, David Bowie.) Perhaps more (on movies?) later. r
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