I am not a Celine Dion fan so the fact that she’s been turning up everywhere I look is starting to wig me out a little. It all started when Mistie announced during a corporate retreat that Celine Dion tickets were going on sale in St. Louis, for her concert at the end of 2008. We started discussing the idea of taking a client to the concert, (and yes, I’m willing to endure Celine for a client; nothing else) and somehow she stuck with me.

She showed up in my dream and mocked me in her French Canadian accent. “Why is it you cannot speak French? You have wasted four years of college!” We were in some kind of conference room and she was taunting me about missing the only opportunity I had to see her in Vegas. “My show in Vegas — it is over — and you never even came to see it!”

And then I tuned into the American Music Awards and there she was singing at me in a white flapper-esque dress. I flipped open my Newsweek and ACK! there she was again. Is this some kind of sign? Am I destined to endure a night with Celine Dion?

I’ve sat through Barry Manilow twice; I’m sure I can make it through any big showy concert without convulsing.

Appologies to Dion — I cannot figure out how to insert the accent aigu over the ”e” in her first name. You know how it’s pronounced, especially if you wasted four years taking college French.

Dear blog:

Now you’ve done it. In a moment of weakness over the weekend I poured out my real, true feelings into your WYSIWYG editor and lo, brought upon myself a torrent of concern and pity. I was cranky due to abbreviated sleep cycles and irritating fellow airline passengers. The most docile person would have had their patience tried by my environment at the time. And yet, I should have stopped short of sharing my angst over the coming week’s tasks. No different from any other week, I do thrive a bit from the “stress” of having a lot to do. What I didn’t share is how much I completely adore having much important work to complete. Calls to return! Documents to draft! Memos to write!

Remember how much I love my job? It’s enough to make certain friends sick, or so they tell me.

So, I tired blogged. It’s as bad as drunk blogging. Please remind me next time not to do that. Following my weekend posts, my mom called and delivered a frowning speech about how I’m working too hard and maybe I should cut back a bit. A friend checked in to see if I was really at my wits’ end. Two colleagues expressed concern and said they felt sorry for me. Blog, if it weren’t for you, I could have maintained my cheerful, stress-free façade and they would have been none the wiser.

I do have to thank you, though. I felt much better after pouring my angst into your electronic pages; calmed down immensely and enjoyed sharing my tale of the ridiculously bad parenting I observed. Thanks for being there, B. You withhold judgement, allow me to publish anything I want and never cost me a dime. Next time I’m on a particularly cranky rant, feel free to throw up an error message though, just to give me pause and remind me my mom is reading.

Hugs and kisses,

STLWorkingMom

I’m cranky. I’ll admit it. I traveled on Tuesday and now it’s Saturday and I’m spending most of the day traveling home. My time in St. Louis was good, but the usual marathon of cramming in as much as possible without, in fact, fitting in as much as I would have liked has kind of worn on me.

I’m thrilled that I had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with clients on this trip; disappointed that there was not time to see them all.

I’m happy I got to have dinner with my friends (Olympia and trust me, if you go there, you want to go with my friend B. who totally has an “in” with the waitstaff who treat him like some kind of Greek god.)

I was fortunate, once again, to be able to stay with D. and J., my in-laws who spoil me beyond belief, keeping dinner warm for when I arrived late Tuesday night, providing de-luxe accomodations in their home, and even giving me a birthday gift on my actual birthday. It’s one of the best parts of my travel, being able to go “home” to their house each night, where I know I can bum Advil, take a long, hot shower and sleep comfortably. It’s also nice to know there’s someone there to worry when I get home late at night (they’ve come to learn that if I say I’ll be back by 8 I really mean 9.)

So while it was a good trip, I’ve had headaches every day and mounting stress over all I need to get done before taking off for Thanksgiving this week. I need more Advil and a long stretch of being at my real home with my kids, my husband and my dog. I hope they’re as happy to see me as I am them.

Let me just begin by saying that I am a patient person. I am also polite, sometimes to a fault. I am also forgiving. And I like kids! I do!

I am sitting at Dulles (strange, my last post four days ago was written at Dulles. Am I living here?) and a dad is allowing his two sons, perhaps four and five years of age to shoot their toy cars all over the floor, tripping up fellow passengers and annoying the living hell out of an entire gate’s worth of people. I have the delightful distinction of sitting one seat away from oblivious Dad.

He’s making empty threats, “Those cars are as good as mine,” and casually parenting with the effectiveness of a light wrap in a snowstorm. I’m irritated. I was jazzed to score the seat near an outlet and now this waste of parenthood is fouling the immediate radius with his offspring’s obnoxious behavior. They’re pushing not only his buttons, but, with glee, those of everyone nearby.

The kids begin chasing one another and their cars under my seat. Dad isn’t saying a word. I silently shoot him a look designed to make him rethink his wisdom in procreating, slap my laptop closed and stomp off to a seat far enough away, but close enough so it’s undeniably clear that stupid Dad made the nice lady move to another seat.

“Freaking ridiculous!” I can’t help but mutter under my breath as I walk away, observed by other passengers.

I’m waiting for the kids to take out an old lady when she steps unwittingly on one of their little cars. Then Dad might have to wake up and get serious. In fact, if he doesn’t, soon, those kids at fourteen and fifteen are going to make his life a living hell.

I’m spending a large part of my birthday flying to St. Louis. WHEEE!

Currently, I’m parked on the carpet of the C Terminal, Dulles International, next to the only available outlet I could find.

For dinner, I enjoyed a cheese danish and a latte from Starbucks.

I am having fun, though, because of all the wonderful birthday wishes, e-cards, e-mails, messages scrawled on my Facebook wall, IMs from friends and the donations made to PACEM (in lieu of gifts) that so many of you have made. What a GREAT day I’ve had! Thank you — I’m truly blessed with fantastic friends and family. Thanks for remembering (like I’d let you forget!) and for making this day so special.

Today is my birthday and I have a wish.

Today, instead of cards and gifts, cake and good wishes, I’d like you to make a donation to People and Congregations Engaged in Ministry (PACEM). PACEM is a Charlottesville organization that is dedicated to making sure no one freezes to death on the streets of our community during the cold winter nights. Serving the homeless meals, providing a comfortable cot, pillow and blanket in a safe place to sleep to nearly 300 men and women each winter is their entire operation. They exist to save the lives of those who may die of exposure were we not to care.

If you’ve ever thought, hey, I’d like to buy her a cup of coffee or a beer (or diamonds), or if you’ve ever gotten a laugh or a smile from the posts herein, I’d like you to consider one small favor. Give five bucks, or a little more if you’re able and know that someone will sleep better tonight.

Happy Birthday to me, and on behalf of PACEM and its guests, I thank you kindly for your gift. Leave a comment if you contributed so I can thank you properly.

PACEM Secure Donations

I’m sharing my blogging and social media expertise with nonprofits and beginners tomorrow for the Center for Nonprofit Excellence. Details below: 

Blogging for Nonprofits 

CNE Technology Workshop
Date: Tomorrow! Tuesday, November 13
Time:  9 - 11am
Location: Zehmer Hall, 104 Midmont Lane (Directions)
Presenter: Marijean Jaggers, Senior Account Manager, Standing Partnership PR
Cost: $20 members, $30 nonmembers
RSVP: Call 434-244-3330 or email staff@thecne.org

Learn what a blog is, why you should have one, and how you can make one without being a technology guru. 

I saw a Plymouth Duster on the road today. It reminded me of my oldest sister’s first car. It was a dark green Duster and a surprise gift for her from my parents. That would have been ‘74 or ‘75. My other sister had a rust colored Ford Mustang for her first car. Both were used cars, but served them well in their college years.

My first car was a hand-me-down from my dad. A dark blue Firebird with T-tops. It was the Trans Am without the giant bird on the hood.

The boy will inherit our old Chevy Cavalier as his first car, when we become a three car family next year, or if we can last that long, the year after.

Everyone remembers their first car. What was yours?

It’s hard to believe it’s over. We’ve been band parents now for nearly eight years, ever since that first fifth grade concert when I became teary-eyed with pride. Who knew the boy could play like that? Who knew it would become his passion? Last night he marched for the last time in high school and no, I didn’t cry; I laughed, I danced and clapped; I yelled WHOO HOOO! It was a night of great joy. We’re still band parents of course, with several concerts to come and likely a whole college career devoted to music in our future, but now we’re not just band parents.

We’ve become basketball parents.

The girl started playing a week ago and her first game will be in December. Basketball parents are a more intense, tighter-knit group than band parents. For one thing, there are less of them so you’re going to interact with one another. Secondly, we’re all parents of fifth-grade girls. That’s binding, especially when said girls are fouling and wrestling for the ball all over the court. The girl has a unique basketball style I call, “The Flamingo.” Her leg wings out when she shoots and she runs, grinning, the entire time. She’s having a blast.

I’ve always believed kids need a “thing” — a sport or an instrument, a club or an ongoing project — it doesn’t matter what just so they’re involved and have a group to which they belong. It made all the difference with our move and has given my kids an outlet besides school that has made them more focused and organized. Plus, having something to go to where they have friends and something to do has been FUN for them.

What are your kids into?

We met our friends in Vegas for the wedding of Dave and Michelle. There was lots of sightseeing, naturally. We also saw Spamalot, which I recommend.

Here’s the happy couple.

There was a little bit of gambling and sadly I lost $12. I’m such a risk-taker.

Our friends were kind enough to point out the sights and items of interest.

I’m not sure I like Vegas that much. The desert air liked my hair but hated my skin. We had fun, of course. We could be anywhere with this particular group of people and have a good time. Would I go back? Depends. Not without a lot of money and good friends along for the ride.

Follow the links to see the slideshows.