I sat in the meeting yesterday, hearing the words, but not comprehending.

I was dubbed a “floater.” In normal circumstances, this would be welcome. Floating from assignment to assignment, meeting different people, learning new things. Not so much in this case.

Today, Thursday, we were to lay off about 200 Headquarter’s employees. In this particular instance, “floater” meant powering off the employees’ work stations, bringing them boxes, helping them pack, then escorting them out of the building.

I awoke early, unable to sleep. I dressed more professionally than usual. I wore more makeup than usual, which unfortuantely didn’t hide the pallor of my stressed face. With each employee, I introduced myself and explained why I was there. As crappy as I felt, I knew they felt worse. The severance packages were generous; the way the lay offs were handled was as good as could be. And yet.

And yet I still felt horrible. Still feel horrible.

Five angels, head to toe in blue, walking in formation. The Blue Angels!

It was a clever idea. One thought of last November. We’ve been waiting all year to execute it for Halloween, nervous we would forget it come October. But we haven’t.

Tonight was the night to put finishing touches on our costumes. This involved spray painting white boots blue and transforming our white wings into glittery blue ones. We planned to do it in the courtyard at my apartment building, but rain was ominous.

“I have several dropcloths; let’s just spread them out and we can spray paint them in my living room.”

Better idea in theory than in execution. Or maybe not. Such a good idea in theory, that is.

In my apartment I now have 5 pairs of blue boots, 5 sets of glittery blue wings, and sparkly blue hardwood floors. And couch. And rug. Good thing I like blue.

We really were there for work. But the Blackjack tables beckoned as sirens to sailors, “Lori, Lori, come closer, here, here…”

My goal was to leave the tables in time to grab something to eat at Burger King before it closed at 3:30. AM, not PM. I had skipped dinner in lieu of an in between conference sessions swim. And I was getting hungry.

One hand after another. 20. 21. 19. 21. 18. Dealer busts. I glanced up and noticed the lights of B and K flickering.

“What time is it?” I exclaimed with dismay.

My table mates, a lovin’ on each other couple from the Midwest, replied, “3:40. Why?”

“I wanted to grab something to eat. Burger King closed at 3:30.”

The dealer shrugged and said, “Subway’s open 24/7.”

“Deal me in….”

So much mud, so little time. Who knew that racing through 10K worth of mud, obstacles, and grit could be so much fun?

A strong finish by the girls

We thought we were going to the Pumpkin Festival. When we drove onto Main Street we read the signs: “Pumpkin Festival, October 16-17.” Oh.

There were plenty of pumpkins to be had, however. We stopped at the patch by the side of the road. Rows upon rows of bright orange pumpkins. Boxes and boxes of gourds gathered from the field. Handmade signs advertising the various varieties: Cinderella, Little Boo, Green, Turban, Jack of All Trades.

We slowly, systematically walked up and down the rows, evaluating each pumpkin for its jack-o-lantern worthiness. “How about this one?” “Lopsided.” “This one?” “Not big enough.” “This one?” “Wrong color.”

After contemplating several, we picked the perfect ones. Mine and his. We gently placed them in the back of his hatchback. We drove out of the dusty lot, happy with our purchases, discussing how we would carve them. As we made a sharp left turn out of the parking area we heard a loud *snap* and *crash* as the pumpkins in the back rolled around. We stopped, wondering how to prevent them from bruising or worse yet, bursting, before arriving home.



Seat belts are a wonderful thing.

I had forgotten about the race until I received an email last week. “ONE OR MORE OF YOUR TEAM MEMBERS HAS NOT SIGNED THE WAIVER. You are responsible to find out which team member(s) have not signed. You’re receiving this email because one or more of your members have not signed.”

One of Emily’s brother’s friends had mentioned the race to us at a barbecue several months ago. We enthusiastically proclaimed it would be fun. We would do it! I must have signed up that evening, then promptly forgot about it.

I had three weeks to get three additional people to commit to being on our team, the Mud Pies. To commit to flying down to San Diego and driving an hour or so to Camp Pendleton. To commit to rising early on Saturday morning to run “a challenging 10K run with hills, tire obstacles, low sand crawl, river crossings, two 5-foot walls with mud on both sides, tunnel crawl, slippery hill climb, and the final 30-foot mud pit.” I think I found a team.

I mentioned to my BART buddy that I was doing the race. He asked me how I was training.

“Hmm. Well. I run a couple of times a week. Maybe a couple of miles.”

“Lori, isn’t the race 10K? That’s more than a couple of miles.”

“Yeah. Well, I swim a couple of times a week.”

“What? So you can breast stroke through the mud?”

“Good point. I lift weights. That will help, won’t it?”

I’ve never really trained for a race before.

“You need to start doing push ups. Not the girly kind. Real push ups. That will build your upper body strength faster than anything.”

I committed to doing push ups, the manly kind, every day until the race. With 10 days left until the race, I’ve reached my personal best. I can now do five push ups. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to get me over the wall.

My feet rubbed against my not-worn-too-often dress shoes. I rushed into Albertson’s before my class began, hoping to quickly purchase a pair of knee highs in order to prevent blisters from gracing my feet by the end of the day. My eyes scanned the selection quickly: control top, sheer, opaque, reinforced toe, sandalfoot, seamed, were all these styles really necessary? Knee highs, knee highs, knee highs, among the six dozen choices surely there had to be knee highs. Aha. Knee highs. Box of 10 pairs. You’ve got to be kidding. What am I going to do with 10 pairs of knee highs?