enfinblue's Bluey (credit to Fifi for the nickname!) Diaryland Diary

"I am seeking, I am striving, I am in it with all my heart." -Vinc3nt V@n Gogh

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Barbi3's dream house.

Oh good grief stop me before I say this, but today there was a glimmer of hope.

I might have not had a horrible day at work!

Of course, work is always better when you get an email at 11 in the morning to tell you that you've been placed in a French class, and upon looking at said email you realize that your first class will be that afternoon.

I had already planned to go to the public library main branch to hear a reading by Franc3s Itani (winner of the Commonw3alth Prize) at lunch time.

Honestly, I can't think of anything more AWESOME than readings by good authors on my lunch hour, as a genteel escape from the Line Dance Dance of Men. (Even if they have to be Canadian. I'm not much into Canadian fiction.)

Sure, the auditorium was full of grey-haired ladies (no cool, artsy men to meet ;-)) and ladies who otherwise must not do much with themselves as they asked questions such as (and I joke not), "I looooved the book. I want to comment though that Georgie's father is a real enigma. His name is Mr. Hodges. And that's not Georgie's surname."

(Author, stunned): "Well, as you know, Georgie is married to Harry. Harry's name is Whitley. Georgie's name at birth was Hodges."

"Oh."

Very strange.

A funny lady author though. I was delighted. I was sorry that I had to leave early in order to get to my French class.

My French class is entirely composed of men, apart from me. Of course. Men and me. It seems to be the story of my life, at least outside of my apartment. And they are all economists, of course, from my department. At least I can say for them that they are more competent and challenging as classmates than were the participants in my French class across the river. I found the class moderately difficult. So that is good.

Interestingly, all of these men are picture-perfect blue shirt men. It seems that I've fallen into a perfect middle-class universe. They are all attractive and polished and under 30 and married. One of them even has a kid. I liked him quite a bit, actually. We walked the three blocks back to the department together after the class. Nice guy.

BUt seriously, I think I'm the token f- up in that department. It's like they goofed with me, and I got in by accident. Or maybe they simply made a mistake when they profiled me. I must have had a good hair day. They must have mistaken one of the two rings that I wear on my right hand for a wedding ring. I know that they thought that I'm younger than I am. Whenever I tell people my age I see them start. (And I'm not happy about this, in a work context, or even in a dating context, because inevitably I feel as though people are let down when they find out the truth. I feel as though their thinking changes from "sharp young thing" to "late-blooming loser with no family - must be weird.")

At the same time, my senior economist noted the other day that I'm more likely to end up an assistant d3puty minist3r one day than he is. All of the action happens after 5 p.m., he said.

It is true. They probably need the token spinster here and there to pick up the slack when everyone else is feeding Jack and Suzie.

Oh well. Time will tell. I don't want to spend all of my time working, frankly. I don't aspire to be @dm.

Hmm.. This is quickly getting boring.

I like having French class twice a week, for a half day each time. There's something very professional and consoling and generous about that. But it brings me back to the point I was making before. They try to groom people to be there for life, so I think they choose them carefully. Someone made a mistake with me. I'm not like the others.

That reminds me of something. The funniest thing happened the other day. The secretary decided that it was the day to finally give me a proper name plate in the hallway for my office. All of the name plates are lined up in a row in this hallway. They are all in solid black with simple white lettering.

For some reason, the secretary thought it would be a good idea to make mine BLACK WITH MY NAME IN CALLIGRAPHIC, HOT PINK WRITING.

I'm completely serious.

I honestly was at a loss for words. I really didn't know what to do. When she came by I thanked her and in front of my boss I said something to the effect that I wasn't sure that having a name completely differentiable from the others would be fair to everyone else.

And then I mumbled something about how Barbie and I had never had a good relationship and so therefore nor did I have one with hot pink.

I like this administrative assistant. She likes me. I think she was just trying to be nice. But the one thing that I think we ALL know is that I don't need a hot pink name plate with flourish-y writing greeting my competition, detractors, pursuers, whatever as they walk by me and towards my boss. I might as well just bring in the boa to hang on my chair, and otherwise start dotting my Is with little hearts. (I *never* did that.) Oy oy oy oy oy. ;-)

It reminds me of a little song I remember singing as a kid. I think it's a S3same Str33t song:

This one is not like the *others*. This one is not like the *others*!

I think that that's it. But then I always say that and then think of something else to say. I'm roasting squash for soup tonight. I came home late from work (I worked from 4 to 7:30, following my French class, even though it was not required. Take that grumbling tax payers!) and so I'll likely not eat any until 9:30 or 10. I'm also eating raw garlic on bread. I do this sometimes when I feel as though I'm fighting a cold. It always makes me feel better.

OK. I'm being boring. I'm going to go.

8:39 p.m. - 2008-01-16

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