Hi there, guys and dolls! So how’s your workday Wednesday? Yep, I thought so… Mine is like that, too. Times like this I wonder what else I could have done to keep me well heeled and wasting time until Happy Hour. Okay, to be honest, I wonder what I actually do as a day job. As I’ve said, I show up, plunk a few keys on my typewriter, chase down the coffee delivery boy for a doughnut or two, share the water cooler gossip, figure out where we’re going for lunch, play dodge the junior execs, explain to the boss’ wife that ‘he’s in a meeting’ (hah, I haven’t seen him in years) all the while shifting around this same ratty carbon copied letter that’s dated about three years ago.
Gives a girl a lot of time to think while filing her nails. So I recall being a little girl with big dreams. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love my writer life of my Poppy Cove folk and love to tell their tales, but I’m talking about the day job until my brilliant true writer career blooms. And yes, the excitement of working in this big steel tower in the big business of well, something (I still have no idea what this place is all about), this mysterious big city life is certainly one of the dreams I had as a young girl playing grown-up, but of course there were others, too.
Such as a skater. Gliding gracefully across the ice, doing jumps, Salchows and twirls, all the while smiling so hard my face hurt. All the while wearing glitter and sequins. How could I not want to be this? Well, first of all, I had to master being able to stop, and not by slamming into the boards face first, screaming out of control. By the way, coaches don’t like that. That’s fair, I don’t like being cold or landing on hard ice. There’s not enough makeup in the world to cover those bruises on my er, assets. That’s enough of that.
And gee, think of Florence Nightingale. What could be more romantic than cooling the fevered brow of the handsome young millionaire that just happened to catch the flu or broke a leg on some daredevil skiing accident or race car disaster? Just think how grateful he’d be, helpless at your capable healing hand. Make him all better and he’ll whisk you away to his mansion, right? Um, more like midnight shifts dealing with bedpans and cranky old biddies who complain about scratchy bed sheets and flat pillows. Sheesh, hospitals aren’t hotels, for god’s sake! Enough of that, too!
I could have been a stewardess. Just think, the mile high club and glamour in the skies. Maybe that young millionaire didn’t hurt himself and was jet setting, just looking for coffee, tea or me? Just think – traipsing up and down a narrow aisle while that the plane bounces around in turbulent skies, pouring hot drinks, delivering food, answering to a passenger’s every whim. One good bounce and I’m sure I could, manage a good spill of coffee, tea but not me in his lap!
So here I am, and it’s not so bad. Maybe one day I’ll even know what the heck we do around here!
Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more posts. And don’t forget to give my Poppy Cove Mysteries a try if you haven’t already.
Toodles, Barbara Jean