Repost: A Boring, Exciting Day

 By Robin Weaver

Happy May Everyone,

For me, this month is packed – a slew of birthdays, Mother’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, and the Kentucky Derby. It’s also my thirteenth anniversary with the Romancing the Genres. Wow! I don’t think I was on board for the launch, but I posted my first blog in May, 2011.

I actually connected with Sarah and Judith because of a contest—amazing how one little thing can change your life.  That contest lead to others, and eventually to a final in the Golden Heart Contest The competition is no-big-deal now, but at that time, I was so excited I couldn’t tie my sneakers.

To honor the 13^th anniversary of RTG, and to celebrate meeting great people in unusual ways, I’m reposting my first blog about the Golden Heart.

Getting the Golden Heart News – Office Style

     Normally, I don’t check voicemail between meetings, but it was GH notification day.  I had critiqued Linda Lovely’s GH entry and knew my friend had a real shot at being a finalist, so when the flashing light beckoned (yes, only 13 years ago we used voicemail 😊), I keyed in my passcode. 

“This is Sharon Sala…”

My “YIPPPPEEE” probably woke the bats in the Carlsbad Caverns (Note, I live in NC).  I mean, Sharon is one of my favorite authors, so I was entitled to act like a teenager at a Springsteen concert, Right?

(Did the Springsteen reference reveal my age?  Eh….I meant at an Usher (Now, Usher reveals my age) concert.)

In the process of doing pirouettes in my office chair, I knocked over my coffee cup.  And tie-dyed my favorite blazer with brown caffeine.  Fortunately, I didn’t scorch any body parts because the stale Java had cooled while I’d tried to stay awake in meeting mentioned in the first paragraph.

Unfortunately, my jacket was a pale ecru.  I completed my new look by running fingers though my hair, and dislodging the casual topknot I’d spend a half-hour arranging

Our superwoman office manager rushed in to see if she should call the paramedics.  She took one look at my wild eyes and gyrating body and backed away.  Very slooowly. 

“Eh…they’re waiting on you in the conference room.”

Crap. 

I was one minute late for meeting number two, but I had to call my husband.  Right?  After all, he’d been a paragon of support, a searcher for bad grammar, an almost saint that I usually killed off in chapter one.

After his “HEY!  Congratulations,” I talked with both mouth and hands, not realizing the little bag of heart-healthy Cheerios was open. Or that little rings of oats were flying nilly-willy all over the place.

I sat down while we ooh’d.  The crunching noises only briefly distracted me. 

Hubby was appropriately excited, but not surprised.  Sharon had called the house first.  Remember, I’d said no one had my office number?   Getting the Golden Heart finalist call is a lot like eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s too fast.  Your brain freezes. Mine did, and it didn’t occur to me to wonder how Ms. Sala got the number.

I hung up, now six minutes late for my meeting.  Tardiness curbed my urge to call my critique partners. Barely.

I raced to the conference room where fourteen eyes turned to stare at me.  Can’t imagine why.

I glanced at the clock.  Eight minutes late.  Not bad.  I only have fifty-two minutes until I can call my friends.  My boss looked like he had a different take on the time issue.

“Did someone have Cinnabon?”  One of the guys asked.

Did I mention the Cheerios were cinnamon flavored?

I have an awesome boss, but on March 25^th, only blah, blah, blah came out of his mouth.  To distract myself, I did a little feet-tapping beneath the table.  We have really cool chairs in our conference room that totally rock--literally.

The room grew silent.  I stopped rocking.  The blah, blah resumed.

I was so full of jiggly, it wasn’t long before I was doing an Argentine Tango with my feet again.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”  My boss turned crimson when he realized what he'd asked; apparently, my squirming really distracted him.  I swear, the toilet has never been mentioned in our conference room before.  We’re southerners. 

When the meeting ended, my boss called me aside and asked if I was okay.  I assured him I was golden, but I’m guessing he went straight back to his office and requested a drug screening for me.

One of my peers blocked the path to my office.  Grumble, grumble, groan.  Seconds ticked.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

The woman is a terrific friend, and although the closest she gets to fiction is re-reading her copy of The South Beach Diet, I really wanted to share my good news.

Only… Well, as a writer, I’m bizarrely superstitious.  I had to tell my critique group first.

“PMS,” I replied.  In my head, that was true.  Pretty Mind Staggering.

The acronym did the trick.  My coworker bolted like I’d waved a gun.  Too bad all the concern over my health (a.k.a. sanity) had taken the precious minutes I’d hoped to use to instant message my critique partners.

Since I was already unfashionably late, I jotted an email instead.  I think it said something like, “YIPPPPPEEE, I FANGLED IN THE GOLDEN HEAD!”

My third meeting was ninety minutes of drying paint.   After surviving the agenda of torture, I ran to my office, eager for some news from my group.  The jog made me perspire, but I figured the coffee tie-dye would hide the sweat stains.

No reply from my critique partners.  Probably because I forgot to click “send.”

My next words were not blog appropriate.  I made sure the email launched into cyberspace and hurried to a previously scheduled business luncheon.  Another snoozer that lasted seventeen hours—or at least fifty minutes.

Development glitches and design sessions kept me away from my desk until 5:00 p.m.  But finally... My critique partners had sent wonderful replies—which I hastily perused. And minimized even more hastily when my boss came into my office unexpectedly.  He pretended to ask about a production problem, but I suspect he was looking for a flask.

After I convinced him all systems were fully operational, I retrieved my cellphone.  One more little call would add the chocolate frosting on my already fabulous (if somewhat less than well-groomed) day.  My dear friend Pam is a fellow writer and has shared a myriad of writing emotions.  Since she had moved to Texas, I couldn’t really call her long-distance from the office.

And my cell phone battery had died. 

I rushed home, speeding through traffic.  Ins
ide, I tripped over the cat, but ignored my bruised knee and grabbed the portable phone (For those of you with kids or grandchildren under 16, you may have to explain that a portable phone is not the same as a cell). I hit speed dial, ignoring Mother Nature who decided I really did need to visit the powder room.

Pam’s scream re-awakened the bats that had finally gotten back to sleep in the caverns.  The moment I’d envisioned all day FINALLY happened.

The surprise.  The shared screech.  A long-distance partnering in my happy little jitterbug.  My friend understood what being a finalist in the GH meant.

My joy was complete. 

Except…

I really should have gone to the bathroom first.

 

Disclaimer:  While some events may be SLIGHTLY exaggerated, I really did spill my coffee when I got Sharon’s voicemail.  J