Caterwauling

One of my sub-roles as concierge/fluffer/ninja/warrior princess/terrorist/fluffer includes editing.

Which is always done before and after everyone else’s normal work hours.

Yesterday I got something done in two hours. Which, considering that prose does not arrive as perfectly as anyone might believe, IS A RECORD, PEOPLE.

And instead of, “Oh Goddess. We bow before your brilliance,” it was more, “Yeah that shouldn’t take that long.”

Instead of answering, I consulted a fellow wounded warrior.

Goddess: How would you spell/capitalize the sound that emanates from your body if someone asks you “Why does it take so long to edit XX?”

Pal: It would be one of those symbols you can’t pronounce, like when Prince changed his name.

Goddess: She wore a Raspberry Beret — and pulled it down over her face and tied it at the neck till she deprived herself of oxygen.

Pal: I think XX does that when s/he sits down to write.

I love the time before 8 a.m.-ish when I am in the office by myself.

It gives me hope that everyone else will call off and just leave me to play by myself. No meetings, no demands other than the ones I’ve placed upon myself, no looks/comments/questions I have to either interpret or not react (too visibly) to.

It’s the time when I know what needs to be done … before the onslaught of surprises hits me like a freight train and derails my plans.

It’s when I anticipate the pleasant surprises, too, that pop up throughout the day. And when the day is still full of the promise of becoming the best day ever.

Hell, at this hour, it starts off as the best day ever. May it continue for as long as it can …