Today was one of those busy days that I love so much. I had a hunch early last week that Hurricane Isabel would present a threat to the Eastern seaboard (no expert assessment here, it was just a gut reaction), and based on yesterday's projections, knew that Monday I'd be putting together a release, so I came in with the intention of getting a jump on things.
But of course, I encountered my boss, Joey, first thing when I came in.
"Ted, can I see you a moment?" he asked, with his gentle Irish charm.
"Okay, boss," I said somewhat gruffly, trying to head off the inevitable. "But I really want to get a start on Isabel."
"Yes, that's important," he replied, always agreeable, BUT... "But would you mind taking look at Peg's Town Hall presentation first? We have a dry run in two weeks."
Somehow a two week deadline is more important than a that afternoon deadline. But that's Joe for you. Peg was out on a vacation day and he didn't want her to know I was revising her text.
So after a full review and then a lengthy discussion with Joe about direction and order, not mention what my scribbles meant, it was twelve noon, and I could check my email. First piece: there's a meeting with our National CAT team at four that afternoon. I call Joe.
"Yeah, I saw it," he replied, multi-tasking. "Can you get me a draft by four?"
Four hours should be absolutely no problem, except that I had a lunch meeting at 12:15. Which means I had essentially two hours to get the job done, and this time around, it was a fairly major revision. Plus, David asked me to draft a "post cat" release, too.
Needless to say, I didn't get out until seven. Ran home to have supper, beat Tiger's ass at Dr. Robotnik's Mean Green Machine (and the fair Josie's, too, may I add), go over spelling words, eat supper, catch up on everyone's lives and tuck the kids (and the fair Josie) in bed, and head to my apartment.
Now I'm sitting here, typing, sipping Fruit20 and listening to Ella Fitzerald, the Last Decca Years. My current recommended bathroom reading is Moliere's Tartuffe. There's just something about that silver tongued religious hypocrite that really loosens the bowels...Even 300 plus years later, Moliere's rapier wit and good humour shines through, even in a crummy translation.