Praying for Sun
As I have mentioned, I’m currently doing time contracting at a Chicago-based airline in Des Plaines. The western suburbs bleed together like gunshot wounds across Cook County, so I’m not actually sure if I’m in Des Plaines, Mount Prospect, Elk Grove Village, or Schaumburg. Actually, I think I’d know if I was in Schaumburg. The collective glow from the IKEA and columned Cheesecake Factory herald Schaumburg to the world. No, I am in Des Plaines.
I spend lunch with my lovingly arranged lunch and a book and stare out the window. At this time of year, there are no geese paddling about the corporate campus pond to entertain me. Only gangly tree limbs, concrete, and dead grass. It is the most desolate spot I think I have ever seen.
But today it began to snow. I’ve never been here when it snowed, so it was a new experience. My past experiences with snow have been lovely. Suddenly the world turns into something from Currier & Ives. Flake by flake, crystals pile up in tufts on every possible precipice. But that’s at home, not at work. I looked out the window knew I’d gotten stuck in a snow globe, the snow was so plastic, so sterile, so uniform.
To cheer myself up, I tried to think of the worst possible metaphor for watching snow fall on a desolate corporate campus. And I succeeded. Avert your eyes if such pain will be fatal:
“It’s like Jesus is dusting confectioner’s sugar on our brownie-square world.”
I’m so tired of brown and white. I need to locate some Krylon and spray paint some heart on this place.
In other news of my day, I’m looking quite fetching in my clingy lavender top which makes up for my corduroy pants which are just too short for my insanely tall frame. I have no idea what I was thinking leaving home wearing such pants. Thankfully, I’m heading to Old Navy this evening to return two pairs of low-waisted pants. This style is the bete noir of the pant world. Especially for the tall, for the ever-so-low waist of these pants barely covers a third of my bottom. No.
Why didn’t I try them on? Shut up, Cap’n Logic. You have no power here.
Overheard:
[Last night at the Blogger Dinner] J3s says, “I told my dad my site was called ‘HardcoreXXXJess’ and he believed me.
[At work] Co-worker: “You can’t touch the manna.”
Listening to: The superb Ron Sexsmith. What a name for a curly tendriled Canadian.
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