I have been working mostly from my company's national headquarters building, but I try to organize meetings so that I can get back to the regional building at least once a week (and sometimes that works). I had a shock a couple of weeks ago when I walked in because there was tinsel and glitter everywhere. I work at the very end of the building, so I walked through rows and rows of merrymaking before I made it to my desk. Exasperated, I pointed behind me and said aloud to my row, "It looks like Christmas threw up!"

The techs that were there barely looked up from their laptops but nodded with vigor. The people who sit in my row are being stretched a little thin just now, and I think most of us are a step or two away from a full-on anxiety attack at the sheer volume of information that we need to retain. I am blaming this for my lackluster Christmas spirit this year—just like at work, I don't have time to be merry.

Still on a roll (but it's really just bitter jealousy that I'm not light of spirit just now and all of them are), I cried, "It's Whoville back there!" I miss having fun at work (I used to).

My friend who sits across from me smirked. "I guess that makes us Mount Crumpit." She took it from there and made signs to hang on the column that divides the two worlds…one with an arrow pointing to Whoville and the other branding our barren little section of office space. I looked high and low (actually, barely at all) for a Max, but this oldie was the closest I could find.

So I'm a Grinch. You got a problem with that? Yeah, I didn't think so. (My upcoming days away from the office should make me a nice person again, don't worry).

We have a chewer. I don't think we have a cord free of tooth marks in the entire place. I have tried just about everything I can think of to dissuade her, but nothing works. That cat just likes to gnaw, end of story.

The Christmas tree has been in jeopardy for weeks, but until recently she has saved her most passionate chewing for times when Nick and I are gone. Knowing she has the upper hand in our relationship, figuratively speaking of course, she's no longer hiding her activities. Finally sick of having to be on guard and having to raise my voice, I went to my last resort: the bitter spray.

It's a "no chew" formula that is supposed to taste just awful. The awfulness should send a message to little cat brains that chewing isn't fun at all (because it tastes lousy, duh). I bought the spray earlier this year when I identified a risk with new wicker baskets. I hate (absolutely hate!) using it.

It's not because I care about the poor plight of the cat. I have no sympathy for any discomfort she might experience while doing something she knows she shouldn't be doing. It's because when I use the spray, it somehow releases bitter particles around the entire room. Even though I didn't chew anything, I can't get the awful taste out of my mouth!

Meanwhile, Sophie is unaffected. She's curious why I'm spraying things. She walks up to the tree after I douse the bottom branches and sniffs. I put my hands on my hips and watch her with an arched eyebrow, daring her to take a bite. Never breaking eye contact with me, I see her tongue inching out the side of her mouth to reach the closest branch.

Obstinance!

But the in-your-face defiance is the least of my irritation: she's chewing the tree more now than she was before I sprayed the so called "no chew" formula. I felt a growl in my throat as I watched her and considered washing my own mouth out with soap.

I think that some conniving cat must have the patent on that bitter spray. They always frickin' win. Always.

When I was a child, I was the artistic sort. I wrote my first short story—with illustrations, mind you—before I made it to second grade. At the time, because everyone should be making big life choices before second grade (naturally), I was torn as to whether I was more of a writer or more of an illustrator. In the end, writing stayed with me a bit longer…most likely because my writing became more sophisticated with age, but my sketching never did!

I still take to drawing occasionally. Well actually, I take to drawing more than just occasionally if you count all of the doodles I scribble on scrap paper while in phone conferences. Roll your eyes all you want…everyone is always surprised at all the information I retain without taking notes in those meetings! (It works!) The little doodle over to the right was Sophie-inspired, but with an extra-fluffy, excited-looking tail because that's how I like 'em.

I'm always a little surprised what I end up doodling when I dedicate my logic elsewhere.

Anyway, I always had fanciful stories in my head as a child. I wanted so badly to tell my mom all about the fantasies living in my mind, but I often felt frustrated because I didn't have the words to paint the stories well enough. I wanted everyone to see the faerie prince enchant all those flowers at dawn so that they would open and sing for the butterflies—but since I didn't have the words, I tried to recreate the image. I filled entire sketchbooks with my imagination.

I wonder, at what age do we stop seeing the unseen? If I still see, I've stopped acknowledging. The ability to run alongside your imagination is a gift that we have for such a short time, and I wish I still had those sketchbooks. I think they would be refreshing in contrast to my realistic, easily-described, all-business world. Hopefully I'll "wake up" from a phone conference one day and find that the faerie prince still lives in me after all.

Nick got new pants on Sunday.

This is a pretty big deal because Nick doesn't buy new pants very often. He is still stuck in the days of grunge, when comfort took precedent over just about anything else. I think his decade-plus old jeans touch him at his waist (only because he tightens them with a belt) and nowhere else. Don't get me wrong: he's a snappy dresser. He somehow manages to pull it off.

But they don't make pants three sizes too big anymore…you know, unless you actually buy them three sizes too big. He wore the camel cords today, and I made a point to say "beau pantalon" as I got into the car after work—a reference, of course, to the old Dockers commercial. When we were first dating and Nick found out that I knew a little French, he was quick to show off his deep knowledge of the language. Excitedly, he chirped "Beau pantalon! It means 'nice pants!'" My little Francophone…

But the pants actually did look very nice and tailored on him. Très chic.

We stopped at the grocery store on our way home. I was walking slightly behind him when I was almost kicked. His left foot suddenly sprang backwards and took me by surprise. I made a dramatic sound (as if he actually made contact) and chastised him. He brushed it off.

Our paths deviated as we went looking for different items, but when I came back to him, I noticed another awkward jerk in his legs. I didn't think anything of it as we continued on to the freezer section. But then he did it again, and I was a bit peeved until I realized what was up.

He didn't like his pants touching him. So, every time the material brushed his calf, he flinched and tried to throw it off. I had to swallow a snort because I found (find) this insanely funny. Such a delicate flower…poor thing had to travel through 15 years of fashion overnight. It probably would have overwhelmed anybody. Even while I tried to think of sad things to keep from laughing, he looked irritated by the pants that would dare to touch him. I don't think he found those pantalon very beau, not very beau at all.

It's always a little stressful having a Christmas tree (albeit fake) AND a cat. For the most part, I don't decorate the last 12 inches or so of tree because it's just safer that way. I do hang the two ornaments that Sophie received as gifts (one from Nick's mom and one from my aunt) low for her to enjoy.

We walked in this afternoon after spending the weekend away. We were fully expecting at least something out of place, but everything was just as we left it several days before. We praised her for not being destructive—we gave her bonus treats and everything!

Once we sat down in the living room, however, she realized she had an audience. It's so much more fun being naughty if someone knows about it, of course: