1. the yearly recurrence of the date of a past event
2. the celebration or commemoration of such a date.
I don't blog too much about the goings-on in my non-knitting life, but tomorrow marks a special occasion: I've been working full time at my day job for a year. They celebrate by putting a sign on the front door, and I've often wondered how other people feel when they see their signs, especially those who have been with the company longer than I've been alive. So how did I feel when I saw the sign on my way out tonight? Proud, happy, relieved that they didn't forget... I've technically been there for a year and a half, but the first six months were through a temp agency. While this isn't the longest I've ever stayed at one job, this "celebration" does bring with it some important points:
* This job has less to do with my degree than any other job I've had. (And by "less to do" I actually mean "absolutely nothing to do...")
* In the past 18 months I have had responsibilities in 9 different departments: shipping, receiving, purchasing, accounting, customer service, reception, technical/programming, parts & inventory control, and special projects.
* I've survived three separate layoffs, 32-hour work weeks, and the current "3 weeks on, 1 week (unpaid) off" economic strategy.
Every day brings a new adventure (or at least different parts to cycle count), and there were at least a couple of times while I was laid off last week that I actually wished I was back at work. Here's to next year's "2 year" sign.
Back in January, I passed my 7 year knitting anniversary. I love telling my learning-to-knit story, mostly because it involves many of my favorite people, including my Wyoming BFF Brenda, my friend Dion, and my continuing knitting inspirations, Maggie, Calvin, and Hallie.
Also, this month I've had my truck for three years. Woo! (It's a 2002 Ford Explorer Sport Trac. I heart it.)
Also, last month marked three years since my dad passed away. It's been a while since I've blogged a memory, so it seems about due. My dad hated nicknames. His name was Dennis, and when he was in school he would get in fist fights if anyone called him "Denny". He named his son "Sean" and his daughter "Brooke" in order to avoid the name-shortening nicknames. He despised the fact that my mom called me Brookie. Well, the name-shortening has mostly been avoided, Dad. Pretty much nobody calls me "Bro". Or "Broo". Or, uh, "Br". But the name-lengthening nicknames? Rampant, Dad, rampant. You'd be so disappointed. Recent examples include:
In fact, I'm pretty sure I get nicknamed more often than I'm called by my given name. Fortunately, though, I have a different take on nicknames than my dad did. I love them. I take them as terms of endearment from friends and family who care enough to go that extra syllable to show they care.