Yesterday, for the very first time in 34 months, I looked at the employment classifieds.
This morning, for the very first time in 34 months, I dug out my resume. I updated the easy parts (address, dates) and stared at it for a very long time.
This weekend, for the very first time in 34 months, I will compose a series of cover letters, update the not-so-easy parts of my resume and decide, again, for the umpteenth time what it is I really want to be when I grow up.
Secretly, I hope that it will result something that makes the negotiations I have to undertake work-wise a bit easier. I need some leverage. If worse comes to worse, however, it might end up that, for the first time in 34 months - four months shy of my all-time "length of time employed at one employer" record - I end up signing up to work for someone else.
It's days like this when I wish I had a degree in something more straightforward - something like a nurse, a teacher, a lawyer. I could put down my title and bam! Everyone knows (more or less) what you're certified/qualified to do. I put down my title now and it takes me pages to describe what I do - even if someone already knows what it is I supposedly do.
It's enough to make one's head hurt. On top of that, my dishwasher died today. I had to come home, at 9:30 p.m. and stand in front of the sink for an hour to wash all the dirty dishes and then dry and put them away. Sometime before I go to bed, I have to find my bed beneath the clean laundry. Tomorrow, I am going to spend all day driving around my least favorite suburb, with a smile plastered on my face, because I love my job, I just hate what I'm doing.
Remind me again why I wanted to be an adult?
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Enough!
I've had a series of random medical issues dating back about 17 years. Most of them, at this point, are minor annoyances. Some have led to surgeries and major medical issues or complications. MANY of them involve food. Red meat, dairy, things too high in refined sugars or sugar alcohols, caffeine, artificial sweetners, high fructose corn syrup, dairy fats, fats in general, broccoli, peppers, cauliflower ... you get the point.
People wonder about my overzealous infatuation with food and all things nutrition-related. I remember the first time I went grocery shopping with Himself. He said, "Is there a reason you read every single label?" There is. If I change brands of anything - I read the labels. (Himself no longer goes shopping with me). Fortunately, rather than turning me off food, my obsession has made me have a fairly healthy relationship with food - I don't eat things I don't like, I eat the things I do and once in awhile, I eat something I love that either a) hates me or b) goes straight to my hips.
I'm healthy. I eat a decent amount of fruits, vegetables, fiber and protein (thanks to my blood sugar issues). I lack in calcium, but I can single-handedly support a cheese farmer in Vermont (Vermont extra-sharp white cheddar - yum!), so I try hard. I constantly evaluate what I'm eating.
Today, however, I've had enough. Enough of trying to analyze everything that goes in my mouth. I watch my calcium, folic acid, vegetables/fruits, fiber, protein, carbs and calories/fat. It's almost enough to drive one mad.
It finally did today. It's the "almost fainting" spells. For a couple of days, I've become dizzy and lightheaded at very random moments (I'm used to the low-blood sugar ones, but, thanks to modern medicine, that hasn't happened in months). Finally annoyed, I call the doctor (they hate me).
The nurse tells me that my last blood draw came back as low in iron. She asks if I like red meat? Not so much. A little, but it doesn't like me. How about broccoli? Love it. It hates me. Prunes? The sugar content is enough to send me into orbit. Exasperated, she asks about beets, beans, dried fruits and organ meats. Sugar issue, haven't been able to tolerate any kind of "remotely looks like it *might* be Mexican" in 5 months, sugar issue and just plain GROSS! She sighs (again) and explains it is definitely clear why my iron levels are low.
She advises me my best option (I can't take a supplement) is to eat lots of spinach and green leafy things and to come in next week so we can discuss it.
*sigh*
One more label to read when I go grocery shopping this week.
People wonder about my overzealous infatuation with food and all things nutrition-related. I remember the first time I went grocery shopping with Himself. He said, "Is there a reason you read every single label?" There is. If I change brands of anything - I read the labels. (Himself no longer goes shopping with me). Fortunately, rather than turning me off food, my obsession has made me have a fairly healthy relationship with food - I don't eat things I don't like, I eat the things I do and once in awhile, I eat something I love that either a) hates me or b) goes straight to my hips.
I'm healthy. I eat a decent amount of fruits, vegetables, fiber and protein (thanks to my blood sugar issues). I lack in calcium, but I can single-handedly support a cheese farmer in Vermont (Vermont extra-sharp white cheddar - yum!), so I try hard. I constantly evaluate what I'm eating.
Today, however, I've had enough. Enough of trying to analyze everything that goes in my mouth. I watch my calcium, folic acid, vegetables/fruits, fiber, protein, carbs and calories/fat. It's almost enough to drive one mad.
It finally did today. It's the "almost fainting" spells. For a couple of days, I've become dizzy and lightheaded at very random moments (I'm used to the low-blood sugar ones, but, thanks to modern medicine, that hasn't happened in months). Finally annoyed, I call the doctor (they hate me).
The nurse tells me that my last blood draw came back as low in iron. She asks if I like red meat? Not so much. A little, but it doesn't like me. How about broccoli? Love it. It hates me. Prunes? The sugar content is enough to send me into orbit. Exasperated, she asks about beets, beans, dried fruits and organ meats. Sugar issue, haven't been able to tolerate any kind of "remotely looks like it *might* be Mexican" in 5 months, sugar issue and just plain GROSS! She sighs (again) and explains it is definitely clear why my iron levels are low.
She advises me my best option (I can't take a supplement) is to eat lots of spinach and green leafy things and to come in next week so we can discuss it.
*sigh*
One more label to read when I go grocery shopping this week.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Memory Keeper's Daughter
My latest read, The Memory Keeper's Daughter, is one that has led me to think outside my normal realm of "What if?" thoughts. It is well-written and vividly evokes emotion and a kaleidescope of imagery that makes it easy to become wrapped up in the compelling narrative.
The charaters are complex, but not so complex that I can't continue to read it while doing my daily "I'm working out, really" routine on the elliptical machine. And the story line is haunting. A father, who, in a moment of crisis, with the best of intentions, sends his baby daughter away with a nurse and tells his wife she died. He intends for the baby to be taken and placed in an institution for the mentally handicapped, as the infant has Down Syndrome. Instead, the nurse, shocked by what she finds at the institution, raises the girl herself.
A secret, that kept, poisons everyone - the father, the mother, the remaining child, the baby's twin brother. From one single switch point, their lives spiral further and further away from each other - wildly out of control. The son seeks solace in running and his music, desparately hoping his parents will remove their focus from the shadow of his sister's death and discover that he is still alive - and in need of their love. The wife, after trying to bury her sorrow in alcohol and long drives, escapes to a business, affairs and a life that no longer includes those she once loved. The father, tormented by his decision, haunted by the photos and letters the nurse sends him of his daughter, forges blindly on, not realizing the family's wounds he caused that fateful night have never healed.
It's a painful read from all the raw emotion, but one that is immensely satisfying in the complex menagerie of thoughts it stimulated. After reading a description of the wife in the year after her baby's "death," bathed in grief, smothered by "propriety," I again said a grateful prayer that I was not privy to be a wife in the early 60s. The delicate, sunny descriptions of Phoebe, the daughter, and her simple interactions with the world, made me immensely grateful that we no longer live in a society where the mainstream, acceptable answer is to "hide" those who are different from everyone else.
I've continued to ponder that decision, made late at night in utter innocence - the decision the father felt was the best course for his family - and ended up giving rise to a generation of bitter, painful silence and resentment. It makes one want to shout, "Look around you! You're all suffering. No one is alone in this story," but the silent walls that grow between each character are soundproof, inpenatrable.
The richness of the tapestry woven by the descriptions of loss and love and family are accompanied by the theme of "Despite [the] desire to freeze a moment or to go back into the past and alter events, time presses us forward." Despite wishing a thousand times to go back and change his mind, the father continues his journey, weighted by this crushing secret.
I've had secrets - good, bad, revealed, silenced. None so significant nor far-reaching, but impactful in their own ways. Never before had I thought of these secrets, untold, so profoundly affecting the lives of those I touch, without anyone ever realizing it. We each seemingly go through life, our innermost thoughts and decisions carefully guarded - protecting those we love, protecting ourselves from others. Yet, the book forces one to pause and consider how those thoughts, decisions, secrets seep out and stain the fabric of life - either colored in brillant, happy hues, or menacing swirls of dark despair.
It's a book, while compelling and beautiful, I will be glad to finish - grateful for the imagery, the story, the lessons, the internal dialogue it has spawned, and yet repulsed by the haunting truth of the impact one's deepest thoughts and switch point actions can have on those he loves.
The charaters are complex, but not so complex that I can't continue to read it while doing my daily "I'm working out, really" routine on the elliptical machine. And the story line is haunting. A father, who, in a moment of crisis, with the best of intentions, sends his baby daughter away with a nurse and tells his wife she died. He intends for the baby to be taken and placed in an institution for the mentally handicapped, as the infant has Down Syndrome. Instead, the nurse, shocked by what she finds at the institution, raises the girl herself.
A secret, that kept, poisons everyone - the father, the mother, the remaining child, the baby's twin brother. From one single switch point, their lives spiral further and further away from each other - wildly out of control. The son seeks solace in running and his music, desparately hoping his parents will remove their focus from the shadow of his sister's death and discover that he is still alive - and in need of their love. The wife, after trying to bury her sorrow in alcohol and long drives, escapes to a business, affairs and a life that no longer includes those she once loved. The father, tormented by his decision, haunted by the photos and letters the nurse sends him of his daughter, forges blindly on, not realizing the family's wounds he caused that fateful night have never healed.
It's a painful read from all the raw emotion, but one that is immensely satisfying in the complex menagerie of thoughts it stimulated. After reading a description of the wife in the year after her baby's "death," bathed in grief, smothered by "propriety," I again said a grateful prayer that I was not privy to be a wife in the early 60s. The delicate, sunny descriptions of Phoebe, the daughter, and her simple interactions with the world, made me immensely grateful that we no longer live in a society where the mainstream, acceptable answer is to "hide" those who are different from everyone else.
I've continued to ponder that decision, made late at night in utter innocence - the decision the father felt was the best course for his family - and ended up giving rise to a generation of bitter, painful silence and resentment. It makes one want to shout, "Look around you! You're all suffering. No one is alone in this story," but the silent walls that grow between each character are soundproof, inpenatrable.
The richness of the tapestry woven by the descriptions of loss and love and family are accompanied by the theme of "Despite [the] desire to freeze a moment or to go back into the past and alter events, time presses us forward." Despite wishing a thousand times to go back and change his mind, the father continues his journey, weighted by this crushing secret.
I've had secrets - good, bad, revealed, silenced. None so significant nor far-reaching, but impactful in their own ways. Never before had I thought of these secrets, untold, so profoundly affecting the lives of those I touch, without anyone ever realizing it. We each seemingly go through life, our innermost thoughts and decisions carefully guarded - protecting those we love, protecting ourselves from others. Yet, the book forces one to pause and consider how those thoughts, decisions, secrets seep out and stain the fabric of life - either colored in brillant, happy hues, or menacing swirls of dark despair.
It's a book, while compelling and beautiful, I will be glad to finish - grateful for the imagery, the story, the lessons, the internal dialogue it has spawned, and yet repulsed by the haunting truth of the impact one's deepest thoughts and switch point actions can have on those he loves.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Farewell to a Friend
This is, perhaps, where I reveal that I am a nerd (something of which Himself loves to remind me). One of my favorite people died Wednesday.
Art Buchwald was 81. The Washington Post posted a series of tributes to, and articles about, Mr. Buchwald, including a typical "So-and-so, famous for such-and-such, died of X at his home in Y today," article.
I am a nerd, because I've never even met the man. I have long had a love affair with newspaper columnists. Perhaps, because the syndicated columnists were the only thing that was written well in the tiny newspaper of my hometown. Perhaps, because they exposed me to something different - essays on random topics I wasn't always exposed to otherwise (a reason I am in love with NPR - but that's another post). They inspired me to write. People like art Buchwald, Mike Royko and Ellen Goodman led me to try my hand at journalism (which, by the way, I hated) and are the reason I spend a good deal of my life writing random things - essays, journal entries, poems, scripts, etc. in addition to the writings of my day job - press releases, articles, award submissions, letters to homebuyers...
People like Howard Kurtz, Marc Fisher and Dave Barry continued to inspire me as I branched out from Utah to other parts of the country. To this day, when I actually sit down with a physical newspaper in hand, the first thing I read after I scan the headlines, are my favorite columns.
I particularly love the ones that challenge my way of thinking - that provide logical, thought-provoking reasons for having a particular opinion. I don't think a columnist has ever changed my mind, but their works have certainly broadened my horizons.
As for Mr. Buchwald - I loved, more than anything, his detailing of the powerful people in the world of politics. I loved the sometimes acerbic humor and the unapologetic truths he illustrated in his writings. I also found myself fascinated by his ability to wax eloquent on death, in his later columns.
So, while the world heralds the loss of a familiar face, I will quietly pause and place Mr. Buchwald's memory in my own personal Hall of Fame - right next to Charles Schulz. I look forward to re-reading his columns for years to come.
Art Buchwald was 81. The Washington Post posted a series of tributes to, and articles about, Mr. Buchwald, including a typical "So-and-so, famous for such-and-such, died of X at his home in Y today," article.
I am a nerd, because I've never even met the man. I have long had a love affair with newspaper columnists. Perhaps, because the syndicated columnists were the only thing that was written well in the tiny newspaper of my hometown. Perhaps, because they exposed me to something different - essays on random topics I wasn't always exposed to otherwise (a reason I am in love with NPR - but that's another post). They inspired me to write. People like art Buchwald, Mike Royko and Ellen Goodman led me to try my hand at journalism (which, by the way, I hated) and are the reason I spend a good deal of my life writing random things - essays, journal entries, poems, scripts, etc. in addition to the writings of my day job - press releases, articles, award submissions, letters to homebuyers...
People like Howard Kurtz, Marc Fisher and Dave Barry continued to inspire me as I branched out from Utah to other parts of the country. To this day, when I actually sit down with a physical newspaper in hand, the first thing I read after I scan the headlines, are my favorite columns.
I particularly love the ones that challenge my way of thinking - that provide logical, thought-provoking reasons for having a particular opinion. I don't think a columnist has ever changed my mind, but their works have certainly broadened my horizons.
As for Mr. Buchwald - I loved, more than anything, his detailing of the powerful people in the world of politics. I loved the sometimes acerbic humor and the unapologetic truths he illustrated in his writings. I also found myself fascinated by his ability to wax eloquent on death, in his later columns.
So, while the world heralds the loss of a familiar face, I will quietly pause and place Mr. Buchwald's memory in my own personal Hall of Fame - right next to Charles Schulz. I look forward to re-reading his columns for years to come.
Monday, January 15, 2007
You're Eating What?!
One of the hallmarks of the Mormon church is food. It's the universal language of compassion among congregations worldwide. Sick? Had a baby? Lost a job? Overwhelmed? No worries - someone is bound to show up at your doorstep with a casserole, a Jell-o salad and a vegetable of some sort. It's second nature to LDS women. It seems they all come with a stockpile of family friendly recipes, an endless supply of disposable plastic containers and the ability to whip up something filling in seconds, whether it's for a family of four or a family of eight.
Not me. Here's the deal - I cook a lot (although not lately, for a myriad of reasons). I love to cook. I loathe leftovers and eating the same thing more than once or twice a month and I love to try new recipes, especially complicated ones. It means I am continually changing "what's for dinner." You want Indian curries, Pad Thai, Vietnamese rice dishes, homemade refried beans, California rolls, or a spice cabinet with more than 50 different spices? (On that note, ask me how excited I was last week when my gift from a friend travelling in Asia arrived - vacuum sealed pouches of 20 different Thai spices - I'm in heaven!) I'm your girl. You want basic, American family friendly flare? Insert blank stare here.
Several days ago, I received a request to deliver food last week to a family in our congregation. I failed to realize cooking a meal for a large family would require some culinary dexterity, not to mention a potentially large chunk of my food budget.
Sometime Thursday evening, the day before aforementioned food delivery was to occur, I placed a frantic call to my mother 2,000 miles away, pleading for failsafe family friendly recipes. Lasagna? No, neither Himself nor I are a big fan - I didn't want to cook two meals, and the only lasagna ingredient in my otherwise well-stocked kitchen was ground beef. Tomato soup casserole? (Mom reminded me how much my younger brother loved this - good family fare, she said). Potentially - I have loathed casseroles since my mom went back to school when I was in junior high and it was standard fare for two years, but I know the recipes to many by heart. Meatloaf? Not in my repertoire, and it was no night to expirament using new recipes. Soup? Hmmmm...a good potential.
I ended up making chili - it stretches the meat for miles (or many mouths), I had all the ingredients on hand, and I didn't have to cook a second meal (although Himself, the chili-making specialist, bemoaned the fact I banned all peppers and hot sauces of any kind from this batch). I added sides of cornmeal muffins and a bag of shredded cheese and delivered the concotion. I'm not sure it went over with great fanfare (afterall, I was running late, so there was no salad - Jell-O or otherwise), but it was food and it was enough to feed a small army.
I also provided a great chuckle for my mom for the day. She gleefuly giggled about her fiercely independent daughter, whose life's goal as a teen was to bury all cultural evidence of a Utah upbringing, calling to find out how to make "normal" food. Then she went on to ask me what was on my "meal planning list..." Balti chicken and basmati rice. Sometime this week is Red Thai Curry and steamed bok choy. I also have the ingredients to make a big batch of Chinese Chicken Noodle Soup. It was met with silence, an unspoken "You're eating what?!" dangling between us.
My mother's hope of me becoming some great Mormon domestic goddess faded in a flash. I still refuse to learn how to make meatloaf.
Not me. Here's the deal - I cook a lot (although not lately, for a myriad of reasons). I love to cook. I loathe leftovers and eating the same thing more than once or twice a month and I love to try new recipes, especially complicated ones. It means I am continually changing "what's for dinner." You want Indian curries, Pad Thai, Vietnamese rice dishes, homemade refried beans, California rolls, or a spice cabinet with more than 50 different spices? (On that note, ask me how excited I was last week when my gift from a friend travelling in Asia arrived - vacuum sealed pouches of 20 different Thai spices - I'm in heaven!) I'm your girl. You want basic, American family friendly flare? Insert blank stare here.
Several days ago, I received a request to deliver food last week to a family in our congregation. I failed to realize cooking a meal for a large family would require some culinary dexterity, not to mention a potentially large chunk of my food budget.
Sometime Thursday evening, the day before aforementioned food delivery was to occur, I placed a frantic call to my mother 2,000 miles away, pleading for failsafe family friendly recipes. Lasagna? No, neither Himself nor I are a big fan - I didn't want to cook two meals, and the only lasagna ingredient in my otherwise well-stocked kitchen was ground beef. Tomato soup casserole? (Mom reminded me how much my younger brother loved this - good family fare, she said). Potentially - I have loathed casseroles since my mom went back to school when I was in junior high and it was standard fare for two years, but I know the recipes to many by heart. Meatloaf? Not in my repertoire, and it was no night to expirament using new recipes. Soup? Hmmmm...a good potential.
I ended up making chili - it stretches the meat for miles (or many mouths), I had all the ingredients on hand, and I didn't have to cook a second meal (although Himself, the chili-making specialist, bemoaned the fact I banned all peppers and hot sauces of any kind from this batch). I added sides of cornmeal muffins and a bag of shredded cheese and delivered the concotion. I'm not sure it went over with great fanfare (afterall, I was running late, so there was no salad - Jell-O or otherwise), but it was food and it was enough to feed a small army.
I also provided a great chuckle for my mom for the day. She gleefuly giggled about her fiercely independent daughter, whose life's goal as a teen was to bury all cultural evidence of a Utah upbringing, calling to find out how to make "normal" food. Then she went on to ask me what was on my "meal planning list..." Balti chicken and basmati rice. Sometime this week is Red Thai Curry and steamed bok choy. I also have the ingredients to make a big batch of Chinese Chicken Noodle Soup. It was met with silence, an unspoken "You're eating what?!" dangling between us.
My mother's hope of me becoming some great Mormon domestic goddess faded in a flash. I still refuse to learn how to make meatloaf.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Confessions of the Anti-Social Neurotic
The past several weeks have been weeks of deep pondering and sleeping. Not necessarily productive, though two major holidays were included in there, so my slothfulness must be forgiven to some degree.
In the past month, I've become a virtual cipher. Completely and utterly anti-social. I wish I could say it's abnormal for me - it's not. I was born to envy people who were social, but when left to my own, I take the path of least resistence and remain woefully socially inept. (On a side note, I've also stopped cooking, much to Himself's dismay. I have made two full meals in the last 15 days. Alarming, no?)
Recently, while perusing an online forum I participate in, the topic came up of Female Friendships and whether or not we had them. Someone posted, "I try and try and give and give and extend invitation upon invitation in friendships, and I always end up with friends who seem to never give back."
Knife through heart. I'm certain my guilty pangs were prompted by my last-minute call to beg off to a friend's birthday dinner the night before. I didn't feel well. It was more mental not feeling well than anything else, but I loathed the thought of being social - of having to make small talk and listen to half-drunken mindlessness. I started to think about it. It's nothing new. I can fake it relatively well, but I've always been an INTJ:
I care deeply for people - I whisper silent prayers of help for someone, have grand longings to be the sweet, charitable woman and defend all I feel need defending. I think of people - friends, strangers, colleagues, family members - often. But I loathe the telephone, hate to feel like a burden or as if I am interfering, and find myself having deep and meaningful conversations via e-mail more than in person. I get irritated with people lacking common sense and have no time for shallow relationships. I accept, but don't reciprocate social invitations because I am loathe to be the center of attention, even if it means playing host. (Oddly, I plan extensive and elaborate events at work and thoroughly enjoy it However, I don't have to host. I get to dress in black and remain the background, directing a silent symphony of events, caterers, musicians, props and people.)
In short, I think I am the kind of woman this person posted about. I feel oddly guilty about it - perhaps because in writing, it makes me sound so harsh or uncaring, and I know that isn't the truth. If no one else realizes it, I apologize.
To make amends, I am going to set up that Starbucks run a neighbor and I have been e-mailing back and forth about. I will be social tonight...for a little while. Then I am bounding back home to sleep the sleep of the incredibly exhausted.
In the past month, I've become a virtual cipher. Completely and utterly anti-social. I wish I could say it's abnormal for me - it's not. I was born to envy people who were social, but when left to my own, I take the path of least resistence and remain woefully socially inept. (On a side note, I've also stopped cooking, much to Himself's dismay. I have made two full meals in the last 15 days. Alarming, no?)
Recently, while perusing an online forum I participate in, the topic came up of Female Friendships and whether or not we had them. Someone posted, "I try and try and give and give and extend invitation upon invitation in friendships, and I always end up with friends who seem to never give back."
Knife through heart. I'm certain my guilty pangs were prompted by my last-minute call to beg off to a friend's birthday dinner the night before. I didn't feel well. It was more mental not feeling well than anything else, but I loathed the thought of being social - of having to make small talk and listen to half-drunken mindlessness. I started to think about it. It's nothing new. I can fake it relatively well, but I've always been an INTJ:
To outsiders, INTJs may appear to project an aura of "definiteness",
of self-confidence. This self-confidence, sometimes mistaken for
simple arrogance by the less decisive, is actually of a very specific rather
than a general nature.
Personal relationships, particularly romantic ones, can
be the INTJ's Achilles heel. While they are capable of caring deeply for others
(usually a select few) ... the knowledge and self-confidence that make them so
successful in other areas can suddenly abandon or mislead them in interpersonal
situations.
This happens in part because many INTJs do not readily grasp the
social rituals; for instance, they tend to have little patience and less
understanding of such things as small talk and flirtation (which most types
consider half the fun of a relationship). To complicate matters, INTJs are
usually extremely private people, and can often be naturally impassive as well,
which makes them easy to misread and misunderstand. Perhaps the most fundamental
problem, however, is that INTJs really want people to make sense.
I care deeply for people - I whisper silent prayers of help for someone, have grand longings to be the sweet, charitable woman and defend all I feel need defending. I think of people - friends, strangers, colleagues, family members - often. But I loathe the telephone, hate to feel like a burden or as if I am interfering, and find myself having deep and meaningful conversations via e-mail more than in person. I get irritated with people lacking common sense and have no time for shallow relationships. I accept, but don't reciprocate social invitations because I am loathe to be the center of attention, even if it means playing host. (Oddly, I plan extensive and elaborate events at work and thoroughly enjoy it However, I don't have to host. I get to dress in black and remain the background, directing a silent symphony of events, caterers, musicians, props and people.)
In short, I think I am the kind of woman this person posted about. I feel oddly guilty about it - perhaps because in writing, it makes me sound so harsh or uncaring, and I know that isn't the truth. If no one else realizes it, I apologize.
To make amends, I am going to set up that Starbucks run a neighbor and I have been e-mailing back and forth about. I will be social tonight...for a little while. Then I am bounding back home to sleep the sleep of the incredibly exhausted.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
18 Minutes
It took me 18 minutes to get to work this morning.
Normally, it takes about 40. On rainy days, the day after Labor Day and Mondays it can take up to an hour to traverse the miles between my home and the office.
I owe today's commuting bliss to the death of a man I've never met.
Today is a day of mourning. At 9:30 a.m. EST, the bells at the National Cathedral tolled 38 times as the nation commenced a state funeral to honor the passing of former President Gerald R. Ford. The Presidents Bush, Henry Kissinger and Tom Brokaw delivered solemn eulogies, broadcast worldwide. Tomorrow, former President Jimmy Carter will eulogize him at a private funeral in Michigan.
The talking heads have been filling the airwaves with anecdotes, photographs and analysis of President Ford as a man, a president and a statesman. Two themes seem to run through the conversations - his pardon of former President Nixon and his background as a stalwart, upstanding Midwesterner. I've learned a lot about him over the past week. In history classes, President Ford generally warranted no more than a few cameo appearances as the one who pardoned Nixon, the one who oversaw the end of the Vietnam War and the man who was never elected the highest offices in which he served. In the past week, I've learned about his upbringing in Michigan, about how much he loved the House of Representatives and how his blundering remark about those under the Iron Curtain's rule likely cost him are return to power - all things I failed to learn in my prior study of American history.
It is in death, however, that he directly impacted my life. On this, the national day of mourning for Ford, Federal employees nationwide got another day added to their holiday weekend. The rest of us in the DC area got to bask in their absence on semi-empty streets.
I paid my own homage to President Ford as I zipped along at a respectable 60 miles per hour into the office. It is much easier to pause and contemplate someone's contributions when not stuck behind a sea of red tail lights. May Ford's family have the arms of the divine wrapped around them mourn their husband, father and grandfather. May their love grow deeper as they lay him to rest. May he rest in peace.
Normally, it takes about 40. On rainy days, the day after Labor Day and Mondays it can take up to an hour to traverse the miles between my home and the office.
I owe today's commuting bliss to the death of a man I've never met.
Today is a day of mourning. At 9:30 a.m. EST, the bells at the National Cathedral tolled 38 times as the nation commenced a state funeral to honor the passing of former President Gerald R. Ford. The Presidents Bush, Henry Kissinger and Tom Brokaw delivered solemn eulogies, broadcast worldwide. Tomorrow, former President Jimmy Carter will eulogize him at a private funeral in Michigan.
The talking heads have been filling the airwaves with anecdotes, photographs and analysis of President Ford as a man, a president and a statesman. Two themes seem to run through the conversations - his pardon of former President Nixon and his background as a stalwart, upstanding Midwesterner. I've learned a lot about him over the past week. In history classes, President Ford generally warranted no more than a few cameo appearances as the one who pardoned Nixon, the one who oversaw the end of the Vietnam War and the man who was never elected the highest offices in which he served. In the past week, I've learned about his upbringing in Michigan, about how much he loved the House of Representatives and how his blundering remark about those under the Iron Curtain's rule likely cost him are return to power - all things I failed to learn in my prior study of American history.
It is in death, however, that he directly impacted my life. On this, the national day of mourning for Ford, Federal employees nationwide got another day added to their holiday weekend. The rest of us in the DC area got to bask in their absence on semi-empty streets.
I paid my own homage to President Ford as I zipped along at a respectable 60 miles per hour into the office. It is much easier to pause and contemplate someone's contributions when not stuck behind a sea of red tail lights. May Ford's family have the arms of the divine wrapped around them mourn their husband, father and grandfather. May their love grow deeper as they lay him to rest. May he rest in peace.
The Toll Booth Ate My Dime & Other Really Bad Things
Note: This was originally written as an e-mail to friends on Tuesday, November 21. After much pleading, I am sharing it here. Unfortunately, the collection of events below happen more often than I'd care to admit.
It all began when a computer appeared on Himself's Christmas list yesterday. Puzzled, I inquired why, since the household has three computers (four if I bring my laptop home), he felt he needed to ask for yet another computer.
"It's dead," came the response. Whether referring to people, animals or, in this case, computers, "It's Dead" is never something one is prepared to hear. I didn't even have to ask what was dead. Our "older than dirt" (as Himself refers to it) 5-year-old computer apparently had spit out the message of death: "fatal error." It didn't prompt an immediate call to Dell or to an electronics store to find out if "fatal error" was permanent. Rather, it prompted a scribbling on a list and a phone call to the devoted wife, who had already had a bad day, to announce the addition to the Christmas list. The devoted wife, of course, being devoted, provided a number for Dell with an admonition to call them before holding any graveside services.
It only went downhill from there ...
I left work to go to dinner with friends. Armed with the address of their hotel (located on a MAJOR U.S. HIGHWAY), I set off. I was going to be on time, no small feat in evening rush hour traffic in D.C. Problem is, I drove up and down the street, around the blocks (many blocks), sat in the left-hand lane holding up traffic waiting to make yet another left turn, drove slowly (to the increasing dismay of those behind me) to find the hotel, etc. No hotel. It's a major hotel on a major street in a major suburb. At this point, I was ranting much like the people you see yelling at their cars in the new Toyta commercial.
I broke down and called 411, got the number to the hotel and called the hotel. I asked the hotel where on Jefferson Davis Highway they were located. The response? "We're not on Jefferson Davis Highway." Huh? This is the Crystal City Embassy Suites, yes? Oh it was all right, but get this - the BACK of the hotel faces an elevated portion of the JD Highway. If you are looking for the back of a hotel, you might actually see their sign way up there. The ENTRANCE, however is located at the intersection of two streets, neither of which are JD Highway. And not even really at the intersection, more mid-block, as I was to find out when I realized that a bank occupies that corner.
20 minutes late, I finally pull in...
This morning, in what I am now convinced was part of a mass conspiracy, the meeting I was accidentally not invited to, moved without telling me. I sat outside, in the nearly freezing cold outside a sales office because the meeting request (forwarded to me once I realized I had been excluded) said to meet there. 10 minutes after the meeting should have begun, without anyone showing up, I walked across the street to the construction site, only to be told everyone had met up in one of the upper floors.
I called for an elevator (the elevators are manually operated in the construction zone until residents move in). No elevator. Not yet deterred, I hiked up the daunting concrete stairs. I walked in and was greeted with, "Where have you been?" I wisely pretended I hadn't heard.
Since I was driving the Hoopty Mobile without the EZPass and I didn't want to scrounge for loose change, I opted to take the back way into work from my meeting. It was all fine until, at the road's narrowest point (1 lane each way, no shoulders), I was greated with yellow caution tape and orange cones. No advanced warning the road was closed. One 15-point turn later, I turned around and began digging for change, as the toll road was my now only option.
Triumphant, I came up with the requisite dollar to get on and off the toll road. When I went to get on, I dumped in five dimes. Clink, clink, clink, clink....pause. It only registered four dimes. Panic, quick! Cars behind you, two quarters left to your name, which hold the only way of getting OFF the toll road legally. In a desparate attempt to remain an honest citizen, I began flinging pennies into the toll collector, praying that this was one of the few machines in America that recognizes we still, in fact, use them. Clink. HONK. Clink. Clink. HONK. Clink. HONK. HONK. (You get the point). Apparently, while it takes pennies, the toll collector takes an extraordinarily long time to count them - even longer than, say it takes to count 4 dimes and pause while the driver decides what to do when it eats one.
Victorious, with the cars behind me now whizzing by on either side, middle fingers waggled in salute, I continued on my journey into the office. And then ... trouble struck again. I got a charley horse in my foot. My left foot. The Hoopty Mobile is a stick. And the exit was approaching. I'd rather not discuss how I solved that problem - I'm sure it wasn't legal.The afternoon proved to be a constant flurry of mundane desk jockey work. Placated, I felt maybe that meant the rest of the day would turn out better. Wrong again. I got home, only to have barely enough time to change clothes and dash to church for the weekly youth devotional. Before I left, I hurridly pulled out frozen drink mixes to take with me. As Himself can attest to, opening our freezer means having to dodge frozen inanimate objects of random sizes that launch with the equivalent force and result of errant missiles. In the ensuing melee, a bag of shredded coconut and a bag of cranberries fell out. They burst, sending coconut and cranberries everywhere! I chased renegade cranberries across the kitchen, chalked the coconut up as a lost cause and fled the scene of the crime.
I'm praying tomorrow is better.
It all began when a computer appeared on Himself's Christmas list yesterday. Puzzled, I inquired why, since the household has three computers (four if I bring my laptop home), he felt he needed to ask for yet another computer.
"It's dead," came the response. Whether referring to people, animals or, in this case, computers, "It's Dead" is never something one is prepared to hear. I didn't even have to ask what was dead. Our "older than dirt" (as Himself refers to it) 5-year-old computer apparently had spit out the message of death: "fatal error." It didn't prompt an immediate call to Dell or to an electronics store to find out if "fatal error" was permanent. Rather, it prompted a scribbling on a list and a phone call to the devoted wife, who had already had a bad day, to announce the addition to the Christmas list. The devoted wife, of course, being devoted, provided a number for Dell with an admonition to call them before holding any graveside services.
It only went downhill from there ...
I left work to go to dinner with friends. Armed with the address of their hotel (located on a MAJOR U.S. HIGHWAY), I set off. I was going to be on time, no small feat in evening rush hour traffic in D.C. Problem is, I drove up and down the street, around the blocks (many blocks), sat in the left-hand lane holding up traffic waiting to make yet another left turn, drove slowly (to the increasing dismay of those behind me) to find the hotel, etc. No hotel. It's a major hotel on a major street in a major suburb. At this point, I was ranting much like the people you see yelling at their cars in the new Toyta commercial.
I broke down and called 411, got the number to the hotel and called the hotel. I asked the hotel where on Jefferson Davis Highway they were located. The response? "We're not on Jefferson Davis Highway." Huh? This is the Crystal City Embassy Suites, yes? Oh it was all right, but get this - the BACK of the hotel faces an elevated portion of the JD Highway. If you are looking for the back of a hotel, you might actually see their sign way up there. The ENTRANCE, however is located at the intersection of two streets, neither of which are JD Highway. And not even really at the intersection, more mid-block, as I was to find out when I realized that a bank occupies that corner.
20 minutes late, I finally pull in...
This morning, in what I am now convinced was part of a mass conspiracy, the meeting I was accidentally not invited to, moved without telling me. I sat outside, in the nearly freezing cold outside a sales office because the meeting request (forwarded to me once I realized I had been excluded) said to meet there. 10 minutes after the meeting should have begun, without anyone showing up, I walked across the street to the construction site, only to be told everyone had met up in one of the upper floors.
I called for an elevator (the elevators are manually operated in the construction zone until residents move in). No elevator. Not yet deterred, I hiked up the daunting concrete stairs. I walked in and was greeted with, "Where have you been?" I wisely pretended I hadn't heard.
Since I was driving the Hoopty Mobile without the EZPass and I didn't want to scrounge for loose change, I opted to take the back way into work from my meeting. It was all fine until, at the road's narrowest point (1 lane each way, no shoulders), I was greated with yellow caution tape and orange cones. No advanced warning the road was closed. One 15-point turn later, I turned around and began digging for change, as the toll road was my now only option.
Triumphant, I came up with the requisite dollar to get on and off the toll road. When I went to get on, I dumped in five dimes. Clink, clink, clink, clink....pause. It only registered four dimes. Panic, quick! Cars behind you, two quarters left to your name, which hold the only way of getting OFF the toll road legally. In a desparate attempt to remain an honest citizen, I began flinging pennies into the toll collector, praying that this was one of the few machines in America that recognizes we still, in fact, use them. Clink. HONK. Clink. Clink. HONK. Clink. HONK. HONK. (You get the point). Apparently, while it takes pennies, the toll collector takes an extraordinarily long time to count them - even longer than, say it takes to count 4 dimes and pause while the driver decides what to do when it eats one.
Victorious, with the cars behind me now whizzing by on either side, middle fingers waggled in salute, I continued on my journey into the office. And then ... trouble struck again. I got a charley horse in my foot. My left foot. The Hoopty Mobile is a stick. And the exit was approaching. I'd rather not discuss how I solved that problem - I'm sure it wasn't legal.The afternoon proved to be a constant flurry of mundane desk jockey work. Placated, I felt maybe that meant the rest of the day would turn out better. Wrong again. I got home, only to have barely enough time to change clothes and dash to church for the weekly youth devotional. Before I left, I hurridly pulled out frozen drink mixes to take with me. As Himself can attest to, opening our freezer means having to dodge frozen inanimate objects of random sizes that launch with the equivalent force and result of errant missiles. In the ensuing melee, a bag of shredded coconut and a bag of cranberries fell out. They burst, sending coconut and cranberries everywhere! I chased renegade cranberries across the kitchen, chalked the coconut up as a lost cause and fled the scene of the crime.
I'm praying tomorrow is better.
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