Blind Man's Bluff

I’ve been transferred to a new project at work, which requires me to be on-site. The good news is it is a shorter commute. The bad news is…well, my previously established dislike of change pretty much covers the bad news.

All the things I hate about change are present: the unknown, having to ask questions, new surroundings, etc. To make things worse, I have to get a security clearance, a process which takes upward of seven months. Until that clearance comes through, I have no internet or email access, unless I trek up a floor (by elevator, because stairwell doors are card-operated as well) to the library, where there are computers with internet access. To date (fourteen days and counting), I’ve been too lazy to go up there. So I check my email once a day, at night.

Another issue is getting in the building, and in my office area. All of these areas are security card operated. Again, until the clearance comes through, I have to have someone come down and meet me when I enter the building (I can leave on my own, at least), and buzz me back in the office when I go to the bathroom or to get water. Yeah, not super-convenient.

But I’m willing to deal with those hassles, because I think the project is worth it. And the people are super-cool. Compared to the work I’ve been doing for the past 2+ years, this stuff is awesome. Very interesting, and more along the lines of the type of work I’d like to do.

Honestly, the worst incident so far (in terms of dealing with a new situation) happened one morning when I tried to buy a soda at the store outside the metro. Seems like a simple process, right? Well, as I’ve learned, don’t take anything for granted. You never know what to expect in a new situation, no matter how simple it may seem. Here’s how it went down:

I was picking out my soda (is it a Diet Coke, a Diet Pepsi, or Diet Dr. Pepper day…this is a complicated decision, and the answer varies according to my mood), and I heard a woman at the counter, about to pay say “I have some of those pink candy things here”. It struck me as odd, but I thought maybe she had already put them in her bag or something. So I go up to pay (I’m the only customer in the store by now), and I put the Diet Pepsi on the counter. But as I do so, I notice the man behind the register has thick, dark glasses, and he’s not looking at me. Then I remember seeing a cane propped up by the refrigerators, and I come to a astoundingly genius conclusion: this man is blind.

His lack of sight having been established, I am now faced with how to deal with the situation. I don’t want to offend him, but I’m assuming I need to tell him what I want to buy. But since I’m not sure, I kind of mumble “Diet Pepsi” in a manner that might be construed as a “I love Diet Pepsi” sigh, in case he gets offended. He’s quiet for a few seconds, seemingly waiting for me to say something, and then repeats it back to me. I confirm.
But then he just sits there. I realize I’m waiting for him to tell me the total, but he can’t actually SEE the register to know the total, so it’s my responsibility to check the price on the register, and give him the money. So I give my $2. And again, he just sits there, waiting for me to do something. At this point, I feel so helpless, worthless and frustrated. Finally, I stupidly realize that he doesn’t know HOW MUCH money I’ve given (although two one dollar bills could be assumed to be the obvious choice, he wouldn’t know for sure), so then I have to tell him “Two dollars”, at which point he opens the registers and slowly counts out my change. I thank him and wish him a good day (probably overly enthusiastic), and get the hell out of there. I am absolutely able to laugh at myself over pretty much anything, and love to tell stories about my random encounters, even if they make me look, well, less than the genius that I obviously am (work with me, people). What bothered me most was that I maybe made this man feel awkward or uncomfortable because of his blindness, which is the exact opposite of how I would want him to feel. I am impressed by his courage and ability to hold a job that most people typically think would require sight. I wanted to apologize, but then thought that might make matters worse.

This is why I don’t like change. In almost any situation, I am a confident, outgoing woman. But throw me one tiny change (or big, whatever), and I turn into a socially inept freshman in high school who just wants to be like all the cool kids. I guess we never really grow up after all.

Enough

As I read the blogs of friends and strangers, I hear a hum of frustration, tension, stress. I wonder how a joyous time, a time for friends and family, a time of giving and sharing can be so damaging to self-esteem.

Family so easily wounds each other with careless turns of phrase or thoughtless actions. I come home even more insecure for all the “security” of family and I am sure that I am as much to blame as anyone else.

I remember a conversation of the past, a conversation between my mother and her friend, a conversation I was really too young to be hearing and just old enough to understand.

My mom’s friend lived in constant fear of her mother. This woman, the friend, was a preacher’s wife and a very good woman. She was also human – she made mistakes. Her mother never let her live them down. It seemed that her mother even turned the good into bad, the right things into mistakes.

My mother’s friend only wanted approval. She cried and screamed and begged for approval from her mother. She never felt it.

I am sure she is not the only one. I am a grown up, fully-function adult woman, capable of supporting myself, making my own decisions, living my life for me but I still want my mother’s approval. Not just hers, I want that of my brother, my sister, my dad and step mom, my friends.

Stop. Think. Before you start telling me that it is a dangerous way to live, listen.

I live my life for me. I make my own decisions but it is a lot easier to say that I do not need their approval than to feel it.

Anyway, my mom’s friend felt like a failure, or so she said in this conversation to which I really should not have been listening. She explained that she had even been seeing a therapist.

The therapist said that she needed to realize that her mother loved her the best that she could. Sometimes, it wasn’t enough. Maybe, it would never be enough, but that didn’t mean the mother didn’t love her.

It stuck with me.

It stays with me, 20 years later.

My mom loves me the best that she can. Sometimes, it’s not enough. Sometimes, the things she does hurt me. She doesn’t know that. She isn’t trying to hurt me. Sometimes, I think she’s trying to protect me, to protect herself.

She might not have invited me home for Christmas because she thought I wouldn’t come. I might not have.

I could write about the things she’s “done” and the way I feel about them, but that won’t change anything. It might make me feel marginally better. It might make her feel monumentally worse.

And I have done it. Even the words I have written here might wound her, which is not my intention.

I love my family.

My family loves me. The best that they can. That needs to be enough.


Tag: Family

Playing by the rules

So, I am on a mailing list for 8 Minute Dating. Don’t ask. I get messages about events every couple of days – most of them in the wrong age group (21-28 or 40-52) or the wrong city (Woodbridge, Baltimore, Bangkok, whatever). I generally delete them and move on.

Yesterday, though, one caught my eye. (It was a slow day.) I read it and stopped when I read the first age group. Men: 42-56, Women: 40-52. Huh. Apparently, 53-year-old women need to date 57-year-olds and up. I kept reading. Men: 30-41, Women: 29-39.

Okay. Apparently, 8 Minute Dating is a little more traditional than I expected. Maybe women only want to date older men. Maybe men only want to date younger women.

Seems a little ageist and sexist to me.

What about tad poling? Can we get a group for Men: 25-35, Women: 30-40? More of a “We’re in our prime” group?

Cougars must feel neglected. What about Men: 25-35, Women: 40-50?

Maybe I am in the wrong.

I do tend to date slightly older men but not always. I happen to know and like a very mature, sweet, dependable 25-year-old. According to 8 Minute Dating, I should be no older than 22 or 23 to have him in my life.

Right.

Societal norms dictate that older men date younger women and vice versa. Boy should be taller than girl. No sex until the third date. Whatever. I am sure that there is a whole list of rules.

Actually, I’ve found a few online and I quote:

• Always look great, whatever your income. Gorgeous hair and some lipstick and wearing rags will still turn his head. You have the advantage, you are the woman. Look your best as you could meet a potential Mr. Right anywhere at any time.
• Never reveal information you don't have to. An enigmatic woman drives men wild.
• Keep dates brief but your men interested. Less is always more.
• Try and stay in shape and involve some fitness regime at a gym. However much you hate it, your Mr. Right loves your body as much as your mind.
• Let your man pay. If he is interested, he is interested enough to ensure you eat well and get home safely in a cab.
• Ensure you receive flowers, if he doesn't know what a florist is, dump him.
• Never ever sleep with a guy until he has fallen for you. Sex early in your dating game plan will ruin everything.
• Always keep a guy waiting and never turn up early. It is a lady's perogative.
• Never be available when he wants you to be. Never be at the end of a phone when he calls and always let him leave a message or two first before replying.
• If he is available Tuesday, you are available Thursday.
• Weekend shopping trips with girlfriends are sacred and not available for dates.
• Keep your man standing on quicksand by shifting landmarks and goalposts constantly.
• Ensure you are a good kisser. Men will walk away if you cannot kiss. Practise on a mirror if you have to.
• Never ever talk about previous boyfriends and particularly their prowess in the bedroom. The number of ex boyfriends is your business only.
• Never pre suppose anything about your date until you choose to know him better. You cannot always tell by looking
• If any man shows the slightest signs of possessiveness or insecurity run like the wind. Life is too short for boys.
• If his shoes or hygiene are a disgrace dump him
• Never talk too much about your father and how your date measures up in comparison.
• Never ever come across as too available or too desperate, he will run a mile. He is the one doing the chasing remember.
• If the guy in the corner is gorgeous go and get him and create the need in him for you. Never wait for men to come to you because you may watch him leave with someone else.
• You may well have all the bodily functions of a man, just try not to demonstrate them early on.
• If you are wanting a child, don't mention it on the first few dates.
• Never ever criticize his mother unless you want to remain single.

I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Won’t playing by the rules, these rules mean missing opportunities? Possibly a chance of something great?

Granted, I am not looking to 8 Minute Dating as a means to eternal love. I don’t even read most of the messages they send, much less attend the events. I am just a little offended.


Tag: Dating Rules

Home for the Holidays

It’s one of my favorite movies. I think I’ve seen it about a hundred times and I just keep watching it. I even gave my mom a copy last Christmas with the DVD player I’d bought. She likes it, too, but I’m not sure we see the same things in the movie.

Holly Hunter flies home for Thanksgiving - losing her coat, her job and the secure knowledge of her teen daughter’s virginity. Not necessarily in that order. Her parents treat her like a child, her brother acts like one and she’s got nothing in common with her sister. Everything spins out of control - or rather, everything might be in control, just not hers.

That’s how I feel around my own family. There might be some sort of control, some sort of method to the madness; it’s just not mine. I lose myself in it – bicker and fight and push each other’s buttons. We say things to each other that we would never consider appropriate for friends or acquaintances or even strangers. I would list them out but they’re terrible. Especially between people who are supposed to love one another.

Fortunately, they didn’t all come this Christmas.

The funny thing is how the insults stay inside my head, drowning out the good times, my niece whispering in church “I am happy we’re coming to stay with you tonight.”

A worried voice in the back of the car on Christmas Eve proclaimed, “I hope Santa remembers what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I can’t remember. That’s why I hope Santa does.”

Another niece refuted a claim that she was cute. She shook her head and said that she’s not cute. Or pretty. Or precious.

“What are you?”

“I’m adorable,” she responded, answered by laughter. Stomping her feet, she shouted, “Stop laughing. This is serious business.”

She’s three.

I received cards, email, gifts – sometimes all three – from family and friends. The friends I’ve known since second or third grade, high school, college, some from work or travel. We stay in touch with each other, our friendships spanning years and miles because we honestly like each other.

I spent most of the weekend in West Virginia, part of the weekend at home, crammed into a tiny Capitol Hill apartment with three other adults and three small children. Tempers flared, words flew, tears poured. My nephew swept the floor with my new, ivory coat. I fell down a flight of steps, hurting my hand, elbow and shoulder, bruising my bum and ego. We were on top of each other – staying warm in a house without much heat, watching movies in an apartment without much space. We drove each other nuts and exhausted adults whined as much as tired kids.

I’m at home, alone now. It’s quiet and warm and has more than enough space for one person. I can watch what I want on TV without worrying about language or looking for animation and I can play on my computer without worrying about the queue forming behind me.

I’m lonely.

They drive me nuts and hurt my feelings (and frequently my body with roughhousing kids and accident-prone self) but they’re family, my family, and I love them.


Tag: Family Christmas Home for the Holidays

'Twas the night before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, emotions were stirring... What is it about the holidays that brings out the very best and very worst in people? Simultaneously.

I know I often threaten to cry but honestly it seldom happens. As a child, I really freaked my mom out - she thought I didn't cry. She didn't realize that I would break down in the middle of Mrs. Birch's second grade class while we read about Dick and Jane. After that, the public waterworks that was my seventh year, I pretty much quit the crying. I don't do it a lot - it's hell on the contacts.

Yesterday, though, I managed to astonish myself.

Two hours into Christmas with family and I started crying. I pretty much cried all night, went to bed, got up and cried again. I am the first to admit that my hormones are a little out of control due to a violent reaction to a Depo shot a year ago. One shot has resulted in pretty much ten months of complications, and counting.

So, I'm a caricature of a crazy girl with raging hormones, serious sleep deprivation and a little of the holiday stress. Add one part alcohol and two parts very strategic button-pushing/mean comments by family members and, eureka, we've struck oil! Black gold. The Texas tea of emotions. Friggin' waterworks.

I know I'm not the only one. If anything's going to make me cry, it will be my family. Generally not the immediate family, but family nonetheless. I've already decided that if/when I get married, I will elope. It might not guarantee eternal peace, love and happiness, but it might keep me sane a day longer than otherwise.

The holidays, though, I can't seem to shake.

What is it about the birth of Jesus Christ or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa? What is it about the commercial, gift-laden, food-heavy holidays that gets people so riled up?

Tag: Christmas Family Stress

Two stops

Two stops. That’s how long it took to realize that I was on the wrong train. Actually, I was on the right train going the wrong way. Two stops.

Actually, I had an inkling at the first stop but doubted myself. I’ve been out of town. I am tired, averaging four hours sleep per night for the past week. I could have been wrong but at the second stop, I realized that I had hopped a train back to work.

It was 8:30 at night.

I was distracted on this, my third metro ride of the night. It had been a long night already – working late, writing an angry letter to DirecTV, visiting a gallery, trying (and failing) to shop, yadda, yadda, yadda. Long night.

So, I was on the metro for the third time: tired, hungry, and distracted. I caught myself staring at a poster. (So much better staring at strangers, making them nervous, causing them to switch cars.) I was staring at an advertisement for the Avon Breast Cancer walk.

We’ve all seen the signs. I’ve thought about doing it and talked about doing it and have supported about half a dozen friends who’ve walked but I never seem to get anywhere. It just seems like so much work – fundraising, training, giving up a weekend. This time I kept reading and realized that I should stop talking, start doing. My sister has breast cancer.

My 33-year-old, mother of three, best friend in the world sister has breast cancer.

I am scared. She hasn’t even had the biopsy yet. We don’t know how bad it is or how good it is or anything. It might be fine. She might be fine. But I’m scared.

This isn’t the first breast cancer in our lives. Our grandmother had it and lost one of the girls. She wears a foam shoulder pad in her bra, calls it her GB (guest breast) and seems to be just fine. She’s got spunk, my grandmother.

Just a year ago, my dad’s sister was diagnosed and two months ago, my mom’s sister-in-law. We’ve had our fair share of cancer of the breast and of the breasts in the family, my sister and I have more than our fair share.

She said that they were “going to cut off [her] boob.” She doesn’t know that yet, but even if they do, she’ll be okay. She’s my sister. I tried to joke with her, to say that she has always wanted a breast reduction and that she could afford to lose a little. She was less than amused. I can’t say that I blame her. I just don’t want to see her scared.

It’s a scary thing.

Honestly, I would rather complain about DirecTV and lost phones and lack of sleep. I would rather worry about stocking stuffers and incomplete Christmas card lists and taking the wrong train but I can’t. The wrong train made me face the reality of the disease inside my sister. I could have avoided it for days, weeks, years, even. I can live with denial. I thrive on denial.

I just don’t know if I can live with the fear.


Tag: Cancer BreastCancer Sisters Family Fear

Home again, home again

Alistair Cooke once said:

Las Vegas is Everyman's cut-rate Babylon. Not far away there is, or was, a roadside lunch counter and over it a sign proclaiming in three words that a Roman emperor's orgy is now a democratic institution. "Topless Pizza Lunch."

Unaccustomed as I am to Babylon, I have loads to say but am too tired to say it. No matter how much fun I had, and I did have fun, I am glad to be home. Less glad to be back at work after the red-eye flight with a chatty rowmate but glad to be home. Now, if only DirecTV installed my DVR this afternoon, life would be complete.

STILL waiting

I am on hold. Again. For the second time this morning.

I tried calling the local installers. Their number has been disconnected.

I called the corporate number. They’ve put me on hold. Again. For the second time. I guess it doesn’t matter. At least hold comes with music as opposed to the silence that is the guy on the other end of the line trying to figure out what’s going on.

Now, he’s talking to a supervisor. That’s what he was doing the last time I was on hold. I’ve been on the phone for the past hour. Yep. Hour. Mostly in silence except for the hold music and the occasional talking such as all the fine print that goes with buying and installing a DVR because I’ve had to repurchase the damn thing and start all over with the process.

The guy suggested sending out a tech on Tuesday. I’ll be out of town and/or incarcerated based on my rage at having waited more than 20 hours for somebody to install my DVR.

I’m getting one of the two DVRs for free. It was supposed to be free anyways. I’m getting a $20 credit, which is the cause for the current holding pattern. It just wasn’t working in the computer.

The man came back. He’s going to call me back later when somebody can give me the credit (read: not money, credit for future service). I don’t even care. I’ve already paid for it. I don’t want $20. I give $20 metro checks to beggars all the time. It’s not about the money. I want the time back. Or the DVR. Or peace. Maybe all of the above.

I was mean.

When the man came back, when he said that he’d have to call me back to give me the $20 credit, he also told me to have a great day and happy holidays. I said “whatever” and hung up on him.

I don’t care. I am so frustrated right now I could cry.

At least I have DirecTV (if not DVR). There’s a woman on E! right now who has had so much plastic surgery that she looks like Janice from the Muppets. That’s awesome.

Note: I do realize and care that there are bigger things going on in the world than my petty war with DirecTV. I just can’t help myself. I am frustrated. I'm definitely encouraged by Chairborne Stranger's election recap.


Tag: Frustration DirecTV

Pooping in Public

I don't know what it is with so many people not being able to, um, defecate (I can't use the word "Poop" more than once in a story) in public. Co-workers of mine told me they would rather go home than use the bathrooms at our office. I don't see why really, the bathrooms here are very nice and usually very clean. They aren't as homey as the toilets in our apartments or our housed, but then again 50 people a day don't use the toilet at my place either.

I once used the toilet at a KFC in the middle of an open air market in a third-world country with 2 inches of urine on the floor. When you have to go, how do you just "hold it" until you get home? I don't see how that's possible. I used the bathroom in the middle of parties, at bars in college, on first dates (at the dates apartment), I have no shame. You go when you have to.

I was in France a few years ago and I urgently need to use the toilette. There was no waiting around, no holding it until I got back to my hotel room, I had to go immediately. I basically raced to the closest place I could find, which was a nice little cafe on a corner not too far away. I ran inside and saw that the line for the mens room was 10 deep, there was no way I could wait any longer. I knocked on the door to the womens bathroom, no one answered, so I rushed in.

The stalls in bathrooms in Europe are more like closets with the walls and doors reaching from floor to ceiling. This was a nice touch, since I was a man in a womens restroom, they wouldn't see my shoes. And of course they came. And knocked, and I let out a high pitched "hmmpf" to let them know I (or whom this person to be) was occupying the stall.

They knocked a few more times and I repeated my routine, until finally I felt I was able to leave. I peaked out through the door of the stall into the restroom, no one. Thank God. I washed my hands and went out the door. And there was a line of women, all waiting to use the stall I had been occupying for the last half hour.

"Wrong bathroom." That's all I said as I scurried out through the front door to meet my very bored friends.

Tag: Bathroom

Here comes baby...Part I

So there I was, leading my oh-so-city chic life (just let me continue believing it, please) last week when I got the call. At 6:00 a.m. on a Wednesday, mind you, and I was still able to form a coherent sentence (I think). My best friend, Kristie, in North Carolina was in labor. We’ve been friends since the second grade, when my mom made me invite her to my birthday party.

And now she was about to have a baby? I mean, technically this should not have come as a surprise to me, since she’s been pregnant for about, well, nine months. And yes, I had seen her during that time, and witnessed the physical evidence of her ever-expanding belly. But somehow I guess it didn’t really occur to me how absolutely and utterly weird it would feel when she actually HAD the baby. How in the world can one of us possible be old enough, mature enough (and all other “enoughs”) to actually have a child? Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were baby-sitting my little sister, trying to sneak in a preview of my mom’s copy of Dirty Dancing? And when we heard my parents coming in, we had to frantically take the tape out and get back on the couch, accidentally jumping on my sisters’ favorite doll and breaking the head off (the doll, not my sister)?

Or what about the time we convinced out parents we were old enough (I was 15, she was 16) to housesit for her aunt while she was out of town? We had our boyfriends over, and (gasp!) drank beer. Our boyfriends left at a pretty early hour because we were scared to get caught, but somehow, my parents still found out, and showed up, leading to the now-famous interaction:

Scene: A knock on the door. I go to answer it, thinking that one of the guys must have forgotten something. With a Rolling Rock in my hand.
My mom: “Is that a beer in your hand?”
Me: “NO”
My mom: “I’m going to ask that question again. And I was you to think long and hard before you answer me… Is that a beer in your hand?”
Me: (looking down at the bottle, staring intensely, as if it might actually NOT be a beer, or might turn into a soda if I stare hard enough) “Okay, yes”

That little scene scarred us so badly that we didn’t drink Rolling Rock for years. I still don’t. I completely blame the beer for that incident. I mean, if Rolling Rock hadn’t been manufactured, then obviously no other beer would have been good enough for us, and we wouldn’t have been drinking, right?

But I digress. THIS is person who is now having a baby? The one I saw “For Keeps” with, and during the birth scene, we both agreed that if THAT was the only to have a baby, you could count us out, thank you?

Well, the answer is yes. And I know because I was there. In the delivery room. With her, her husband, and our two moms (best friends, as well). The doctor commented on the full house, but it couldn’t have happened any other way. Sure, her husband was an important factor in the process, but the four of us…we’ve been through too much together to not support each other through that. Besides my wedding, which was hands-down the best day of my life, this was an incredible day. Very intense, and a little scary, but truly amazing.

Still waiting

So, I just called to find out if/when I could expect the technician. The answer? Yeah… That would be Saturday.

Right. Saturday. As in two days from now.

I’ve just spent the third afternoon in eight days awaiting my fourth scheduled appointment.

Apparently, the supervisor who called me to cancel/reschedule yesterday’s appointment failed to actually schedule it. It’s too late to schedule an appointment today and tomorrow is already overbooked (poor schmucks who think that they’re getting anything tomorrow afternoon).

The new supervisor, the one with whom I talked this afternoon versus the one with whom I talked yesterday morning, suggested Sunday or sometime next week, but I’m going out of town. Even if I weren’t going out of town, I don’t care. This needs to be done.

In order to get this Saturday appointment, I had to call the corporate office and get a phone number for the installation contractors. I called that number, waited on hold about five minutes and somebody hung up on me. I called back, waited on hold, talked to someone, waited on hold, waited on hold, waited on hold and found out that I’d have to wait for a supervisor to call. He called; I vaulted the sofa. Then, I had to call him back with the number of the first supervisor who failed to schedule the appointment.

How much time can I save with DVR? How many commercials will I have to skip to make up for the 15-and-a-half hours that I’ve already wasted?

Waiting

It seemed like such a great idea. “Don’t watch more TV. Watch smarter TV!” “Record your favorite programs and watch them at your leisure.” “Pause live TV.” “Cut out commercials and save time.”

Right.

That was two months ago, when I bought the equipment. Rather, when I paid for the equipment. The word “bought” implies that I actually have something other than a headache and a lot of wasted afternoons to show for a $300 investment.

I had an installation appointment scheduled last week. I even got home a half hour early like the responsible, neurotic chick that I am. I booted up my laptop, built a fire and settled into to work and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I got a call around 4:30 saying that the technician was running late and would arrive in a half hour, 45 minutes. Around six, I got another call promising another half hour or so. Around 7:30, I got the final call – the tech had a flat and would need to reschedule. (Personally, I think they just didn’t want to pay overtime, but I could be mistaken.)

Six and a half hours of waiting, working, hoping resulting in a week’s delay.

Next appointment: Tuesday, as in two days ago, between one and five. The guy even showed up, as promised, and 45 minutes before the outside estimate. He seemed nice. Walked around a bit. Checked out the lines. Went upstairs. Left.

Huh.

Apparently, white cable requires a “special order” and I had to reschedule. Who knew?

So, yesterday was the day, Wednesday, which really sucked because I had another friggin’ client holiday party (a potluck, which required shopping, cooking and actually showing up), but the neighbors agreed to be here. It would work.

I worried a little about the mess in my apartment (I cleaned), the mass of Christmas presents (45 at last count, which I moved) and a boxload of crap headed to Iraq (that I moved to yet another larger box and left in the middle of the living room). I ended up cleaning thoroughly for the neighbors upstairs and the repairman who’s already left me hanging. Twice.

Apparently, I needn’t have worried too much because Wednesday morning, while the roots roasted, I got a call to reschedule the appointment for today.

Today.

Right. Between one and five. It’s after two, but no sign or sound of the elusive breed known as the “home repairman.”

I’ve had this problem before, waiting for repairmen. (I don’t mean to slight the women in the field but I’ve always had men.) My door’s been knocked ridiculously early or ridiculously late or simply not at all. I’ve been asked out. I’ve been asked for $50 cash (which I found particularly disturbing from a strange man in my home at 9:45 on a Saturday night, a man who knew I lived alone). I’ve had my phone line fixed four times now. Four.

And I hope that the one jack continues to work because I use it for the LAN line (my cellphone doesn’t work in my apartment), my DSL and apparently, for the DVR, if it ever gets installed. I can’t even begin to imagine how that’s all going to work unless I swap out the DVR and the DSL in the middle of the night so one can update and the other can rest.

I have decided not to think about that now. I have other issues. I don’t have cash, in case I need to fork any over. I have a sprained ankle and can’t quite figure out how I’m going to answer the phone (which will require vaulting over the sofa, unlocking the big metal door, and dashing out into the snow in the first four rings. With a sprained ankle.)

Perhaps most importantly/least likely, I have to figure out how to maintain my sanity.

A friend just called to tell me about his new baby (8 lbs, 10 oz born an hour and a half earlier for anyone who’s keeping track) and I was disappointed that it wasn’t the repairman.

I am definitely losing it.

Tag: Waiting Repairmen Frustration

Blah, blah, blog

It’s my busy season at work. Christmas and all the damn Christmwanzanukkah parties are getting in the way and the workload has trebled. We’re still trying to wrap up the last fiscal year and develop templates and analysis for the next fiscal year and get reports ready for Congress even though we don’t have the data yet and won’t until, I don’t know, Christmas day? New Year’s Eve? Some equally inopportune time.

Unfortunately, I love my job (doing financial and performance reporting and analysis) and am obscenely wrapped up in the details of it. I lose myself, my friends, my free time when work is busy and it seems to be busy all the time. It has been better lately with a couple of new people at work but it's still hard.

Strangely enough, I think that blogging helps. People accuse bloggers of being narcissistic and shallow, interested in telling the world only about their own lives. (I suppose that might be true, here I am – telling you about mine.) I think it’s more than the writing, though.

The more I write, the more I read. I’m getting to know people and their blogs and we’re all writing for different reasons. Sure, some people write the “Over here! Look at me! I ate cereal!” kinds of blogs, but some people deal with sickness, war, friendships, relationships, love, marriage, depression, joy - well, everything. (Which you probably already know because you're reading a blog.)

Unfortunately, I tend to write a lot about nothing. And today, I started one of those blogs.

I had this whole thing in my head about my crappy morning and how pissed off I get at my clock radio because it’s an hour and a half fast (again) and set to C-SPAN, to which I respond quite violently early in the morning. I’ve safety-pinned my trousers together because the hem has been pulling out for the past year and I refuse to fix it, even though I know how to sew or could just pick up so Stitch Witchery or something.

Not only that, I think I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder because I am getting all kinds of anxious. I either can’t get out of bed to save my life, despite being pissed off at C-SPAN and politics and the world at large (and get to work an hour and a half late) or I wake up anxious (like today) and roll into work and hour and a half early.

I had this massive thing inside my head, something I wanted to write, and then I realized that I just didn’t want to finish it. I couldn’t stomach it. It was all so “Over here! Look at me! I ate cereal!”

I’m sure I’ll be back in the saddle again tomorrow. After all, I have to wait for the DirecTV guy for the second week in a row and if it’s anything about last week, I’ll have something to say. In the meantime, though, I going to try to get a little sunlight, get out of my funk and read a couple of blogs about dating or obsession or somebody else’s cereal.

Note: Instead of writing about the nothing inside my head this morning, I've written about an entirely new, monumentally meaningless nothing. Such a vicious cycle. Ah, the humanity.

Tag: Blogging

Tagged for twos

Okay. So Kris and I were both tagged by Mel and we're just sloooow at responding. Actually, I'm not even slow at responding. I'm slow at posting. I just really enjoyed the panda discussion...

I am, however, slow at writing up anything that I did this weekend. Let's just say it's a good thing that I eventually moved from the couch and a very good thing that I returned. The Capitol Lounge reopening? It was the best Christmas gift ever; though, I think I might have almost lamented the fact yesterday morning when I got up.

Anyway... Have to run to a meeting and can't get my document to print and I am going to be late. L-A-T-E. So I'm posting my tag and not tagging anyone else until Kris gets out and posts at least one of the four things sitting on her desktop.

2 names you go by: 1. Lodi Lo 2. Katie

2 parts of your heritage: 1. Norwegian 2. German

2 things that scare you: 1. Love 2. Fire

2 of your everyday essentials: 1. Email 2. Books

2 things you are wearing right now: 1. Red corduroy trousers (yeah, they’re sexy and the fabric of kings) 2. Black sweater

2 of your favorite bands or musical artists (at the moment): 1. Only two?! Franz Ferdinand 2. Coldplay

2 favorite songs (at the moment): 1. Anthem for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl 2. Closer to Fine

2 things you want in a relationship (other than real love): 1. Honesty 2. Understanding

2 truths: 1. I deleted the first two that I wrote 2. I keep my apartment too cold because last year’s electric bills were too high

2 physical things that appeal to you (in the opposite sex): 1. Beautiful eyes 2. Great smile

2 of your favorite hobbies (aside from scrapbooking): 1. Photography 2. Travel

2 things you want really badly: 1. Closet space 2. To get my hair cut

2 places you want to go on vacation: 1. South Africa 2. Thailand

2 things you want to do before you die: 1. Grow old 2. With someone else

2 ways that you are stereotypically a chick: 1. Sleeping with a teddy bear 2. Expensive, smelly bath products

2 things you are thinking about right now: 1. Spreadsheets/formulas 2. Diet Coke

2 stores you shop at: 1. Capitol Hill Books (a used bookstore) 2. Gap

First comes love

Ahhhhh... Isn't he cute?

Somebody's in love. Somebody who doesn't really get goo-goo has fallen for the ball of fluff affectionately known as Butterstick and formally known as Tai Shan.

She even defiled yesterday's Express in the middle of happy hour to show her love.

Yes, she wrote, in response to "How much would you love to be in [chick holding panda]'s place right now?", "a lot! I'd show my boobies."

Now, that's love.

Tag: TaiShan Panda Love

Office holiday parties

Other than the potluck mentioned below with two truths and a dare, which could get pretty risqué or lame or leave me with a really bad taste in my mouth after I realize there are some things I just didn’t want to know (i.e. the reason that one of the clients carries two water bottles everyday – one for drinking, the other because toilet paper just doesn’t do the trick), other than that, office holiday parties seem to have lost their edge.

Granted, I did my best to bring back the parties of yesteryear with drunken antics but that was more a result of the perpetually empty stomach than actual alcohol consumption. And I really just talked too much and stumbled a little.

At no point did I a) climb onto a table, b) wear a lampshade as a hat or c) make out with my boss. Or her husband. I did not sing karaoke. I did not wear my skirt as a hat. I did not photocopy my assets, my bottom line or my own face smashed between the glass and concussion-inducing lid.

I even called it by the PC moniker of the office “holiday” party instead of the office “Christmas” party.

Whatever happened to getting drunk in the office ala Desk Set (starring Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn) or even Bridget Jones? What has happened to TV dads living in a pleasant fog: walking in the door after work, kissing the wife and mixing a drink or two before dinner? I’d be flat on the floor if I did this night after night.

I worked for a company once, in another lifetime, which closed down for a week to take us on a company cruise. It was nice and weird and completely terrible, all at the same time. Sure, at the beginning of the week, it all seemed like fun, but by day four without sleep and cirrhosis-inducing quantities of alcohol, I just wanted to hide from my coworkers, go home, find a new job. And hide, I did. I dashed through halls, hid behind potted palms, spent hours in the (unused) library.

After days of petty niceties, air kisses and beauty contestant smiles, it’s hard to be nice to people. We’re too old to drink all night, every night for a week. I don’t want to see my coworkers drunk or cranky or in swimsuits, pajamas or before I’ve brushed my teeth in the morning. You just want something real or the peace of nothing at all.

By the end of the week, though, I guess that it became real. We got to know each other, warts and all (as the saying goes). Alcohol can be a great leveler, I suppose, and definitely an un-inhibitor. So can swimsuits and pajamas and unbrushed teeth.

Holiday parties of yesteryear were probably heavy with harassment and embarrassment, but honestly, they look like fun. As long as you weren’t lipstick leaver, lampshade wearer or karaoke into a stapler-er, life was good. Coworkers seemed much more human and the billion-watt beauty contestant smiles might just be replaced by real ones.

Then, again, I might still be drunk.


Tag: Holidays Office Party

Lip Lip Hooray Gift

Luscious, kiss-able lips! Our lippy balms moisturize and soften with beeswax from Zambia. Includes three yummy flavors: Strawberry, Watermelon, and Satsuma. Gift comes with its own mirror in a sleek, brushed-silver case.

Tee hee. This description makes me giggle.

Tag: Gifts Lips

Two truths and a lie

This is a really bad idea. I suppose it can be fun, in the way that games of “I never” leading to knowing too much about your friends and physical and emotional hangovers can be fun, but for work?

At the quarterly birthday celebration, somebody proposed it for the holiday party and it caught on like wildfire. All I could think was WTF but given that it was the client quarterly birthday celebration as opposed to my company’s monthly birthday celebration, I couldn’t exactly say “WTF?”

Now, I am stuck with trying to think of two work-appropriate truths and a lie.

· I hate moving to the middle of the metro train; I would rather just stand by the door and block everyone’s egress.
· I like using words like egress.
· I curse more than I should but not as much as I want.
· I can’t remember why I’m a vegetarian.
· I would rather blog than work.
· I panic boarding planes – the thing that worries me about flying is finding someplace to stow my bag.
· I don’t talk to my grandmother as much as I should because I’m worried that she’s going to die and I am going to miss her more than I can bear.
· I’m tired of hating my body. When myself esteem starts to drop, I’m just going to hate yours.
· I hate the fact that I can be a bitch but not enough to stop being one.
· I cannot open Ziploc bags.

I suppose the real lie will be the lie of omission – I am leaving out most of the things I want to say, the truths that make me, well, me, and the fact that I really don’t want to play this game.

Not exactly work-appropriate, but I’m working on it. Any suggestions?

Tag: Truth Lie Work

Best friends forever II

Two weeks ago, after a 2 a.m. start (due to an eager and very early Super Shuttle driver), three airplanes and a mad dash through the airport in Charlotte, I found myself in Oregon – beautiful, snowy, “have I left the country?” Oregon – visiting friends. I have known Autumn since fourth grade; we have been friends since the day I asked if Noelle always cheated at games. (Her answer: Yes.)

She’s married now: Autumn, I mean, but I suppose Noelle is, too. A few months ago, she (Autumn) picked up and moved to Oregon with her husband and baby. Her parents followed, buying a house and a restaurant, the restaurant where her brother already worked. Poof, they were gone. Moved. Relocated to the west coast from the easily drivable distance of five and a half hours along the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Oregon, all the way across the country, not even easily flyable on a good day Oregon.

I used to drive to Ohio once a month or so, just to visit. I stopped almost two years ago. I thought it was the distance between our lives (the new baby, illness, my own inability to grow up and commit to anything) but I recently realized that I was wrong. I stopped because of work. I found a new position at work and lost myself.

I visited last two years ago January, just two weeks before I hopped on this wild ride. I cannot get those years back – I can only be thankful that I am not losing more. The past two years have separated us more than time and geography should. Our lives are changing: I guess it is silly to think that a best friend from fourth grade really will be my best friend forever.

It has all be running through my head for the past two years as I watched our lives drift: mine in DC, hers in small town Ohio. She is working on her thesis, a master’s degree in Art History while teaching college kids, living with her husband, raising a baby. He was the first to tell me that he is not a baby anymore. He is a big boy.

“That better, hon?” he asked, “That better?” dragging a stool next to me at the sink to help with the dishes. He grabbed my hand, pulling me to his bedroom to play with cars, dump trunks, little people (and I mean the original little people, not the big, safe ones with flashy cars and noisy sirens). He wanted me to stay “two couple days” and I stayed a week. At the end of the week, he wanted me to stay “two couple” more and would not accept that I would be gone when he awoke. That was not okay.

I was wrong about the baby – he is a big boy. I was wrong about a lot of things. People do not change; lives do. A best friend, an old friend, can remain a friend forever.

I am glad that my friends have brought this beautiful little person into the world and that he is theirs, not mine. (I am definitely not grown up enough for that level of commitment). I am grateful for snowy days in Oregon, snow chains, which I can now remove, and four-wheel drive.

I am blessed to have a friendship old enough to drink (21 years) with an entire family and to love each addition (marriage, children, pets, whatever). It would really suck to hate the husband and kids.

I am thankful for my own bed and knee high boots. I am grateful that my luggage did not disappear until I was home again and that it reappeared, if in the middle of the night. I was glad to spend time with friends and I am glad to be home again.

I am still tired and cranky and would rather not be at work on this snowy day in DC, but life isn’t bad.


Tag: Friends Travel GrowingUp

Some things you didn't know about Chuck Norris

A friend of mine sent me the link to this list. These facts about Chuck Norris may not be well known, but they should be.

• Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.


• Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.


• The grass is always greener on the other side, unless Chuck Norris has been there. In that case the grass is most likely soaked in blood and tears.


• The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.


• Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.


• Chuck Norris can make a woman climax by simply pointing at her and saying "booya."


• Those aren't credits that roll after Walker Texas Ranger, it is actually a list of people that Chuck Norris round house kicked in the face that day.


• And my personal fav...The quickest way to a man's heart is with Chuck Norris's fist.

Tag: Chuck Norris | Humor | Funny | Karate

My boots came back

They walked back into my life last night. I thought that maybe they’d stroll after their little adventure in the windy city, but it seemed to me that they limped a little. Maybe it was the hour. They arrived even later than I had the night before.

Apparently, the missing luggage people work all night.

A rap on the door and I awoke with a start. It took me a while to associate the loud noise with someone at the door, even longer to decide whether or not to answer it.

I live alone in southeast DC, not exactly keen on answering the door for strangers in the middle of the night. I have few drop in visitors and most of my friends have keys. I did have an ex who used to drop in, even after we stopped dating, which stopped when I told him that I deleted him, but even his late night visits were preceded by a call or text message. I heard another knock, drawing me from my reverie.

I didn’t know the time. Both of the clocks in my room are wrong – one fast, the other slow. I knew that it was sometime between midnight and three.

My heart raced as I padded barefoot to the door.

I peeked through the blinds, the metal grate on my inside door, the metal bars on the outside door and saw my bag swinging from an outstretched arm. I opened the door and fumbled for a set of keys to get the outer one.

The man, the one with a bag, chattered incessantly.

“You didn’t give us your home number. You should have given your home number – here, sign this – but all we had was your work number.”

I gave up the keys for a minute and signed the slip mumbling, “But I did give my home number.”

He just kept talking, “This is a 24-hour operation” and “We just got your bag at nine” and “We work all night – I swear I’m part vampire” and the most disturbing: “The man upstairs wouldn’t sign for it” (the man upstairs being my neighbor, a neurologist with a crazy schedule, a working wife and a 7-month-old, who must have been thrilled at the prospect of waking up to receive my luggage in the middle of the night).

I found the right key. I’m not sure how. I think I thanked the man. I can’t remember and I’m not sure if I would have known, even at the time. I threw it on the couch, scrabbled with the locks and tottered back to the bedroom.

Eventually, I fell back asleep.

This morning, I managed to rummage through the back, sort, unpack a little, dig out the boots. We went to work together, the boots and I. We cut a dashing figure and I dare say they are happy to be home.

Tag: Boots Baggage LostLuggage Travel

Nobody to blame

I am tired and cranky. I have been home less than 24 hours, my new knee high boots are in Chicago (which was not on the itinerary) and I want to cry. The worst part: There’s not a soul to blame. Not the airline or air traffic controllers; God, the weather or myself. No one.

Yesterday morning, I hitched a ride to the airport with my friend. He dropped me off on the way to work, which seemed convenient overlooking the fact that he needed to be at work at 6:30 in the morning, so he dropped me off at 6, which meant that we left around 5 and got up around 4.

Now, that’s just wrong.

Nevertheless, I didn’t mind too much. I drank a little coffee, read a little PD James and checked in a couple of hours before my flight. The airport was small and security didn’t quite require two hours, but better early than late and better a ride with my friend than leaving an hour later with his wife (also a friend) and their cranky, most definitely not an “early bird” 2-year-old.

I checked in, read a little, made my way through security to sit, read a little and wait. The secured area (a single, chilly room) filled and emptied while I waited and then, I heard a request for volunteers for a later flight – we were over the weight limit (i.e. carried more than 23 passengers). Being a mileage whore and willing to do almost anything for a free ticket, I gathered my belongings and swam upstream, through security, to the ticket agent who turned me down flat, due to the cross-country nature of my trip.

Back through security.

I sat, read a little and waited. An announcement of a delayed flight due to weather, traffic flow issues, the need to replace a tire. Or two. I thought a while and realized that a half hour in San Francisco would not be enough to disembark, take a shuttle, navigate the remote terminal, take a shuttle, navigate another terminal and board my airplane. I swam upstream, through security, and expressed my concern to the ticket agent who turned me down flat due to the ample connection time (30 minutes).

Back through security.

Eventually, I boarded the plane – new equipment, original flight number – and we departed. Unfortunately, the landing gear didn’t seem quite ready for the trip and refused to remain in its upright and locked position, so we circled Redmond awhile. I snapped some airborne shots and read in a futile attempt to ignore the increasingly panicked conversation and greening faces. We burnt enough fuel, landed, lost half the passengers (they decided not to continue) and crossed the icy tarmac to the original plane, outfitted with two new tires.

In San Francisco, several hours delayed, I realized that I had missed my connection and if I didn’t hurry, might find myself waiting for a red-eye despite getting up around 4 a.m. The airline, however, had different plans and different planes and had rerouted me to National instead of BWI, excuse me, Thurgood Marshall International Airport. I received an automated voicemail telling me to secure my new itinerary when I “checked in,” only slightly confusing given that I’d checked in seven hours earlier.

I found customer service and they found me a crappy seat in the back of a plane to Chicago. They also guaranteed a business class ticket from Chicago to National. A fabulous gate agent moved me up to an Economy Plus seat (economy size plus five more inches of legroom) in keeping with my original ticket (an Economy Plus seat on a direct flight to good ol’ Thurgood). She also tracked my bag and sent a message onboard to let me know that it was headed to Chicago.

The woman next to me on the plane apologized for invading my space, despite my protests that she was fine. She actually used the word "encroach." I was so happy. I was also hungry and succumbed to onboard dining and bought a breakfast snackbox for dinner, my first meal of the day. My last meal of the day. My last meal of the past two days, actually. (I didn’t have much choice in Redmond or time in San Francisco or Chicago. I don’t know what’s happened today: work, happy hour, blogging. I’ve simply forgotten to eat.)

I tried following up with my bag in the Windy City, but the gate agent yelled at me. She insinuated that it was my fault for changing my itinerary. I don’t know that I had much to do with the landing gear or the automated rerouting, but I didn’t argue. She was rather put out that I had interrupted her conversation with the local fuzz and I was just plain tired.

I sat down for a second before boarding, found myself continuously pushed aside while the man across from me sprawled through the aisle, his bag nearer me than him. I was the one expected, requested, demanded to move for those navigating our narrow, dead-end passage.

Finally, I boarded for the last leg home. First boarding call, business class ticket and the very last seat in the very last row of the airplane, privy to a non-reclining seat, flight attendant gossip and the fragrant joy of the only airplane bathroom, a scent alleviated only by my row mate’s tuna sandwich, which she savored throughout the flight. At one point, I honestly thought I might vomit, sometime after the unwrapping of the sandwich after the girl in front of me reclined completely into my lap and the volume of the respective headphones allowed me to enjoy the programming without the encumbrance of bands or wires.

Last one off the plane sometime around midnight, too late for public transportation, I meandered to baggage claim to await my bag. Siren, spinning carousel, stop. No bag. I went to the baggage counter and provided my claim check. Apparently, my bag decided to stay in Chicago. Poor boots wanted a walkabout, I guess. I haven’t heard from them yet. Almost 24 hours later.

I came home, worked a couple of hours and crawled into bed for a nap before work.

I am grouchy today. I think it well earned, but I might be wrong. I am getting over it, in any event. At least it’s better than last Thanksgiving.


Tag: Grouchy Thanksgiving Travel