Congratulations on your new baby Gomez!

I am seriously annoyed. To the point where I can almost feel flames curling up from the ends of my hair. It's hard to breathe because my chest is tight. I'm picturing the people (not the animals) at the Cleveland APL in many horrible, tortuous positions.

I first drafted the title of this post on July 27. Why? Because on July 21 we'd picked out a cute little kitten at the local APL. She was waiting to be spayed, but they said that we should probably be able to bring her home the following week.

And yet, I've never written the post. Why? You might reasonably ask. The unreasonable answer is that we've not been allowed to bring her home. About a week after we put a hold on her, she still hadn't been operated on, and she got sick with an upper respiratory infection. She's been sick ever since, which means that even though it's been a month, she's still on surgery wait, and actually still sick.

After Keith and I placed the hold on her, I started hearing stories from family and friends about how strange it was that they wouldn't let us bring her home to await surgery. Because when lots of animals are together they—surprise!—tend to pass around illnesses.

I completely understand why it's important to spay and neuter pets. Bob Barker has made it clear. And, as a responsible pet owner, I always intend to spay and neuter our dogs and cats.

I also understand that not everyone in this world feels the same way. So shelters need to do what they can to ensure that their animals are spayed and neutered. However, there are much better ways to get pet owners to have the procedures done. Like include the fee as part of adoption and give the new owners a certificate to have the animal spayed at a local vet's. That way they've already paid for it, so it's extra incentive to get it done. Or, Jen and Ben in Michigan said that the shelter will take extra money as an insurance policy that you have the procedure done. Once you have paperwork to prove that your pet's been spayed/neutered, you get the money refunded.

I just called again today. After waiting on hold for 15 minutes (which always puts me in a great mood) I was told that Gomez is no better--may actually be sicker--than before. They didn't say anything to indicate that she gets moved to the top of the surgery wait list because we've been waiting a month for her or anything like that. Just that the kitten's not available, and they'll call us when she's ready to bring home. I asked if we could bring her home and bring her back for surgery and was told, "absolutely not."

I hate to abandon a poor, innocent kitten, but this is f*&@ing ridiculous. Why would you make it this hard to adopt a homeless animal? As of this afternoon, Keith and I are trying to adopt elsewhere. If we're successful, we'll send a strongly-worded letter explaining exactly to the Cleveland APL why we did not adopt from them. I urge anyone that's in the Cleveland area: learn from our mistakes and do NOT adopt from the Cleveland APL.

Just Fitting In

It used to bother me that I was missing a hubcap. Like, really bother me. I felt like everyone was staring and pointing when I drove by. I personally may have looked like a young, professional person .... but I was driving a Neon that was missing a hubcap. I mean, really!

I don't know when or how it fell off. One day, it was just gone. It took a while to hunt down a replacement, but I was determined. I would not have people pointing and laughing at me—at least over something I could control. Apparently, you can't just buy one hubcap. You have to buy an entire replacement set. Which I did, more than a month ago.

And that's when I lost my obsession with the hubcap. I think it has something to do with the fact that, parking on the street at work in a not-very-nice neighborhood, it's better to make sure people know up-front that your car isn't worth breaking into. Between my missing hubcap outside and factory-issue tape player inside, I never fear for the safety of my little Neon.

I think it may also have something to do with the fact that, to me, the main hurdle to putting on a new hubcap was actually getting the hubcap. Now that I've found a set, well, I'm not too bothered about it anymore.

I guess we'll get to it sometime. Sooner, if Keith has his say. But I'm okay with my white-trash-looking car for now. Maybe I'll even run out and get some fuzzy dice and leopard-print seat covers. Except those might seem enticing to a thief; I'm sure their resale value is tremendous.

A Chemically-induced Blog

So for reasons I don't want to divulge, I've spent a good part of this morning reading a list of analytical chemical tests on what is one of the ugliest websites ever. Circa 1993 web design.

Anyway, looking at these incredibly complex test names that make very little sense to me actually inspired me to mad-lib blog about them. Because, after a while, the words themselves start to look funny.

Just the other day, I was walking down the odorless light petroleum street when suddenly, out of the house in front of me, bursts a man made of petrolatum wax. It looks wildly about, and spies me and Beckett, standing innocently on the equilibrium reflux boiling point sidewalk.

"Kinematic viscosity!" it cries, a maniacal gleam in its eyes. I think it might have been high on mineral aggregates, because it twitched and saponified a lot. It started moving towards us at a bituminous pace.

Beckett and I turned and ran. Looking back over my shoulder, I could see the Thing congealing, still heading in our direction. At the corner of the street, as we turned, I glimpsed the interfacial tension of oil against water Thing as its foot caught on a Color-Indicator Titration tree root, and it fell.

Even though I thought the Thing was out of ash content, Beckett and I ran the rest of the way home. When we were finally safe inside, I was breathless and had the foaming tendencies of engine coolants in glassware. And that's why I was late to work.

Death Knell of Relaxation

In the past week or so, we've been very busy around the house. Our very first overnight guests will be coming this weekend. And next weekend will be a veritable influx of Lubbers family to the house. So we want it to look as good as possible and keep people coming back.

I've been sewing curtains and pillowcases, we've painted walls and re-arranged furniture. By far the biggest task of the week is hanging art on the wall, which we haven't done any of since moving in.

Last night, Keith hung the clock we got as a wedding present. It's a beautiful wooden clock that chimes on the quarter-hours. Last night and this morning as I got ready for work, I enjoyed the soft, melodious chiming that floated up from the living room.

But here's the thing: I'm awful at keeping track of time. Really, truly awful. And this morning the chiming was actually a rude awakening that I had only 10 minutes left to get ready for work and I was still sipping tea. Not a good feeling. The chimes somehow seem more real than any of the 20 other timepieces we have scattered around the house. Like seeing the time displayed doesn't seem nearly as urgent as hearing it, the death knell for relaxation.

I want to like the clock, I really do. It's not the clock's fault that I'm perpetually running late and lost in my own world. Maybe we can work together and form a mutually beneficial relationship. "Mutual" in that it helps me become a more timely person, and I don't smash it to bits.

A Chilly Night's Sleep

Last night I slept like a rock. Like a Mesozoic-era rock that is completely oblivious to modern life's frenzy and turmoil. Last night, we turned the air conditioning up.

I was very excited when we bought and Keith installed a programmable thermostat. Reduce your energy bills by 30%! the package proclaims. And I was ready to. Not that our energy bills are outrageous--we've only been in the house a month! But I wanted to do my part from the beginning to use less energy. Leave a smaller environmental footprint--maybe a moderate size 6.5, instead of my clompy 9.5s.

But I was surprised to find out that, according to the preprogrammed settings, the temperature is set to dip around the time we get home from work and then raise again when we go to bed.

I like to be cold when I sleep. Or rather, I can't stand being hot. I'm not saying that it needs to be cold enough for me to have on a sheet, comforter, and blanket. I don't even care about the sheet. I just need to not be oozing sweat, which is what has been occurring every night since we got the programmable thermostat.

I want to help save the environment, I really do. I want to be friends. But when we overrode the hellfire setting last night and settled in-between cool sheets in a comfortable room, it felt fantastic. I'm willing to sacrifice many things for a better earth. But I'm just not sure if a good night's sleep for entire duration of summer is one of them.

A New Commitment to Writing ... From Home

In the past week, I've found a renewed dedication to becoming a full-time writer and working from home.

Currently, Keith leaves for work about a half-hour before I do. In the past, this has been a source of great pleasure. I leisurely get up after him, kiss him good-bye, and then take my time getting ready for work. Drink some tea, eat some cereal, watch a little "Good Morning America" (despite Charlie, who drives me crazy). It's a nice, relaxing way to start the day.

Since we got the dog, things have been different. I now get up an HOUR earlier so I can take the dog on a 45-min to an hour-long walk. We get back just as Keith as leaving and then I hop in the shower, scarf down breakfast, and rush out the door.

And yet, this is not the problem. It's not the rushing, which would be easily solved if I could drag myself out of bed 15 minutes earlier. (Which, of course, is harder than it sounds.) The real impetus for working from home is that I really, really hate leaving the dog.

This morning, as I ate breakfast, he came and sat by my side to be petted. I could picture it: after breakfast, I take another mug of tea up to the study to get started for the day. Beckett follows me and settles in on the comfy armchair while I get situated at the computer. When I need a break, we head out into the backyard for a vigorous game of fetch.

In the afternoon, I do briefly leave Beckett in his crate for an hour or two while I run errands. However, this means that when Keith gets home, we don't have to leave him again. Everybody's happy and feels loved.

Of course, the dog is probably sleeping right now, completely unaware that I'm not home. But imagining the idyllic scene is enough to push me toward the cycle of querying and rejection, with the hope that it ends differently this time, and I don't have to get up before dawn anymore.

Happily Ever Afterlife

Aha! You thought this would be the usual blog entry, but I've fooled you! This is a fake entry, because I've had another short story published on Romantic Short Love Stories. And I'm nothing if not crafty/lazy, so for today's blog I strongly urge you to view my fabulous short story. Here's the synopsis:

Adelaide is a high school art teacher with a secret summer life. Every year, this 35-year-old escapes with her two best friends to a Spiritualist camp in upstate New York to get in touch with the spirits and see what life has in store for her. Adelaide tells herself that it's fun and relaxing, and it's not like she really believes it ... until, after 5 years, she gets her first prediction about love. And James appears moments later. Are the spirits taking control of Adelaide's love life, or is this a self-fulfilling prophesy? Will James be her true love until Happily Ever Afterlife?

If you want to be amused and enlightened by the story, click here*. I hope you like it! (And feel free to tell the site administrator or any friends in publishing if you do.)

*Edited Aug. 2007: If you wanted to read the story, you're out of luck because the site's no longer there. Post a comment and I can send you the story, though!

Shower RSVPs

Can someone please explain to me why, in 2006, I need to RSVP to a shower invite with a phone call?

Typically, I do not even know the person throwing the shower. For example, let's say that I have a male cousin who got married and now they're having a baby. I've never met his wife. The baby shower is being thrown by someone in his wife's family. I have to call this person, who will have absolutely no idea who I am, just to say that I have no intention of coming to the shower.

Doesn't anyone else find this to be awkward? Why insist on a phone call? I, personally, am prejudiced against phone calls in general. When calling someone, you have no idea what they're doing or what their plans are. Unless I'm very close to a person, I'll never call and expect him or her to chat for longer than 5 or 10 minutes. I guard my time very closely, and figure that others do the same; unexpected phone calls can be seriously detrimental to accomplishment of my perpetual list.

So I don't tend to call people very often. Now I'm forced by a lack of contact information (no mailing address or e-mail address) to call a complete stranger about a complete stranger to say "thanks for the invite, but you people really aren't that important to me and I'll have to pass." But of course, you can't just say that—even tactfully. You have to make small talk. Will I have to talk about the house, Cleveland, Keith? Will I get to hear about the first ultrasound and the games they plan on playing at the shower I will not be attending? It's completely unknown ... and a complete waste of time because I never intend to talk to this person again.

At this point, the best I can hope for is an answering machine. I'll be keeping my fingers crossed. And I expect that the next shower invite I get from one of my (5) loyal readers has an e-mail address, too.

Our Happy Family Will Be Complete

Well, the good news is that Bandit the dog will be arriving at our house tomorrow, delivered by his current owners Ben, Jen, and little Audrey. We've met Bandit once before at his home in Michigan, and are very excited to have him as a part of our family.

I've grown up with many, many household pets including dogs, guinea pigs, rabbits, hermit crabs, cats, birds, and hamsters. I've missed having a dog of my own—while we lived at my parents', I shamelessly stole their dog and walked her, petted her, tried to claim her as my own. But now, finally, I really will have a dog!

Keith, on the other hand, has never had a dog. Believe it or not, he actually talks about getting a dog even more than I do. So both of us are thrilled that it's actually going to happen. At this time tomorrow ... we'll still be anxiously awaiting Bandit's arrival, because they're not coming until around noon. But at this time on Sunday, we'll have a dog!

What we've been debating for the past several days is whether or not we should change his name. In the many years that we've talked about getting pets, we've chosen a few of our favorite names: Gomez and Beckett. The cat is going to be Gomez (which is a whole different story), so should we change Bandit's name to Beckett? Jen assures me that Bandit would adapt very readily. Keith read one website that suggested you should always change an animal's name, but the reasoning wasn't applicable in this situation: their argument is that you don't know how the animal was treated by its previous owners and how his/her name was used, so you should start with a clean slate.

However, we know that Jen and Ben treat their animals extremely well and are very loving parents so that's not a concern. I don't know .... maybe once we get him it'll be easy to decide. Either way, the most important thing is that we're getting a dog!

Unfortunately, I was planning on blogging yesterday about how we'd gotten Gomez from the APL and how wonderful she was and all the fun, frolicking we were doing .... but the APL is holding out on us. We put a hold on her last Friday a week ago. At the time, she was waiting to be spayed--the worker told us that it would probably happen early this week, Tuesday at the earliest. Well, when Keith called yesterday she still hadn't even been operated on and the worker mentioned something about there being a "Kittyfest" of some sort. So pretty much, since Gomez already has a home, they're going to push her to the back of the list and operate on all of the kittens that are still looking for homes.

I know their goal is to get animals adopted, but really. Doesn't the fact that she has owners who are very eager for her to come home count for anything? So our happy family will be complete hopefully soon, but not quite as soon as I'd hoped.

Required Reading

My mom and I were having a discussion over the weekend about required reading.

The idea had two different potential applications: students and adults. Mom had been to a reading teachers' conference last week, and had been inspired by a speaker that urged teachers to allow students to put down books they weren't enjoying. The argument is that, if you force children to read, it will be seen as an unpleasant chore. Conversely, if you encourage them to read (appropriate) fiction and nonfiction that they enjoy, you'll help them cultivate a lifelong love of reading.

On the other hand, there's adult "required reading." As in, the great literary books that are intimidating, but I feel like I should read them and if I do, I'll be a better person for it. As in, the Top 100 books of all-time list that I'm trying (and failing) to read 12 books from during 2006. As in: Don Quixote.

When I chose Don Quixote as my next classic read, in a kinder, gentler time that seems like many eons ago now, I thought it was a good choice. True, it was a thick book. And old. But if high school Spanish students can read it, surely I can get through it, right?

Mom foolishly offered to read it with me. So for several months now, we've both been struggling to get through it. I have to tell you, I'm not really enjoying it. And because I haven't been enjoying it, I've been starting and stopping ... and every time I pick it back up again after a hiatus, it seems even more difficult to get through, and to have grown immensely in size and weight. Don Quixote definitely feels like required reading.

So after her conference, my mom put forth the argument that we shouldn't have to finish Don Quixote. If we're not enjoying it, we should just put it down and move onto something better.

I (somewhat reluctantly) argued against this position for several reasons. First, I'm stubborn. I'm not going to be defeated by some inept "knight" that's hundreds of years old.

Secondly, I think that adult-chosen required reading is different from that of kids in a classroom. I've inflicted this on myself. And suffering through Don Quixote is not going to make me stop reading. I'm already a bibliophile, and will continue to be one long after the Don has grown dusty on my bookshelves ... again.

So I'm curious as to what you guys think. Mom and I have now given ourselves until Thanksgiving to finish Don Quixote, which would make me very thankful indeed. If you've committed to reading a book for one reason or another (book club, classic, recommended, etc.) and you don't enjoy it, do you put it down or keep reading until the bitter end?

The Bear Is Just to the Left, I Swear

As I may have mentioned previously, Glacier National Park is Grizzly Country. If Grizzly Country had a capital, Glacier would be a strong candidate. Or if not the capital, then the runner-up. Like how many foreigners may incorrectly assume that Hollywood is the capital of the United States, Arnold Schwarzenegger is our President, and Bush is the equivalent of a powerless monarch figurehead that waves and smiles and is possibly inbred.

I can't say that the possibility of coming into contact with grizzly bears is really what drew me to Glacier. I actually considered it a detraction. Apparently, I was the only one.

"Have you seen a bear yet?" Tourists ask each other, breathless with anticipation of another bear-sighting tale. The lodges are abuzz with vicarious harrowment and fear. You can almost smell it (a potent combination of burgers and huckleberry pie). Upon arrival at the Swiftcurrent Inn, we saw flocks of tourists armed with cameras and binoculars, peering anxiously at a hillside where a bear had been spotted at some point earlier in the day.

When we took the boat to the Grinnell Glacier trail, the ranger asked who'd seen a bear. Nearly everyone except our group raised their hands. Then the ranger quipped, "So the rest of you just got in last night." And everyone laughed (some more bear humor). We'd actually been there about 3 full days, and Keith's parents for even longer.

What was wrong with us? Why didn't we even catch a hint of a bear? If everyone else could see one, why didn't we? Are we unobservant? Slow-witted? Or just unlucky?

Keith's cousin Anna tried to console us by suggesting that, even if we didn't see a bear, plenty of bears probably saw us and we could have been eaten at any moment. Strangely, I didn't find that comforting.

p.s. Before anyone bothers to say what a great picture that is, Keith took it. So I don't want to get in trouble for taking the credit.

The Glacier: Not What You'd Expect

On Saturday, we hiked to Grinnell Glacier, which turned out to be my favorite hike of all. We'd been there for 3 days at this point, and I was getting very concerned that I wouldn't get to see a glacier in Glacier National Park. I mean, you have to, right? Because that's what everyone will ask you about.

(Of course, this turned out to be false: Everyone asks if you've seen a bear, and of course the answer for me is "no.")

When you think "glacier," what do you see? In my empirical research, 97.6% of test subjects imagined a big hunk of ice. Of those, a whopping 68.2% drew a picture of that ice hitting the Titanic with Leonardo DiCaprio on board. The remaining 2.4% of subjects mistakenly heard the word "glazier" and envisioned a person putting in new windows. But they were British, so they don't really count anyway.

I guess I'm not exactly sure what I thought a glacier would look like. I thought it would be more majestic, awe-inspiring, cold.

My favorite hike at Glacier was when we took a boat across two lakes and then hiked up to view, up close and personal, three glaciers. The entire hike was about 8 miles and most of it was along a path carved into the mountainside. Like the rest of our time there, it was a gorgeous, sunny day and I was torn between looking at my feet to ensure I stayed upright and alive, and wanting to look out at the amazing vista spread out before us.

From the ferry boat, the park ranger pointed out Salamander Glacier. It didn't seem nearly deep enough or wide enough to be a glacier—it just looked like snow pack on the side of the mountain.

At the summit of our hike, we snacked while overlooking Salamander Glacier, Grinnell Glacier, and the Jem (glacier). We were far enough away from them that we didn't feel much of a chill. The coldest part of the hike involved following the trail under a small waterfall on the mountainside.

I'm not saying I'm disappointed in the glaciers. I would have been highly disappointed if we hadn't seen a glacier at all. Or, conversely, I'd seen glacier without even realizing it, because they aren't quite as imposing as I'd expected.

I'm sure if you traveled somewhere further north, there would be glaciers aplenty like the ones we all imagine. But, even so, I'm not sure that I'll be planning my next vacation there just to get that tingly fresh "glacier awe" feeling. I'm feeling a hankering to see what the perfect 12-oz. strawberry margarita looks like at sunset ...

Slightly Uneven Tan

And by "slightly" I mean parts of my face and neck are adorned with strange, geometric figures.

I burn easily. This is why I wear sunscreen every day, in my face moisturizer. Even in Cleveland, which has been excessively cloudy of late, one can never be too careful. Once in middle school I spent an entire day at the beach without sunscreen, and spent the next week in bed until my entire back blistered and peeled off. So I always wear sunscreen.

A week ago today, we were traveling across the Going-to-the-Sun road from West Glacier to the Many Glacier area. We stopped at Logan Pass, which is at the top of the Continental Divide. While there, we learned that the Continental Divide splits the water flow—if it lands on one side, it flows to the Pacific and on the other side to the Arctic Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico. (Did you know that's the big deal about the Continental Divide? I'm sure I knew that at some point in 2nd grade, but it was quickly pushed out of my brain by the fact that Robbie put boogers on his PB&J sandwich.)

So anyway, the Continental Divide is high. Logan Pass, as clearly illustrated in the picture, has an elevation of over 6,000 feet. In contrast, Cleveland's elevation ranges between 600 and 1,100 feet. This is also something I learned the hard way: higher elevation = thinner air = more UV rays + walking across highly reflective snow = oh my god, the burning!

It wasn't really that bad. I do still have skin on my back. But my usual SPF 15 in the moisturized wasn't cutting it. Or it sort of was. I discovered the next day that my nose was burnt, as well as a thin strip of skin just along my hairline that I missed.

So for the hike on Saturday, I covered myself in recently purchased 30 SPF sunblock that smells just like Creamsicles. Which made me a little nauseous, applying it before breakfast. And also made me feel like a bear treat.

You would think this meant I was safe? But no! Apparently a spot on the leftside of my neck somehow escaped the slathering, so in addition to 1) a burnt strip across my forehead, and 2) a gleaming nose, I also have a curved triangle of bright pink skin on my neck/upper back that is slowly fading.

I've never tried very hard to be tan, because I knew that it was probably a genetic impossibility. Once in my life I did feel tan: when we got back from spending a week in Mexico for our honeymoon. The tan didn't live to see the following month, and according to most people I wasn't really that tan anyway.

But now that I have these strange patterns in noticeable places, maybe I should consider going to a tanning salon to try and even things out. But then I would probably not get the sunblock exactly on the burned skin, so I would end up with burned/tan skin, tan skin, and a strip of completely white skin separating the two. If you can imagine it ... but I wouldn't recommend trying.

On second thought, I think I'm just going to stick with being pale. It's coming back into fashion, right?

A Whole New Set of Jokes

The day that we arrived at Glacier, we only went on a short, easy hike. A warm-up to the comings days' activities.

On the second day of our trip, we meant business. We hiked 7 miles in the morning, took a break in the afternoon while Keith's aunt and uncle retrieved his cousin from the Kalispell airport, and then hiked another 4 miles in the late afternoon/early evening. It's easy to lose all sense of time when you're (1) on vacation, and (2) in a place where the sun rises about 6 am and sets close to 10 pm.

So we set off mid-morning from McDonald Lodge on our first big hike. Our surroundings were so different from any park in the Midwest that I'd ever been; there were different types of trees and wildflowers. We were at a significantly higher elevation and surrounded by mountains.

But what really struck me was the sound of the bear bells as we hiked. Typically when one hikes, one attempts to be as quiet as possible so one can see and hear nearby wildlife. However, in Glacier there's a significant possibility that nearby wildlife may be a Grizzly bear.

For this reason, all tourists buy bear bells. They're like what you think of as Jingle Bells, but with a Velcro strap to attach them to a backpack or hiking stick, and they continuously jingle as you hike. In theory, the sound scares bears off. In reality, it seems like they're just a tourist gimmick.

Listening to the bear bells kind of gave me a "you're not in Kansas, anymore" feeling. A constant reminder that I could be devoured at any moment. Exciting and appalling all at the same time.

That evening, Keith's parents and aunt and uncle (who had all arrived a few days before us) were sharing some of the Grizzly country humor they'd picked up.

Uncle Jerry: How can you tell the difference between Black Bear scat and Grizzly scat? ..... Black Bear scat has berries and the bones of small animals. Grizzly scat has berries, small animal bones, and bear bells.

I laughed, and thought about how that joke wouldn't have made any sense to me at all the day before. Although really: scat is always amusing. I felt like I'd been initiated into a really cool club. That knows about bears. And whose members may be devoured at any moment. Now that's a cool, edgy club.

Post-Vacation Blues

Well, we're back, and I'm depressed.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before, but I don't handle change very well. Even the transition from planning a trip to reminiscing about it is somewhat traumatic for me. I wish it wasn't so, but there it is.

Glacier was absolutely amazing. I've never seen anything like it before. We had a great time hiking and eating and sleeping, then repeating the process the next day. In the next few blogs I'll talk a little more about the trip, but for now all I can do is mourn its passing.

I have many, many other things to look forward to. We're getting settled in our house. Now that the trip's over and we don't have any others planned for a while, we're going to get a kitten and a dog. Overall, life is good.

But it will probably take me another day or so before I can really start focusing on those things. For now, I can only look backwards and sigh. Yesterday at this time, we were hiking up a trail and immersed in nature. There were so many wonderful things to look forward to, and now they're all behind me.

It was a wonderful trip. And once I've accepted it's over, I'll tell you all about it.

Overheard at My Desk

So I thought for today's blog entry, I would try something that requires little thought or effort on my part. I wanted to do an "Overheard at My Desk" in homage to fabulous, useless sites like Overheard in New York and the off-shoots, Overheard in the Office and Overheard at the Beach (a summer addition).

But I don't hear anything. I knew the office was quiet, but I hadn't realized until I actually focused on it what a dearth of interesting conversations there is. I hear things like:

Supervisor: Have you finished all the filing yet?
Me: No.

Supervisor: Don't stamp the first page of the legal-looking documents.
Me: Okay.

So when I realized that recollecting my daily conversations actually became even more boring the second time, I thought maybe I could make up some "overheard comments." Like:

Girl: And then I was like, you have a monkey, don't you!
Gay Friend: Doesn't everybody who works in paper distribution have a monkey?

Geek #1: I'm so hungover right now.
Geek #2: But it's 2 o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. And you don't drink.
Geek #1: I know. But I was really high on life last night, and I'm paying for it now.

But it's just not as funny unless you know a real person said it and actually meant it. Whatever it may be. So maybe you should all just go and check out all the "Overheard at" sites. And keep checking them out while I'm on vacation.

Maybe I'll overhear something at the airport tomorrow. Or maybe I'll say something retarded to make someone else's day.

Mental Vacation

So it's happened again: I have writer's block. It's actually kind of surprising that it took this long, but I guess it helps when I am only committed to 2 or 3 blog entries a week, instead of a solid 5.

Everything I think of writing about I've already done—the rainy weather, a work snow day, the World Cup ... even writer's block! That's a sad state of affairs, I must say.

So it's actually good news for everyone that I'll be on vacation from Wednesday through next Monday and there's no chance of a blog entry. Okay, I'll give it maybe a 3.12% chance of getting a blog entry written in the airport, but that's about it. We're going to Glacier National Park to hike and admire nature and be far, far away from technology and the modern world.

I didn't handle it very well, not having Internet access during the move. But that's different—not having Internet access whilst at home is considerably more traumatic than planning on not having it during vacation. So hopefully I won't be experiencing too many withdrawal symptoms, and will come back refreshed and ready to write fascinating blog entries about the experience! .... The vacation experience, I mean, not the trauma of being Internet-less for nearly a week .... I think ....

Thank you, ladies and mortgage brokers...

In the past few weeks, as we filled out reams of house-related paperwork, a personality trait of mine came into sharp relief.

I feel the need, in somewhat awkward social situations, to be the entertainer. The hostess. The talk show interviewer, putting everyone at ease.

I think I've always done this at parties, in meetings, etc. But it became extremely obvious during the mortgage process when it was me, Keith, and the lender in a small office. Keith was signing paperwork like crazy, and the lender and I just kind of sat and looked around.

So I kicked into entertainer mode. I told stories about work, childhood, whatever seemed appropriate or at least tangentially related to the subject at hand. As Keith signed, I mentioned that, as a left-hander, I always end up with ink smeared along the side of my palm. I told somewhat amusing anecdotes about when Keith and I were looking at houses.

It was interesting, to hear myself talk and realize that I was obeying a compulsion that I couldn't control. If I had commanded myself to sit quietly and not make small talk or even do the little laugh that substitutes for conversation with strangers, I don't know if I could have done it.

Which reminds me: Did I ever tell you about the time ....

The Big Move

Ahhhh! It feels so good to be back amongst virtual friends!

Since the Big Move Friday morning, we've been without Internet access and it's been traumatic. I'm used to spending 8 hrs a day with my gmail account open and waiting for any important/entertaining missives to arrive. We watched Fever Pitch on Saturday night and it drove me crazy that we couldn't turn to IMDB to find out whether Nick Hornby's original version was about soccer (it was) and if the game footage was from actual games (also true). We couldn't look up directions or store hours or the real name of Dr. Seuss, just for kicks. It was torture!

But I suppose there were a few other things to occupy my mind. Like unpacking all of our belongings and figuring out where to put them. And the little details, like finding all of the outlets in every room and working out exactly how I need to jiggle the key in the back door to get it loose. (I still haven't gotten the hang of that one.)

We spent most of the weekend being amazed that this beautiful house could possibly be ours. I think that it'll be a long while before I can believe that we're not just renting it. Nearly two years after our wedding, I'm still coming to grips with the fact that I'm old enough to get married. And now we have a house? It doesn't seem possible!

Once we get a few more boxes unpacked and our Internet hooked up, I think it will feel more like home.

The Weekend in Concert: Gomez 2

Ahem, now that the tirade's over, I can say that I really do like hearing their songs in concert. "Fill My Cup" is fabulous for its intermingled lead vocals and this time I really enjoyed "Devil Will Ride," which hasn't really struck me at other concerts.

Around the middle of the concert, the Slow Runner fans in front of us took off and we made our move to the front row.Front row! Not counting high school choir concerts or college house parties, I've never been in the front row before. Even though we've been 2nd or 3rd row at Gomez concerts before, it was still very exciting to be in the front row.

I was surprised to find it also, well, a little awkward to be staring at these guys on stage, and actually facing the possibility that they might look back. A few times I think Ian and I made eye contact, and I quickly looked away because I didn't really know what to do. Smile? Wink? Shout "I love you Ian!" and go into Beatlesque meltdown mode? Hardly appropriate for Gomez's style, but I still felt like there needed to be something.

Being so close to the stage, I really saw and appreciated how much fun the band were having playing together. I saw the drummer, Olly Peacock (who, if the band thing didn't work out, was obviously going to have to go into porn with a name like that), making eye contact with singer/guitarist Ben. Ian and bassist Blackie did an impromptu guitar jig. Ben's microphone toppled over and singer/guitarist/keyboardist Tom picked it up and when it fell over again, threw it to the side and loaned his to Ben. Percussionist Dajon made faces at Tom at one point while Tom was on the keyboard.

They obviously like playing together and it really seemed apparent that they're a band. They write all of the songs together—they don't even have a main lead singer. I've been reading articles lately that cite this as a flaw, saying that Gomez's lack of a lead singer means they have no charisma and will never make it in the States.

I think the review is wrong: Gomez has plenty of charisma as a whole. And if they never make it in the States, I would be sorry for the lads but selfishly happy to still be in the first row for years to come.

They came out for one encore that consisted of only 3 songs. When it was over, I kept expecting a second encore (a la Pearl Jam), but it wasn't going to happen. The roadies began clearing the stage while we were still standing and hoping, and one handed me a set list from that night's performance. (So really I should be able to tell you exactly how many songs they performed off In Our Gun but it's at home.)

Gomez are coming to Cleveland this Saturday, which presents quite a dilemma seeing as how that's the Big Move day. But hopefully we'll be able to finish early and still have time to shower before resuming our front row adoration. I'd appreciate any ideas on how to handle the awkward eye contact, though.

The Weekend in Concert: Gomez

Where do I begin?

The concert venue had a capacity of 650—I believe the appropriate industry term is “intimate.” From the looks of it, Mr. Small’s Theatre had been a church in its previous life, thus giving solid stained glass and altar imagery reinforcement to the sense that the crowd considered themselves worshippers of great music.

We showed up about halfway into the opening band's set. We were running late, having been detained at Ikea--but that's another blog. I liked Slow Runner a lot; in listening to their CD since the show, I'm liking them even more.

I also think their sound (strong lead vocals, featured keyboard, songs that alternate between rocking hard and whispered vocals in one tune) meshed well with the schizophrenia that is Gomez live.

After Slow Runner finished, there came the interminable wait as the opening band themselves ferried equipment offstage and Gomez's roadies quickly refilled the empty space with pedal boards, guitars, clean fluffy towels and fresh, cold Beck's for all 5 band members.

When we were running late from Ikea, we were worried that we wouldn't be right by the stage. In our Gomez concert experiences (this being our 3rd show), we'd been spoiled by never being further away than the 3rd row. Unlike with Pearl Jam, I felt entitled to see expectorating and perspiring, et cetera, with a close, unobstructed view.

Turns out we needn't have worried. During the stage rearranging, we sidled forward a bit, moving into the 2nd row on the lefthand side of the stage. Being on this side suited us just fine, because it meant being directly in front of the lead guitarist, Ian.

Gomez is an interesting live band. The story goes that they started playing shows before they'd named the band. For an early show, they put up a sign for their friend—something to the effect "Gomez in here."

Being a fan of their albums long before seeing them in concert, I was surprised to learn that they are mostly known for their energetic live performances, rather than their recorded albums. ANd yet, singer/guitarist Ian has said they were initially more comfortable with the recording studio, and it took them a long time to find their feet as live performers.

But you wouldn't know it to look at them. They finally stride onto stage, give a few waves to the crowd, and jump into "Bring It On" from their 2nd album Liquid Skin.

Two of the 3 times we've seen them, Gomez have been supporting a new album. This time it's How We Operate, the title song of which had been featured on the season finale of Grey's Anatomy, provoking great fear and concern on my part that they would finally get the recognition in America that they deserve, and Keith and I would never again watch from the 2nd row as Ben's Adam's apple bobbed when taking a swig of beer.

Instead of screaming TRL-ers, however, it was the usual, laidback Gomez crowd. To my mind, Gomez fans are extremely loyal to their earlier work, possibly to the detriment of their newer material. For this concert, they were regularly alternating between the new album and the old favorites, but not spending much time in-between. They only played one song off their 2004 album Split the Difference. 2002's In Our Gun fared a little better (can't remember offhand how many IOG songs were played), but not much.

I understand where this mentality is coming from. The Bring It On album was strangely intriguing. It was like nothing I'd ever heard before. I wasn't even sure if I'd consider all of the tracks to be "songs"—some just seemed like rambling instrumental experiments with a few phrases thrown in.

Although it was odd, it kept sucking me back in, and the album grew on me. ("Like a fungus!" as my sister Erin would say.) Liquid Skin felt similar to me, and then In Our Gun confirmed me as a lifelong Gomez fan. It was still the distinct Gomez sound—lead vocals alternating between 3 unique voices, lots of guitar effects and keyboard riffs and pounding drums. But it was also a cohesive album with actual songs. Really, really good songs. I think I listened to it for several months straight and fell in love with it more every time.

Their two albums since have not disappointed, either. Even though I have favorites, I can't think of any Gomez song that I actually dislike. I love and worship Gomez.

So yes, I can understand the dedication to their fabulous back catalog. But being too loyal to their early songs seems somewhat stagnant to me. Next tour, how many songs will we hear off How We Operate? If the fleeting appearance of Split the Difference at this past concert is any indication, there'll be fewer off HWO than from their 1st album and I think that's a shame.

... to be continued ...

The Weekend in Concert: Pearl Jam

Okay, I'm still tired but am sufficiently recuperated to finally report on the concerts.

First up was Pearl Jam at U.S. Bank Arena on Saturday night. It had sort of a strange vibe because it was the site of 11 fan deaths at a Who concert in 1979. For Pearl Jam, this hit especially close to home after they experienced 8 fan deaths at a festival concert in Denmark in 2000. Before the opening band started, Ed came out and played a solo version of "The Kids Are Alright." He wore a Who t-shirt and talked about the tragedy in Cincinnati in 1979 and in Denmark in 2000. It cast a somber shadow over the concert, but didn't really prevent us from enjoying the music.

Because Keith's a member of PJ's fan club, we had really good seats. PJ is about the only arena concert we go to anymore, so I'm getting very spoiled as to being close to the stage. We weren't on the floor, but the equivalent of 10 floor rows back, and then row G on the left-hand side of the stage.

We were close enough that I noticed Ed spitting a lot throughout the concert. Funny—I'd never been able to see that before. I think I could have done without it, but it did reinforce the caliber of our seats.

I thought the band had a good, relatively relaxed vibe. They seemed to be having fun, and Ed interacted with the crowd a lot. They played "Present Tense," which Keith had said before he was hoping to hear. I was hoping for "Crazy Mary" (yes), and our wedding song "Thin Air" (didn't happen). What was also surprising is that they played "Leash," which they categorically refuse to play live at all, so it was exciting to hear a song that very few fans have heard in concert. I admit: it made me feel "cool."

For me personally, I think this ranks as my 2nd favorite Pearl Jam concert, after the Cleveland concert on their "Riot Act" tour.

Since this is already significantly longer than my usual blog entry, I'm thinking I'll save the Gomez review for tomorrow. In a venue that has about a 600-person capacity, it was an entirely different experience.

I'm Tired

I'm guessing not quite hungover, but functioning at close to the same level from a complete lack of sleep. In fact, if I even remember to upload this post on Monday and pick up the handset instead of the date stamp when the phone rings, we should all consider ourselves lucky.

See, I'm actually writing this on Friday. ("Cheater!" you gasp.) Because this coming/past weekend, Keith and I are going to the Pearl Jam concert in Cincinnati on Saturday night and then driving to Pittsburgh for a Gomez concert on Sunday night. Which means we don't get back to Cleveland until the wee hours of Monday morning, just a short snooze before we both get up and head to work.

So I thought it would enhance everyone's enjoyment of this blog and increase the potential of coherent sentences if I went ahead and pre-emptively wrote this blog before Monday. But I can tell you what Monday will be like: I'll be tired. Really, really tired.

Because I'm now old. Not so old that I had to sneak my cane into the concerts or anything. But old enough that going to two concerts in one weekend and staying up past the bewitching hour on Sunday night intimidates me, and makes me feel as though next week will be a very long week.

For today, just take solace in the thought that you're feeling better than I am. Because I'm old and wussy and sleep-deprived. Tomorrow/Tuesday, the plan is to let you know how the concerts were. If I manage to get out of bed, that is.

Office Snow Day

I feel like a kid who comes downstairs, bleary-eyed before school, only to discover that school's been cancelled and the entire day is hers to command.

When I got to work this morning, the office was all locked up tight. This had never happened before. In an office of 6 people (including myself), two will not be in at all today. Two go about their own business, and the remaining one may or may not have some small tasks for me to do.

But, for the most part, I think I may be left to my own devices today without anyone noticing or caring. Maybe now I'll go see what's in my Amazon Gold Box, or check out the latest celebrity gossip. I have (obviously) written my blog already. All the possibilities, and it's not even 8:45!

I guess it's not exactly a snow day. I'm still here for 8 hours, chained to my desk. But I get the delicious thrill of looking busy to casual passers-by, without accomplishing anything that would be considered actual work by the company. And I'm looking forward to it!

World Cup Hopes

I've gotta be honest: I'm seriously depressed about the U.S. losing in the World Cup.

It took me a while to get into it this year. It wasn't really until it started that I remembered how exciting the World Cup is, and how much fun it is to get really involved.

It wasn't until the U.S. lost today that I remembered how much it sucks to root for a team that doesn't even make it past the opening round.

I miss the days when I lived, breathed, and slept soccer. In middle school/high school, I played on teams and practiced on my own. I played at least 9 months out of the year between indoor and outdoor teams. When I think back to lazy, carefree afternoons of childhood, what definitely stands out are the Friday afternoons the spring of my freshman year in high school. A bunch of people (mostly guys) would get together and just play until it got dark. It didn't really matter if you won or lost, as long as you played hard.

Rooting for the U.S. in this World Cup was bringing that feeling back to me. It makes me wonder what I've really played hard at lately. Trying to improve just for the sake of improving and seeing hard work pay off.

Even though the U.S. is out of it, hopefully I won't lose it entirely.

Driven Apart by Primetime?

Keith just bought a new TV for the basement of our house. (No, you didn't miss it; we don't actually move until the end of next week.)

It's a very nice TV: a 37" HD plasma screen with great picture quality. I like the TV. It makes me feel cool to have one.

But I'm starting to get a little concerned that, once we move into our house, Keith and I will be going our separate ways. If the fab new TV is in the basement, he'll be down there all the time. Meanwhile, my craft supplies, books, and comfy armchairs will be in the living room or attic room.

I picture us, separated by a floor or two, talking about our days via instant messenger. Will I always be forced to choose between Keith's company in the basement or enjoying the rest of the house?

I know he'll say I'm being silly. And, often, this is the case. But we spend a serious amount of time in front of the TV. Why would that change because we moved into a house? Will having more room drive us apart? *the sound of tender violins swells in the background...*

Food Pushers

For the past couple weeks, Keith and I have really tried to eat better and exercise more. I was doing okay, until about the middle of last week.

While some might attribute my downfall to a complete and utter lack of willpower, that's not entirely correct. I do have a modicum of willpower, it's just useless in the face of Food Pushers. It's like using kryptonite to try and deflect Spiderman: can't be done.

I don't entirely get the Food Pusher's mentality. I can understand trying to be a good host and offering drinks/food once or twice. But the office FP last week told me three times that I had to try this carrot cake—it was the best carrot cake he'd ever tasted. I murmured polite disinterest or noncommittal noises all three times. Finally, he yelled from the other office for me to come over and stood in the doorway until I came over and got a piece of cake.

This is annoying. I can't make my own decisions about eating? When I'm trying to eat healthy, sometimes I do make bad choices. But I'd rather make my own choices, not be forced into consuming 2 million fatty calories by a Food Pusher.

I've been trying to think of ways to put off Food Pushers, because going the nonconfrontational, lack of interest route doesn't seem to be very effective. I'm considering becoming allergic to anything that may be pushed in my direction. The problem there would be, six months down the road, when I'm caught eating something I'm "allergic" to.

But here's the thing: I'm not the one with a problem. The Food Pushers are the ones that really need to change, not me. So think about this: Do you:

• Offer guests/co-workers food more than three times in five minutes?


• Never take "no" for an answer?


• Act mortally insulted if someone tries to turn down your food offering?

If you answered "yes" to any and all of those questions, then you're a Food Pusher and it's annoying. Stop it right now.

Mistaken Identity

I'm not sure how many of you are "neat freaks" or "OCD" like I am, but I quite enjoy the show Clean Sweep on TLC. In the show, an interior designer and professional organizer, although with a carpenter and minions, team up to organize a couple rooms' in some hapless family's house. I get organizing tips, decorating ideas, and also the chance to feel superior because even at my worst, my abode never looks that bad.

We watched the show since the first season. In the second season, a new host appeared: Tava Smiley. The picture on the left is Tava, taken from the official Tava Smiley website. She's very cute and perky. Her bio includes stints on General Hospital, Nash Bridges, and Wild On! specials for E!.

With Tava, I assumed that what you see is what you get and not much more. So I was quite surprised when the intro to the 9 o'clock Cleveland NPR show introduced Tava Smiley as an author and activist for many years. Activist? In what—riding the world of clutter? Getting people to smile more? Perhaps fighting for the rights of blondes, who have long born the brunt of amateur comedians' jokes.

But no: Tava was on to discuss her latest book Convenant with Black America about racism in America. Really? Really?!?

I opened up the NPR website, which is where I discovered the guest was not TavA Smiley of Hollywood fame, but TavIS Smiley, Radio talk show host, author, and true activist.

And the world returned to rotating on its axis. Maybe I'll see if Clean Sweep is on when I get home tonight ....

Too Much of a Good Thing?

I went golfing this past weekend. Early Saturday morning, Keith, my dad, and my dad's cousin, and I played 9 holes. It was chilly, but the sun was out and overall it was a great day for it.

Here's the thing: I'm bad. I'd say on the worse side of just "bad," even. Which is perfectly understandable, because I can count on one hand the number of times I've actually set foot on a course. So I take a big swing, hit the ground and then the ball and send a divot flying twice as far as the 5 ft my ball rolls. I tell myself it's fine—no problem. It's good for me to do things that I'm bad at, helps me learn humility, patience, etc.

But here's the other thing: I seem to be picking up more and more hobbies that I'm not very good at. First it was running, and then knitting, and golf .... what happens when the things I'm bad at outweigh the things I consider myself to be competent at? Is that still good for one's ego? Where's the tipping point where you're actually making yourself feel worse because you suck at everything you try?

Maybe it's because I'm getting older that I feel like I'm not very good at new hobbies. That other people have been doing them for years, and I'm behind. Maybe the key is to be bad, but find other people who are just a little worse than you so you can still be boosting your self-confidence at the same time.

Any non-golfers want to play 9 holes? I'll drive the cart. And the divots.

10 Trivial Things

Based on comments posted, I think it's pretty safe to say that I know and interact with 99.2% of my readers on a regular basis. Plus we've already decided that Andy is an honorary member of the group, even if we haven't met face-to-face. (If you're reading this blog and I don't know you, feel free to post a comment and boost my self-esteem!)

Even so, there may be a few surprising facts about me of which you many be unaware. And since you want to know everything there is to know about me ....

10 Completely Useless Facts About Me*

1. I can clap with one hand. Oh yes! A highly sought-after skill.


2. I have never been to Disneyland or Disneyworld, and that's okay with me.


3. Much to Keith's surprise, I got a perfect score on the analytical portion of the GRE.


4. I like to eat macaroni mixed with applesauce.


5. In 4th grade, I tied for first place in a Hulahoop contest with Eric Bridenbaker.


6. My favorite word is "mucilaginous", even if I can't spell it.


7. If I were born a boy, my name would have been Ryan Charles.


8. I am a failure as an English major until I finally read Joyce's Ulysses, but it intimidates me. Maybe someday.


9. For breakfast this morning, I had Raisin Nut Bran. (Yes, it is in full supply in Cleveland—two different box sizes, even!)


10. The first time I went white water rafting, I was sitting in front of the guide so he could keep an eye on me. Instead, he fell out of the boat during some rapids and I had to help pull him back in.


There you have it! Ten random facts about me that you neither needed nor wanted. Feel free to share your own!

*This blog partially inspired by "The Word" on The Colbert Report. To view a video of the inspirational, truthigious piece, click here and view the "Me" segment.

Useless Treasures

Do you ever look at your Amazon.com gold box? If you have an Amazon account, you can get SPECIAL "gold box Savings" on super-duper items.

Sometimes, when I'm all caught up on TheSuperficial.com and the other very important news sites, I surf Amazon and see what's in my gold box. The general gist of the gold box is they want you to buy the maximum amount of excess crap and trick you into thinking it's a steal. For this reason, they've fashioned it like a Price-Is-Right game. You sign in and they say, okay: we'll now show you 10 fabulous deals, one at a time. At any given time, you can hold on to one of these deals (I think you're only allowed to purchase one of the items because it is, of course, amazing savings). You have 60 minutes to scroll through the ten items in your gold box and either choose one or reject them all. Remember, these are supposedly fantabulous deals that will only last for 60 minutes. So buy now! Supplies limited!!

This is what I found in my gold box on Monday:

• eHealth insurance (.50 off)
  Actually, I was wrong about this one. I was a little surprised to be getting 50 cents off health insurance--didn't really seem remotely like a good deal to me. Then on the next page I realized that eHealth had actually been a Gold Box Sponsor and I totally missed what the actual GB item was. But, I couldn't go back to see. Once it's gone, it's gone!


• 14k Yellow Gold Filigree Dangle Earrings (gold box savings: $5.50 off $55.00)
  I don't usually like yellow gold and I don't have pierced ears. The chances of me ever having bought earrings on Amazon are STN (slim-to-none). I thought the whole point of Amazon tracking every page you've ever visited was to have personalized offers. So where did this come from?


• Nature Made SAM-eMoodPlus 400mg Double Strength Value Size, 36 Tablets (gold box savings: $3.44 off $34.39)
  Just looking at the name, I could tell it was some kind of diet additive. But what did it do? I clicked on the link for more info, which stated: "SAM-e enhances mood by promoting a healthy balance of neurotransmitters, dopamine and serotonin, which are part of overall healthy brain cell functions." Apparently it's also good for joint pain, detoxification, and generally just gets you into tip-top shape. I couldn't help but wonder what I ever looked at to get this offer. Although the $3.44 savings was pretty tempting, I managed to pass.


• book: What No One Tells the Bride: Surviving the Wedding, Sex After the Honeymoon (gold box savings: $.51 off $10.17)
  Been there, done that. Sadly, the Honeymoon is long over (although never in my heart, my darling!). And only $.51 off? Not exactly drawing me in!


• DVDs: The Lone Gunmen - The Complete Series ($1.00 off $19.97)
  This actually intrigued me slightly, after watching the X-Files all through college. Not enough to buy it, but a little. At least I didn't feel as insulted as I did when the mood enhancing pills came up.



The next few items all fall into the same category: actually relevant to my interests and previous purchases. But with such paltry savings that I was not tempted in the least.

• book: Travel Writer's Guide ($.90 off $17.95)


• book: Writing Down the Bones ($.52 off $10.36)


• book: Travel Photography: A Complete Guide to How to Shoot and Sell ($1.15 off $22.95)


• book: On Writing ($.40 off $7.99)


• book: Lonely Planet Travel Photography: A Guide to Taking Better Pictures ($.58 off $11.69)

Overall, two things struck me as I rummaged through my Gold Box:
Firstly, I thought that these were supposed to be great, great, GREAT deals, with the time limitations and all. But they were all pretty crappy.

Secondly, I was slightly alarmed at how irked I was that these deals, at least to begin with, weren't personalized to my tastes. Is this how it starts? Getting used to The Man knowing your business? Maybe I should be glad that the gold filigree earrings showed up, since obviously Amazon doesn't know me that well. Unless the gold filigree was a red herring ...

Is It Really That Hard?: Wait staff

My mom and I went out to dinner at Applebee's the other night, which is apparently always a risky choice.

Why are so many restaurant servers crazy?

In the past few weeks, I've had a lot of crazy servers. I know this is partly due to the fact that, in the past couple weeks, I've eaten out a lot. But even so, I feel that the ratio of sane, capable servers to the crazies is much too low.

It's not so much that they're incompetent, although that's part of it. When we were in Kentucky a few weeks ago, Michael's and my beers didn't arrive until after the food. Long after the food. What good is that? But what was the icing on the cake was when, after we'd complained to two other servers (she never came near enough to our table for us to get her attention), our server made a big show of telling us that, in the 20 years that she's waitressed, this is the first time she's ever been so busy that it took her so long to get drinks. It's never happened before. Riiiight.

So like I said, my mom and I went to Applebee's, the chain where, strangely enough the above incident had also taken place. Perhaps Applebee's hires particularly incompetent/crazy waitstaff? During this excursion, our waitress took a mental break in the middle of taking our order and made me repeat my entire order. This is after I tried to order a glass of red and she didn't even know what kinds they had—she mentioned one or two of the labels, but not the actual wine (chardonnay, merlot, etc.), which I tend to find more relevant.

After all those fun times, when I had signed the credit card receipt and she stopped by to pick it up, she actually said, "You're leaving me? I didn't do anything wrong and you're still leaving me?"

I'd assume she was going for funny. But it came out as stalker. Not funny.

I could go on, about the waitress that sat down next to Michael one time and talked about what a long day she'd had, or the time our server ran off to Yemen to find his long-lost twin brother before we'd even gotten our appetizer, but I'm sure you all have had that happen to you, too.

The Mysterious Stretching of Time

Why do four-day weeks always seem to last forever? After having a fabulous 3-day weekend, this week has stretched into infinity. The four work days somehow stretched and morphed into a painful, 7-day, 18-hours/day work purgatory.

How does it happen? Why does it always work like that? I wonder if it would be different if you always had a 4-day week. Would a 3-day week seem endless? I have a hard imagining a 3-day week ever feeling long.

I remember hearing in a French class, long long ago, that in France instead of having a weekend they typically have Wednesday and Sunday off. Whether this is true or not, I have no idea. But it's an interesting concept. Would it be better or worse if you split up the weekend? On the one hand, you'd never go more than 3 days without a day off (assuming you're the typical 5-day/week office drone like myself). But, no Saturday?!? I don't know if I could handle it.

Of course, if others are to be trusted, the French never do much work anyway, so it's a moot point for them.

Enjoy your weekend!

A Telling Sound

My work keyboard is extremely loud. As I write e-mails or *ahem* blog entries, I feel like the "clacking" sound is reverberating around the entire office. People should be poking their heads out in wonderment at what I could possibly be typing.

Because, let's face it: I don't have that much to do. And what little work I do have does not require massive amounts of extended typing.

My boss today mentioned that the last girl just didn't work out. She could hear her typing all the time but she never did any filing or anything—she figures the girl must have been sending e-mails.

I wonder if my face gave me away as I quietly closed gmail and pretended to be hard at work on the latest report. If I do the filing and type e-mails at a furious rate, do you think I'll "work out" or be booted out?

102nd Post!

Congratulations to all of us for suffering through, I mean, enjoying with delight and eagerness, over 100 editions of A Right Gapesnest! Yay for us!

I did realize that the 100th post was coming up; this was actually not a case of procrastination. It was more performance anxiety. What should my hundreth post be about? It has to be something really, really good! So instead of actually working on a post and not writing it on the fly, I chose to wait until after the moment had passed to share it with you. Wasn't it a good time?

Thanks for reading. I could do it without you, but it wouldn't be nearly as much fun and my bitterness and alienation would be much more apparent to the naked eye. Please keep reading and tell your friends!

Is It Really That Hard?: Laundry

Like many people, I tend to do laundry on the weekends. Roughly 9 pm, Sunday evening I remember that I have absolutely nothing to wear for the upcoming week.

In college, it was a matter of scrounging up quarters and cramming as many jeans and t-shirts into one load as possible and still shut the washing machine door. However, now that Keith and I have had a few years to develop professional wardrobes, doing laundry is becoming increasingly more complicated.

Our basic separation is into darks (normal/warm), whites (normal/hot), and delicates (gentle/cold). But then there’s a sweater or two that has to be Dryeled—that gets set aside. And then there’s the intermingling between the three main categories: it can be washed normally, but can’t be put in the dryer. They suggest washing it with warm water on the gentle cycle. The latest trend is for labels to say that this particular item of clothing should be washed normal/cold and can be tumble dried but you cannot under any circumstances use a dryer sheet.

If I actually paid attention to all of these directions, by this point I would have 20 separate piles of one to possibly two items in each. And then there’s the clothes that actually say “wash separately.” Um, washing machines today are big. Gargantuan behemoths that could, if given the chance, eat my entire wardrobe in one fell swoop. I am not wasting an entire load (I believe the smallest setting on my parents’ machine is “small boutique’s worth”) on one stinkin’ shirt. No matter how stinkin’ it is!

You keep hearing on the radio and in the news about how much busier people are. Our lives are filled to the brim with work and hobbies, etc. All of these modern conveniences are supposed to be saving us time. And aren’t man-made fabrics supposed to be easier to care for?

Give it a couple years and I’ll be so fed up with the minutiae on every laundry label, Keith and I will only be wearing polyester leisure suits.

Reluctant Acceptance

I think I need to face the facts: I'm going to remain employed. At least for a little while longer.

There weren't any lay-offs in our department yesterday. There were some across the hall, and news is trickling in like reports on the battlefield, of who the casualties were. But I'm still here, I'm assuming because I'm so cheap (no benefits!) that it's not worth it to get rid of me.

I've decided that perhaps the best way to cheer myself up is to focus on the money. Because really, that's the only benefit to working. So I plan to spend most of the afternoon shopping online, virtually spending my next several paychecks, to feel the blow of lost free time less keenly.

Just Twiddling My Thumbs

... and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I mean, not literally. Who twiddles their thumbs? I have tried it before, when waiting anxiously for news, but it did nothing to relieve the tension. It just made my thumbs tense, too.

And I don't actually expect my boss to come in front of me and drop a shoe, but I can picture it. That's it. That's all that happens: she walks up to the desk, holding a red, stilletto-heeled shoe between thumb and forefinger. She looks at me, looks at the shoe. She looks back at me, releases her grip, and the shoe falls with a soft thump on the carpet. She turns on her heel and walks away. Nothing more needs to be said.

(Except I would be sitting there thinking, "So, does that mean I'm dismissed as of right now? Can I count the time cleaning my desk out as being on the clock? Should I say good-bye to people or just leave? I need to delete my web history!")

So yeah, I didn't post yesterday because I didn't have anything to say. I waited all day to hear something, and then around 4 my boss left and said "See you tomorrow!" So I assumed that meant I was employed for another day.

Here it is, another day, and I'm just twiddling my thumbs again, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Happily Unemployed?

I’m completely flummoxed. I don’t even know what to think.

So this job is boring and not challenging at all. But it is a temp job and the people are okay, so I figured I could deal with it for a while. Because it is a job, after all. It gets me out of the house and feeling semi-productive and brings in a little extra money, which never hurts. So although I will complain about it on a regular basis, I still intended to keep doing it.

Today my manager mentioned that she hasn’t trained me on the large database because tomorrow they’re finding out about layoffs.

Really. I guess that’s good to know, huh? So apparently, as of tomorrow, I may or may not be employed.

At first, I thought that I was mad. I was definitely led to think that this was a long-term position. But, they were also upfront about the fact that the university is having budget issues, so I guess I can’t say I wasn’t forewarned.

During lunch, I decided that the strange, ebullient emotion I was feeling was actually not anger or disappointment, but hope. Hope that, through no fault of my own, I will have regained my carefree, lazy days. Writing, reading, running errands, not on any schedule except the one that I set for myself. I would keep applying for jobs, of course, but at the least I would have stolen another week or so of unemployment.

So now I just don’t know what to think. Am I angry and frustrated? Keeping my fingers crossed that I get laid off or not? If tomorrow goes by without any mention of me getting laid off, I’ll be disappointed. I’ll envision all of the fabulous things I could (and assuredly would) be doing without the yoke of gainful employment around my neck. If I get laid off tomorrow, I’ll mope around because I feel guilty and like I’m not contributing to society.

Instead of looking at this as a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situation, I think I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon trying to remember the benefits of both situation.

To Lie Abed

My friends, Monday morning is never a happy time. I hope to someday in my life reach the point where Monday morning dawns just as bright and full of exciting possibilities as Saturday morning.

That day is not today.

But what made it even worse is that Keith stayed home sick. He didn't feel well yesterday evening, and didn't feel any better this morning. I know that he's miserable, but I still can't help being jealous as I drag myself out of bed and to another whole week of work.

Even if he feels better tomorrow, he'll still only have a four-day week. AND a four-day week next week, with Memorial Day. I mean, that's practically getting half of May off! Why doesn't he call it quits until June?!?

I am not complaining about Keith's behavior or work habits in any way, so don't go spreading nasty rumors and getting me in trouble. I'm merely making the observation that it's exceedingly more difficult to get out of bed on Monday morning when a warm, sleepy body is still snuggled under the covers.

The Curse of the MA

I have a Master's in English with a concentration in writing. Which is fine and good. Except that, when looking for a job, it messes with my mind.

I got my MA because I wanted it. I knew that, without going on to get a Ph.D. in English, an MA is pretty worthless. Which was fine. It wasn't really about getting ahead. (That would be an MBA.) I like reading and literature and school, and it was free since I was working on campus, so I did it. And I felt a sense of accomplishment when I finished that had nothing to do with my job or career. It was just something I wanted to do, and I did it.

But now I'm looking for jobs. And I've turned into a snob. I'm not sure if it's my voice in my head or that of career counselors and well-meaning acquaintances, telling me that surely having a master's should be worth something.

Honestly, it's not. It's not good for anything except preventing me from applying for good jobs with decent pay because I feel like I should get something better. Like people should be knocking down my door because I have a master's. But they don't. And I get frustrated and feel under appreciated and severely underpaid.

I'm glad that I got my Master's because I wanted it and I like to bring it up in conversations when I would like to seem smart. But I think I need to consider it as completely irrelevant to the job search. Everyone else seems to.

Administrative Procedures

One of the tasks that I’ve inherited at my temp job is to revise the outdated Administrative Procedures Manual.

I completely agree that having a Procedures Manual is important, particularly for a temp position where employees come and go more often than the NSA puts on new wire taps. A procedures manual can help ensure a certain level of continuity, and prevent the disadvantageous situation where you discover that no one in the office knows how to turn that machine on or what to do in an important yet exceedingly rare situation. (Like when Bush actually discloses relevant information to the public.)

All of this I understand and agree with. However, I think the type of content necessary in this manual is, surprisingly, debatable like a guest worker program.

This particular procedural manual is roughly 45 pages in length. The first 6 pages are a combination of telephone operation instructions and phone etiquette. Personally, I think the etiquette tips are excessive. They can’t just say “Don’t chew gum or hang up on people.” Oh no.

One of the suggested ways to make a caller’s first impression “the best one possible” urges me to:

Smile while you talk. You’ll feel good inside and this feeling will carry over the phone.

Really? That’s all you need to do to combat any type of bad mood or severe depression? Turn that frown upside down? If only more people could read this administrative procedures manual, we could cut Medicare funding even further and everyone could transfer calls straight to voicemail!

When I try to picture myself smiling for the benefits of callers, it looks distinctly like a threatening snarl. Kind of like the look on Bush’s face when trapped by angry journalists. Although I’m tempted to add some etiquette tips of my own, I think I’ll stick to updating how one transfers calls directly to voicemail.

Woxy Rocks!

I think that I have been negligent in my promotion of woxy, but I'm telling you all right now, you should listen to this Internet radio station 24/7. Woxy is like the coolest best friend you never had.

I started listening when I was looking for a radio station soon after moving to Dayton and found one that played JJ72 then Pearl Jam. To find a station that played JJ72 at all, much less followed by Pearl Jam?!? It was a miracle.

A few years ago, they sold the "terrestrial station" as the kids call it, and moved over to solely Internet broadcasting. There is a monthly fee if you want the supercool bestest streaming sound, but if you're just giving it a try you can also listen for free to a 24k stream.

Although woxy and I always got along fabulously, we grew apart at my last full-time job, when I wasn't allowed to listen to streaming media. I'd drop in and say "hi" every once in a while, but not too often. Now, at my most recent job, I can listen to the radio all day and woxy and I are again BFF.

Which reminds me that I should be touting the benefits of woxy to everyone I know. It will make your hair thicker, help you lose weight, bring you better luck in life and love, and get rid of the dandelions in your front yard. Additionally, they also play fantastic indie/alternative bands like:

• Gomez
• Pearl Jam
• Placebo
• The Shins
• Postal Service
• Ben Harper
• Franz Ferdinand
• Broken Social Scene
• Sleater-Kinney

and many multitudes more. So quit reading, and go check it out! (If you're too lazy to scroll up to the link at the top of the article, click here.)

A Classical Dilemma

So maybe I’m going at the “reading the classics” the wrong way.

Yesterday Keith and I were trolling Borders for books on my Top 100 list. I ended up rejecting any that we found because they were too long (one was in two volumes!) or, upon reading the back cover, seemed too abstract and artsy.

It seems that combining reading the classics with an annual reading goal is counterproductive. Because whenever I pick up something that seems the least bit daunting (nearly everything on the list), all I can think is “it would take me forever to read this!”

But really, I feel like I need to set goals for reading the classics because, for the most part, they’re hard work. There’s a million books out there that are easier to read, more fast-paced, etc. And of course I intersperse those amongst the classics. (I’m very excited to start The Man Who Loved Jane Austen at lunch today!). But I do want to read these influential, ground-breaking novels. So I make a list, and give myself a deadline. And then don’t read the books because I don’t think I’ll make the deadline. Oh, and whine about how difficult it all is.

After one trip around the store, I did end up going back and getting Don Quixote because, while the list is 99% unnumbered, they did list Don Quixote as the #1 novel of all time, so I am definitely intrigued. Besides, if high schoolers taking Spanish can read it, surely I can. Right?

Sadly, Fully Employed

So in case the dearth of postings last week wasn't a sure sign, I am officially—regretfully—informing you all that I am once again employed. I'm working as a temp admin. assistant on a college campus. The office is nice, the people are nice, but the drive sucks because it's on the other side of town. Good thing there's audiobooks to keep me awake!

I was actually quite despondent when I heard the news. I had slipped easily into my daily routine of running errands, walking the dog, writing, reading, and generally enjoying myself. I did things like spend hours watering the grass and stripping the paint off the front railings as penance for my idle enjoyment while the rest of the household labored away, but overall it was a great life.

Plus, I had done everything possible to look for a job. I'd sent out resumes, worked contacts, scoured Monster and Careerbuilder. I'd even called no less than 3 Kelly offices—all of which said they had no openings. So I could enjoy myself without feeling guilty that I should try harder to find a job. I had tried, it hadn't worked out yet, and therefore I could reap the benefits of being unemployed without the guilt.

Alas, this came to an abrupt end a couple weeks ago. I had an interview on Wednesday, I got the job on Thursday, and I started on Monday. Suddenly, not only am I working full-time, but I'm spending another 2 hours or so commuting. My lazy, carefree days are gone for now. But I'll remember them fondly.

Trivia Sucks

So last night was Keith's and my first pub quiz (although Cathy and Amy are old veterans), and I have to say: I wasn't impressed with myself. I mean, our team did okay. We didn't completely embarrass ourselves, but we didn't exactly set the place on fire and inspire all the other contestants to break into spontaneous cheers of admiration, if you know what I mean.

I mean, let's talk about this whole concept of "trivia." The definition of trivia, according to The American Heritage Dictionary, is "insignificant or inessential matters; trifles." So why, when I don't know trivia, do I feel stupid or less educated than the guy that can identify a picture of Dr. Seuss? (true story, we thought it was C. Everett Koop. Whoops!)

I think that, in our modern era where we never have enough time to do anything properly, trivia geeks are our version of a Renaissance Man. A jack of all trades. If you know random factoids in many different categories, you have proven your mastery over life. You can engage in witty repartee and sparkling dinner conversation. Everyone wants you on their team for any game that might somewhat involve intelligence.

People do ask me to be on their teams, falsely assuming that someone with a Masters in English must surely know something. Usually I end up spouting out random facts that actually have no relation to the question at hand. Like, if the question is what conflict is featured in Hemingway's "For Whom the Bell Tolls," I'll talk about John Donne and his religious conversion that completely changed his poetry mid-career. Not helpful.

Pub Quiz

In honor of the Pub Quiz tonight, I thought I'd give you all a quiz on miscellaneous random facts. If you're looking for the answers, click on the comments. (To be fair, I knew very little of this myself—most of it came from answers.com.) Good luck!

1. Where does the word "pub" come from?
2. Who said, "You can take a whore to culture but you can't make her think?"
3. In 965, King Edgar decreed that there should be no more than __ alehouses per village?
4. When does the Guinness Co's lease on St. James' Gate Brewery end?
5. In nine men's morris, a popular pub game, how many players are there?
   

Knit Together

Not to seem like I'm slacking or anything .... but I have to study up for Pub Quiz tomorrow night. I've been hearing about it for ages, and I want to help Nuns with Guns get first place! (Or there'll be hell to pay ...;)

So yeah, you should all read the story that I wrote (and got paid!) for Romantic Short Love Stories. Here's the overview:

All work and no play, Norah decided to take up a new hobby. After all knitting was one of those little hobbies that her hands could do while her mind was elsewhere. It all seemed so easy at first, until her knitting instructor David entered the picture. Friendly, soft-spoken, and absolutely gorgeous... the kind of teacher any girl could fall for. Then why was it that she could barely even stand the guy?

If you're interested, check it out here*!

Oh, and today is my mom's birthday. Happy birthday Mom!

*Link is now defunct.