I am blogging because I am curled up on my couch watching tv and looking at my cat (which is as close as I get anymore, since they refuse to cuddle now that the couch smells so much like dog). The reason for this is that I refuse to go anywhere near a moving vehicle for the rest of the day and possibly the rest of the week.
Today, I am cursed.
This morning I walked the dog a little longer than I should have and headed to work a little later than normal. As I sat at a traffic light on Route 1, minding my own very muddled and sleepy-headed business, the world shifted slightly. And abrubtly. I glanced up in my rearview mirror and saw a sunglassed brunette chewing on a muffin and waving at me distractedly. Evidently, the effort of scarfing down her breakfast was so exhausting that it became impossible to hold her weary foot on the brake pedal and so, weak with hunger, she Hit. My. Car.
I was furious. I leapt out of the car and banged on her window, screaming obscenities and demanding an apology. She cowered and cried, sobbing profuse regrets and whimpering under the stern glare of my steely-eyed fury. I let her go after repeated promises to stay alert, focus on safety and never cause another accident again.
Actually, I yelled at her from my car and made repeated and violent arm movements, increasingly infuriated by her stubbon refusal to acknowledge wrongdoing. When the light changed, she switched lanes and sped off in her poncy little red convertible, still chewing and still oblivious to the cold restrained fury of my irritatingly ineffective middle finger.
I managed, after a long day otherwise occupied with saving lives and bettering society, to forget the incident and finally, only 6 minutes late today, I crawled into my baking hot oven of a car and headed towards home. Not five minutes from the shelter, I flicked my eyes to the rearview mirror and clocked a cop behind me, far behind me, must have been right behind me at the stoplight I'd just been waiting at. But he was still far behind me, like he'd lingered at the light, and I had plenty of time to carefully assess my speed and drop from 38 to the posted limit of 35. Those of you that know me know my ingrained and inflexible terror of getting in trouble, my utterly catholic fear of authority, and my insanely bad driving skills all combine to create the most infuriatingly slow driver in Northern Virginia, so I didn't think twice about the police car and instead focused on staying in my lane.
Imagine my heart attack, then, when the lights flickered, the siren sounded, the cop was on my tail and gesturing to pull over. Muddled with anxiety and confusion, I did so, wondering if he had the authority to pull me over for my outdated stickers and reasoning that since I had the current registration in the car I'd probably be just fine. When he swaggered up to the car, I had my window open, my hand on the registration, a very curious look on my face.
"Did you notice the posted speed limit on this road, ma'am?"
I had, but I think this is an inefficient conversational track. "How fast was I going?"
"Did you notice the speed limit, m'am?" He is irritated now.
"I wasn't going over the limit," I say. "I know I wasn't, I looked when I saw you!" I am earnest, pleading.
"Ma'am, the limit on this road is 35 miles per hour. Do you know how fast you were going?"
"I guess I don't, I really thought..." I am terrified now, babbling, confused.
"I had to go over 60 to catch up with you. You blew right past me at that light."
Well, the light was green, I thought. But still. I am shocked. "I am shocked." Pause. "I really, I honestly didn't think I was speeding." I point at my dashboard. "I looked, the needle was right here."
Wait.
Hey.
"You had to go over 60 to catch up with me??"
Pause.
"I'm not going to go back and forth with you over this," he says. He backs away from the car a step, then two.
"To CATCH UP WITH ME?"
He is definitely backing away at this point. "Look, have a little respect for the law, is what I am saying. You need to be more careful and slow it down."
I babble a bit more, I am thanking him for letting me go, apologizing, pledging future caution. And, yet...my high school physics teacher is screaming at me in my head, straining to be heard over the ingratiating apologies. The officer gets into his car, gestures abruptly for me to drive on, I carefully change lanes and proceed at a turtle pace down the road. But, thinking...
Now that I have settled, my heart has stopped pounding and my stomach stopped twisting, I have two good theories about what caused his rapid change of attitude. One is that he saw my shirt, my uniform proclaiming me to be a member of the city's public service, a fellow soldier-in-arms in the battle for public well-being. It would be in pretty poor taste to hang me out to dry over such a questionable complaint. But, primarily, I think that his high school physics teacher caught up with him, too, as he realized the questionable science in asserting that I was speeding because he had to go above the limit to catch up to me from behind.
I've tossed this around so much that my brain hurts, and I know I wasn't speeding, unless my speedometer has suddenly broken. But what really frightens me is the idea that an authority figure, someone armed and trusted with the power to issue citations and penalties, can be so arbitrary and, at the same time, so dense.
Meanwhile, I perhaps should put those stickers on my car now.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
wondering
Every morning for as long as I can remember, I have heard the Frey's "How to Save a Life" on the radio on my way to work. At first I thought this an amusing but insignificant indicator of how a juggernaut tv show like Grey's Anatomy can combine with a catchy tune to create an annoyingly constant radio presence. But months went by and I continued to hear it--sometimes just the end, sometimes just the beginning, always on a different station, every single day. The song no longer rules the charts but it rules my radio every morning (sometimes I hear it twice!) and now I'm beginning to wonder if I'm stuck in some freakish rendition of "Groundhog Day" or if some powerful omniscient being out there is trying to tell me something or if maybe, just maybe, I should invest in HD radio or at least a couple of new CDs.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
woof
My dog is the same color as my couch. There is a rule in the dog world (don't worry, I didn't know this either) that you own any piece of furniture that you match. The upshot of this is that, though she knows she is not supposed to be on it, she spends a large portion of each day--while I am at work, working, working hard--stretched out in doggy bliss on my beloved couch. I know this because when I come home at the end of the day she has rearranged the cushions in a more dog-friendly fashion, pulled the slipcover all to hell, and left a Doberman-head-sized imprint on the pillow. I also know this because my beloved off-white couch is now more of a dirty yellow-grey. I also know this because she gives me a baleful glare whenever I dare to sit down.
Somehow I have managed to incorporate this, too, into my life, along with the dog gate in the bedroom doorway and the hours of walking and the MIA cats. It is amazing what you can adapt to when you have convinced yourself that you are doing something noble, or when you realize that you have made an irrevocable choice and can't go back.
I always thought that when I had a dog, if I had a dog--a prospect that seemed to dim significantly when I fell into obsession with my cats--it would be a shepherd or a shepherd mix. A male, obedient, well-behaved, beautifully colored and just a bit shaggy. He would walk to heel even off-leash, respond to the slightest command, but be comfortable on his own and good with other dogs. I did not expect this, this sleek pale cancer-ridden female with her eyes that glow red in the dark and her sunburned nose and her stomach stretched from years of puppy-milling. She knows nothing, barely more than "sit," and pulls hard at the leash. Dogging my heels every minute, she hates being left alone and loves, loves, loves me and hates, hates, hates meeting new dogs. And, of late, the whole "bathroom outside" issue has come into question.
I thought I was prepared for this, but every day brings a new challenge. It does not get easier. It gets more complicated. One hurdle cleared, two more appear. Adjusts to cats, pees on the floor, gets a stomach bug (?). Find a toy she will actually chew, she gets into the trash when we're gone.
The scariest thing is that I don't know when to worry. I don't know dogs well enough to know what is normal and what might be the cancer, sneaking in, taking over. Do any of us really know cancer symptoms? If we did, the survival rate would be so much higher. So is our poop-smeared patio a victim of worms, something she found in the trash, something much more sinister? Do I spend $50 to ask the vet each and every time she acts erratically? Or just let it go until it is bad enough to do what we know will need to be done, inevitably, sometime but we don't know when?
I always have buyers' remorse, with everything I do--the job, the house, the animals, college, new jeans. Whenever I make a choice, I mourn the lost chances, the possibilities the other choice presented. It is a curse, maybe sometimes a blessing. I have to keep thinking I did the right thing, bringing this girl into our home for the time she has left, however long that is. I have to keep thinking she's happy, it's worth it, she's better off than the alternative. Otherwise it makes the early morning walks, the uncleaned bathrooms, the utter grossness of my backyard...well, an exercise in something resembling futility. And I hate futility.
Also, I do not know how to clean up my own yard. Which is a shame, because I need to water the plants.
Somehow I have managed to incorporate this, too, into my life, along with the dog gate in the bedroom doorway and the hours of walking and the MIA cats. It is amazing what you can adapt to when you have convinced yourself that you are doing something noble, or when you realize that you have made an irrevocable choice and can't go back.
I always thought that when I had a dog, if I had a dog--a prospect that seemed to dim significantly when I fell into obsession with my cats--it would be a shepherd or a shepherd mix. A male, obedient, well-behaved, beautifully colored and just a bit shaggy. He would walk to heel even off-leash, respond to the slightest command, but be comfortable on his own and good with other dogs. I did not expect this, this sleek pale cancer-ridden female with her eyes that glow red in the dark and her sunburned nose and her stomach stretched from years of puppy-milling. She knows nothing, barely more than "sit," and pulls hard at the leash. Dogging my heels every minute, she hates being left alone and loves, loves, loves me and hates, hates, hates meeting new dogs. And, of late, the whole "bathroom outside" issue has come into question.
I thought I was prepared for this, but every day brings a new challenge. It does not get easier. It gets more complicated. One hurdle cleared, two more appear. Adjusts to cats, pees on the floor, gets a stomach bug (?). Find a toy she will actually chew, she gets into the trash when we're gone.
The scariest thing is that I don't know when to worry. I don't know dogs well enough to know what is normal and what might be the cancer, sneaking in, taking over. Do any of us really know cancer symptoms? If we did, the survival rate would be so much higher. So is our poop-smeared patio a victim of worms, something she found in the trash, something much more sinister? Do I spend $50 to ask the vet each and every time she acts erratically? Or just let it go until it is bad enough to do what we know will need to be done, inevitably, sometime but we don't know when?
I always have buyers' remorse, with everything I do--the job, the house, the animals, college, new jeans. Whenever I make a choice, I mourn the lost chances, the possibilities the other choice presented. It is a curse, maybe sometimes a blessing. I have to keep thinking I did the right thing, bringing this girl into our home for the time she has left, however long that is. I have to keep thinking she's happy, it's worth it, she's better off than the alternative. Otherwise it makes the early morning walks, the uncleaned bathrooms, the utter grossness of my backyard...well, an exercise in something resembling futility. And I hate futility.
Also, I do not know how to clean up my own yard. Which is a shame, because I need to water the plants.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
welcome back kotter
So.
It's July, the beginning of July, steamy hot sweaty heavy summer. The last time I was a regular blogger, it was sharp chilly early spring. I lived in a tiny little fake-townhouse and arranged my life around my cats; I traveled and drank a lot and did everything I could to distract myself from the crushing desperation that was imprisonment in the wrong job.
In the past few months I quit my job, bought a house, brought home a dog, and switched to a Mac. I am not sure which of these things is this most momentous life change.
Also, I am tan now. It is from the dog walking. Of course by tan I mean sort of a darker shade of pale but you understand, this is still a major life change.
The point is, a different person than I, a more engaged person, a less lazy person perhaps, would have taken all these life changes as an opportunity. She would have chronicled these changes, blogged regularly, let the world in on the perspective of an American girl in flux. She would have kept friends and family in the loop and not dropped off the face of the planet. And maybe she would have even had a little writing to show for it all.
Clearly, I am not that person.
Here's the thing. I was blogging at work, mostly. I didn't have that much else to do. And I can't blog at work anymore, because I'm working. I might be shaving tangled mats off of a dog's face so he can see, or consoling a distraught volunteer about a dog we just couldn't rehabilitate, or herding a very confused sheep into a dog kennel padded with straw (to use last Friday as an example).
Sometimes I blogged at home, sitting in front of the tv. I don't do that anymore, because I am not sitting in front of the tv. I might be walking the dog down to the frozen custard shop for mint chocolate custard and puppy pops, or watering my plants in the backyard, or pushing a dust mop endlessly around my floors, or trying to figure out how to get my windows-formatted iPod to work with my new Mac without losing all my songs, or thinking about dinner and deciding between farmers' market foccacia and sweet corn or one of the adorable cafes down the street.
So I'm at a crossroads here. Part of me wants to keep (start again) blogging--I like having an outlet when I want to share something funny or upsetting or confusing, I like keeping in touch with minimal effort, I like keeping my mind active and my communication skills sharp (ish). But the other part of me is slightly lazy and constantly overwhelmed with work and stress and keeping house and staying in touch. That's the part that can't be bothered to open up the computer and sit down to blog. That's the part of me harboring the sneaking suspicion that my passive, accidental choice to stop blogging was the right choice after all. That maybe it's less important to talk about life changes and more important to live life changes. That while it's nice to ponder and muse and share thoughts, I'm better off experiencing and feeling and enjoying.
Also, you can't get a tan from sitting in front of a Mac.
It's July, the beginning of July, steamy hot sweaty heavy summer. The last time I was a regular blogger, it was sharp chilly early spring. I lived in a tiny little fake-townhouse and arranged my life around my cats; I traveled and drank a lot and did everything I could to distract myself from the crushing desperation that was imprisonment in the wrong job.
In the past few months I quit my job, bought a house, brought home a dog, and switched to a Mac. I am not sure which of these things is this most momentous life change.
Also, I am tan now. It is from the dog walking. Of course by tan I mean sort of a darker shade of pale but you understand, this is still a major life change.
The point is, a different person than I, a more engaged person, a less lazy person perhaps, would have taken all these life changes as an opportunity. She would have chronicled these changes, blogged regularly, let the world in on the perspective of an American girl in flux. She would have kept friends and family in the loop and not dropped off the face of the planet. And maybe she would have even had a little writing to show for it all.
Clearly, I am not that person.
Here's the thing. I was blogging at work, mostly. I didn't have that much else to do. And I can't blog at work anymore, because I'm working. I might be shaving tangled mats off of a dog's face so he can see, or consoling a distraught volunteer about a dog we just couldn't rehabilitate, or herding a very confused sheep into a dog kennel padded with straw (to use last Friday as an example).
Sometimes I blogged at home, sitting in front of the tv. I don't do that anymore, because I am not sitting in front of the tv. I might be walking the dog down to the frozen custard shop for mint chocolate custard and puppy pops, or watering my plants in the backyard, or pushing a dust mop endlessly around my floors, or trying to figure out how to get my windows-formatted iPod to work with my new Mac without losing all my songs, or thinking about dinner and deciding between farmers' market foccacia and sweet corn or one of the adorable cafes down the street.
So I'm at a crossroads here. Part of me wants to keep (start again) blogging--I like having an outlet when I want to share something funny or upsetting or confusing, I like keeping in touch with minimal effort, I like keeping my mind active and my communication skills sharp (ish). But the other part of me is slightly lazy and constantly overwhelmed with work and stress and keeping house and staying in touch. That's the part that can't be bothered to open up the computer and sit down to blog. That's the part of me harboring the sneaking suspicion that my passive, accidental choice to stop blogging was the right choice after all. That maybe it's less important to talk about life changes and more important to live life changes. That while it's nice to ponder and muse and share thoughts, I'm better off experiencing and feeling and enjoying.
Also, you can't get a tan from sitting in front of a Mac.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
"you just gotta keep livin, man, l-i-v-i-n."
Eleanor and I were talking yesterday about work, and life, and careers and changes and all of that. She and I came to the agreement--it was so refreshing to find someone who agrees with me on this!--that you spend too much time at work, too many hours, too much effort, to not love it. To not enjoy it. Or at least to not find it meaningful or important in some way.
I have always felt this way, but it was a sneaky dirty secret in the back of my mind, a shameful suspicion that I was different somehow. I would always pretend that things were great, I loved my work, I was so glad I went to grad school and got to do this FOREVER until I died. Then, when I was comfortable with someone, when I felt safe, I might tentatively foray into the truth. In a tiny little voice: I hate my job. And always, without fail, one hundred percent of the time I heard "Nobody likes their job. That's why they call it "work." " For a very long time I felt that I was the one person in the world destined to be unhappy, that there was something wrong with me, that I couldn't fit into the real world and the way you were supposed to be and that I would never be a fully functional adult. But I wasn't just mildly annoyed by my job. I wasn't just a little nostalgic for the days that I managed my own time and had free time during the day and sometimes got to see the sunlight. I felt caged, restless; I was trapped behind a desk and in a routine and the world was going on without me and as long as I was working I would never, ever get to know what a spring afternoon in DC smelled like or lay on my couch with the windows open late into a summer evening and not have to worry about mentally preparing for the next day of torturous empty mind-numbing work or sleep late on a weekday and go to the grocery store when it wasn't crowded.
I carefully broached the subject with a few close friends, wondering if it is possible that I just wasn't cut out for the 9 to 5. The general consensus was that the 9 to 5 world sucks, but you learn to deal with it. Sure, we'd all be happier not working, but such is life. Bills need to be paid. I still couldn't shake the suspicion that this went beyond growing pains, beyond not wanting to work; that the yearning for sunlight and flexibility, the desire for challenge and variety and meaning in my work went beyond just a little boredom with office life and that maybe just maybe there were people who weren't cut out for desk jobs, weren't right for the part, needed to find something a little different.
As it turns out, I was right. Eleanor and I were discussing this, as I mentioned, and we were talking it over early in a warm spring evening as we drove up to Ellicott City with a Bullmastiff named Lexie in the backseat. The sleeve of my shirt was damp with Lexie's enthusiastic drool and the sun hit the top of our heads and we listened to music and gossiped about work and talked about animals and their welfare and ways to do better in our jobs. We were checking out a dog rescue group that we want to start working with and they offered to take this dog and yes, I got home a little late and yes, traffic was a bitch but when I saw that gorgeous dog stretch her legs out and bound through her new yard I laughed, and I thought "I don't know why they call this work."
Sometimes I work through the weekend. Sometimes I miss things like bridal showers and parties and sleeping late, things I would like to do but can't because I have to work. And there are late nights and hard decisions and it is work, people, every day with the decisions and the critical thinking and the difficult conversations and the tricky interactions with the public and the constant struggle between non-profit resources and ambitions. But I get to be outside sometimes during the day, and I get to play fetch with dogs, and I get to do weird and crazy things like get interrupted from my tedious computer work to go help evaluate a dog's behavior or figure out how to get a half-wild cat out of a cage. And I have days off during the week and I can run errands or watch daytime TV or do anything I want. Now that I don't need two hours to mentally prepare for the next day my evenings are so much freer, I can go to Lowes or do laundry or hang out with friends and my time is my own, I'm living the whole day now and not just waiting for the weekends. This job that demands so much more of my time has given me so much more time to live.
I was not cut out for the 9-5. I wish I had honored that thought earlier, wish I had not doubted myself and listened to others for so long. I am so much more alive now. But I am glad that I figured it out, that I took this chance. In looking back, I realized now that I should have known years ago, when I seemed to be the only person in any office I was in that couldn't understand the basic fundamentals of the business-casual environment. The ingredients were so simple: black pants, cardigans, blouses, polo shirts in neutrals, flats and boots in black and brown. Perhaps a belt or two. I had all of these ingredients; why was I never able to pull it together? Fifty million lint rollers in my house, and from the knee down every pair of black pants I owned were covered in cat hair. Nobody else seemed to have this problem--I know, I looked. Right then, it should have occurred to me to find a job in which heavy-duty navy blue police-issued cargo pants were standard attire.
It is Friday night. I work tomorrow. I can't wait to get there.
I have always felt this way, but it was a sneaky dirty secret in the back of my mind, a shameful suspicion that I was different somehow. I would always pretend that things were great, I loved my work, I was so glad I went to grad school and got to do this FOREVER until I died. Then, when I was comfortable with someone, when I felt safe, I might tentatively foray into the truth. In a tiny little voice: I hate my job. And always, without fail, one hundred percent of the time I heard "Nobody likes their job. That's why they call it "work." " For a very long time I felt that I was the one person in the world destined to be unhappy, that there was something wrong with me, that I couldn't fit into the real world and the way you were supposed to be and that I would never be a fully functional adult. But I wasn't just mildly annoyed by my job. I wasn't just a little nostalgic for the days that I managed my own time and had free time during the day and sometimes got to see the sunlight. I felt caged, restless; I was trapped behind a desk and in a routine and the world was going on without me and as long as I was working I would never, ever get to know what a spring afternoon in DC smelled like or lay on my couch with the windows open late into a summer evening and not have to worry about mentally preparing for the next day of torturous empty mind-numbing work or sleep late on a weekday and go to the grocery store when it wasn't crowded.
I carefully broached the subject with a few close friends, wondering if it is possible that I just wasn't cut out for the 9 to 5. The general consensus was that the 9 to 5 world sucks, but you learn to deal with it. Sure, we'd all be happier not working, but such is life. Bills need to be paid. I still couldn't shake the suspicion that this went beyond growing pains, beyond not wanting to work; that the yearning for sunlight and flexibility, the desire for challenge and variety and meaning in my work went beyond just a little boredom with office life and that maybe just maybe there were people who weren't cut out for desk jobs, weren't right for the part, needed to find something a little different.
As it turns out, I was right. Eleanor and I were discussing this, as I mentioned, and we were talking it over early in a warm spring evening as we drove up to Ellicott City with a Bullmastiff named Lexie in the backseat. The sleeve of my shirt was damp with Lexie's enthusiastic drool and the sun hit the top of our heads and we listened to music and gossiped about work and talked about animals and their welfare and ways to do better in our jobs. We were checking out a dog rescue group that we want to start working with and they offered to take this dog and yes, I got home a little late and yes, traffic was a bitch but when I saw that gorgeous dog stretch her legs out and bound through her new yard I laughed, and I thought "I don't know why they call this work."
Sometimes I work through the weekend. Sometimes I miss things like bridal showers and parties and sleeping late, things I would like to do but can't because I have to work. And there are late nights and hard decisions and it is work, people, every day with the decisions and the critical thinking and the difficult conversations and the tricky interactions with the public and the constant struggle between non-profit resources and ambitions. But I get to be outside sometimes during the day, and I get to play fetch with dogs, and I get to do weird and crazy things like get interrupted from my tedious computer work to go help evaluate a dog's behavior or figure out how to get a half-wild cat out of a cage. And I have days off during the week and I can run errands or watch daytime TV or do anything I want. Now that I don't need two hours to mentally prepare for the next day my evenings are so much freer, I can go to Lowes or do laundry or hang out with friends and my time is my own, I'm living the whole day now and not just waiting for the weekends. This job that demands so much more of my time has given me so much more time to live.
I was not cut out for the 9-5. I wish I had honored that thought earlier, wish I had not doubted myself and listened to others for so long. I am so much more alive now. But I am glad that I figured it out, that I took this chance. In looking back, I realized now that I should have known years ago, when I seemed to be the only person in any office I was in that couldn't understand the basic fundamentals of the business-casual environment. The ingredients were so simple: black pants, cardigans, blouses, polo shirts in neutrals, flats and boots in black and brown. Perhaps a belt or two. I had all of these ingredients; why was I never able to pull it together? Fifty million lint rollers in my house, and from the knee down every pair of black pants I owned were covered in cat hair. Nobody else seemed to have this problem--I know, I looked. Right then, it should have occurred to me to find a job in which heavy-duty navy blue police-issued cargo pants were standard attire.
It is Friday night. I work tomorrow. I can't wait to get there.
Monday, April 23, 2007
on a brighter note
I have become comfortable enough in my new job to start feeling feisty.
On Sunday we packed off a group of hamsters to a rescue group. I don't know much about hamsters, just enough to know that they are little and furry and that we don't adopt them out; we give them to rescue groups. I give the groups as much information as possible based on the information that is given to me, and they come and get them and adopt them out or keep them or erect shrines to them or whatever it is they do.
Today I got an email from said rescue group. It said,
"Kate,
I just wanted to let you know that one of the hamsters was pregnant and went into labor this evening. Also, there was a male in with a female. I just wanted to let you know so you could take steps to prevent this. Thanks!"
First, I'd like to note that I'm not responsible for caging the critters or determining their sex or pregnancy status. But soon I will be, so I forwarded the email to my boss and the shelter director with the following addendum:
"Oops. I guess the first thing I should learn is how to sex hamsters. I guess at least we're giving them more bang for their buck. However, I suppose a little less bang would have prevented this from happening in the first place."
Does anyone know how long hamsters gestate for?
On Sunday we packed off a group of hamsters to a rescue group. I don't know much about hamsters, just enough to know that they are little and furry and that we don't adopt them out; we give them to rescue groups. I give the groups as much information as possible based on the information that is given to me, and they come and get them and adopt them out or keep them or erect shrines to them or whatever it is they do.
Today I got an email from said rescue group. It said,
"Kate,
I just wanted to let you know that one of the hamsters was pregnant and went into labor this evening. Also, there was a male in with a female. I just wanted to let you know so you could take steps to prevent this. Thanks!"
First, I'd like to note that I'm not responsible for caging the critters or determining their sex or pregnancy status. But soon I will be, so I forwarded the email to my boss and the shelter director with the following addendum:
"Oops. I guess the first thing I should learn is how to sex hamsters. I guess at least we're giving them more bang for their buck. However, I suppose a little less bang would have prevented this from happening in the first place."
Does anyone know how long hamsters gestate for?
Friday, April 20, 2007
today we are all the same
Each time I logged in this week to add to my blog, I lost interest and moved on to other things. My heart is heavy and my mind is still slow with shock. I have thought of things to blog about, had some funny work stories and philosophical insights and amusing anecdotes to ponder, but cnn.com is my homepage and each time I open internet explorer on the way to blogger.com I get sidetracked by the headlines and the images and the grief and the questions and the blame and the heartache.
As a Virginian, I take great pride in the wealth of quality higher education that my state offers. Given my upbringing in the central part of the state, I have friends who went to all of the universities in Virginia. I have attended games at many; I drank too much at several; I learned things at a few; I have lost my virtue and found my inspiration and lost my keys and found my self at more than one campus in this great Commonwealth. I've always had a little uppity UVA in me, a great deal of W&M intellect, some VCU toughness, a little Mason diversity, maybe even some Tech spirit. God knows I spent enough time hanging over the campus hooked to a tree belaying my high school boyfriend during his rock climbing exploits, but that's another story.
I have spent the last ten years of my life on college campuses. One of the great challenges of the past few months has been learning to establish my identity when I don't have a ready-made community like William and Mary or GW or UVA. As a student or an administrator, your campus becomes your world, your small little piece of the universe, a microcosm of all of the politics and entertainment and social circles and bureaucracy of the world. Everything becomes contained in those few square blocks--you run your errands at the student center, you make friends in varying departments, you get your news from the student paper. Yet you are also part of a larger community: the sometimes archaic, always political, largely rewarding world of academia. As a student, you identify immediately with other students, rivals though they may be; your collective unconscious of shared experiences like keg stands and moldy showers and all-nighters and open-book exams bonds you regardless of school colors or athletics ranking. As an administrator, the daily challenges of straddling the awkward friend-authority line or the constant battle between red tape and student needs make for easy conversations and ready empathy. In my years as a college administrator I never thought twice about picking up the phone and asking a complete stranger for advice or assistance, nor did I ever balk at helping out a fellow student affairs professional. Academia is unlike any other world; the university is one of the few places where the lines between adolescent and adult, customer and provider, teacher and student blur so freely. It is the one place where, though some may at times lose sight of it, the bottom line is always fundamentally the love and appreciation of knowledge and learning and the benefit to society that education provides. It is a world of which, though I chose to leave, I will always be grateful for having been a part. And it is that world that has been shaken up this week.
Perhaps my heart is so tired this week because the daily stressors and sadnesses in my job make me prone to inappropriate emotional responses. Perhaps it is because I have so many friends and family personally touched by the tragedy. But I think we are all affected by this because of that larger community to which we belong--that place in our history where we struggled on the way to an early class, wore our flip-flops on the first warm morning, pulled out our notes eager to make a point during discussion. And you do not have to be a professor to feel dismayed at the loss of promising younger and distinguished older minds. It is the student in me that grieves. It is the college counselor in me that aches. It is the educator in me that mourns.
But today it is the Hokie in me that still hopes.
As a Virginian, I take great pride in the wealth of quality higher education that my state offers. Given my upbringing in the central part of the state, I have friends who went to all of the universities in Virginia. I have attended games at many; I drank too much at several; I learned things at a few; I have lost my virtue and found my inspiration and lost my keys and found my self at more than one campus in this great Commonwealth. I've always had a little uppity UVA in me, a great deal of W&M intellect, some VCU toughness, a little Mason diversity, maybe even some Tech spirit. God knows I spent enough time hanging over the campus hooked to a tree belaying my high school boyfriend during his rock climbing exploits, but that's another story.
I have spent the last ten years of my life on college campuses. One of the great challenges of the past few months has been learning to establish my identity when I don't have a ready-made community like William and Mary or GW or UVA. As a student or an administrator, your campus becomes your world, your small little piece of the universe, a microcosm of all of the politics and entertainment and social circles and bureaucracy of the world. Everything becomes contained in those few square blocks--you run your errands at the student center, you make friends in varying departments, you get your news from the student paper. Yet you are also part of a larger community: the sometimes archaic, always political, largely rewarding world of academia. As a student, you identify immediately with other students, rivals though they may be; your collective unconscious of shared experiences like keg stands and moldy showers and all-nighters and open-book exams bonds you regardless of school colors or athletics ranking. As an administrator, the daily challenges of straddling the awkward friend-authority line or the constant battle between red tape and student needs make for easy conversations and ready empathy. In my years as a college administrator I never thought twice about picking up the phone and asking a complete stranger for advice or assistance, nor did I ever balk at helping out a fellow student affairs professional. Academia is unlike any other world; the university is one of the few places where the lines between adolescent and adult, customer and provider, teacher and student blur so freely. It is the one place where, though some may at times lose sight of it, the bottom line is always fundamentally the love and appreciation of knowledge and learning and the benefit to society that education provides. It is a world of which, though I chose to leave, I will always be grateful for having been a part. And it is that world that has been shaken up this week.
Perhaps my heart is so tired this week because the daily stressors and sadnesses in my job make me prone to inappropriate emotional responses. Perhaps it is because I have so many friends and family personally touched by the tragedy. But I think we are all affected by this because of that larger community to which we belong--that place in our history where we struggled on the way to an early class, wore our flip-flops on the first warm morning, pulled out our notes eager to make a point during discussion. And you do not have to be a professor to feel dismayed at the loss of promising younger and distinguished older minds. It is the student in me that grieves. It is the college counselor in me that aches. It is the educator in me that mourns.
But today it is the Hokie in me that still hopes.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
a whole new world
If I look back to one year ago (or, who are we kidding, two months ago), my life was a completely different thing than it is now. A year ago, I was madly spending money and time on any escape from the drudgery that was my job. Shopping trips, days off, concerts, preparing for a summer of travel and slacking off and disposing of my disposable income in as many fun ways as I could think of. When I wasn't drinking or shopping or socializing I was crouched defensively on my sofa, hiding from the world and my job and everything except my television.
Being a homeowner has changed me in one single, critical way. In all of my 27 years combined I have not spent as much time in Lowes and/or Home Depot as I have in the past two weeks. And I love it. The cross-section of society! The sharp smell of freshly-cut lumber! The staggeringly broad array of lightbulbs!
I have hardly had time for television this week. But by god, I have hung some damn pictures.
Being a homeowner has changed me in one single, critical way. In all of my 27 years combined I have not spent as much time in Lowes and/or Home Depot as I have in the past two weeks. And I love it. The cross-section of society! The sharp smell of freshly-cut lumber! The staggeringly broad array of lightbulbs!
I have hardly had time for television this week. But by god, I have hung some damn pictures.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
movin' on up
If you've ever been to my old house, the house where the vast majority of my married life took place until now, you know that it consisted of one small kitchen, a bedroom, three bathrooms, a lot of steps, and a room that became living room/office/dining room/den. This room, of course, is where we spent most of our time, on the computer, watching tv, on the phone, reading, knitting, playing with the cats, paying bills, socializing. Essentially each day we would be in that room until bedtime, both of us, trying to go about our daily lives and move about the room without running into our furniture, a cat, or each other. For more than two years, I never had to raise my voice above a mumble to get Joe's attention, never had to tell him what I was up to, never had to go and find him.
I married a workaholic computer geek who spends a huge amount of time in front of his computer. If he's not working (after work) from home, he's playing around with his new online venture (details forthcoming). Before, in the mini-house, this didn't affect me because he was still in the room, watching tv, talking to me, whatever. Now, though, he's ALL THE WAY upstairs in his office, and I have to tell you, I'm getting a little lonely. The other day I got tangled up in an unfortunate laundry incident in the basement of the house, stuck between a laundry basket and the aforementioned gate/moat/armed guard system. Joe was upstairs in the office and I was down there for what felt like hours before he heard me yelling for assistance. To be fair, the cats were on the scene immediately offering assistance, but mostly all I got from them was a tail up the nose and the distinct feeling that they were laughing at me.
Also, we live in a ridiculously nice house in a lovely part of town and today, at dinner, the hand-me-down-down-down dining room set that we have been living with turned in its two-week notice. While dining in our lovely dining room in our lovely house in our lovely part of town, Joe went from upright to on the ground in point two seconds when his chair gave up the ghost and collapsed, for good, into several small pieces. We're like the biggest posers I know, we're like those ornate beautiful wedding cakes with jewels in the icing that, when you cut them open, are just grocery-store variety yellow sheet cake.
Does anyone know where you can buy folding chairs?
I married a workaholic computer geek who spends a huge amount of time in front of his computer. If he's not working (after work) from home, he's playing around with his new online venture (details forthcoming). Before, in the mini-house, this didn't affect me because he was still in the room, watching tv, talking to me, whatever. Now, though, he's ALL THE WAY upstairs in his office, and I have to tell you, I'm getting a little lonely. The other day I got tangled up in an unfortunate laundry incident in the basement of the house, stuck between a laundry basket and the aforementioned gate/moat/armed guard system. Joe was upstairs in the office and I was down there for what felt like hours before he heard me yelling for assistance. To be fair, the cats were on the scene immediately offering assistance, but mostly all I got from them was a tail up the nose and the distinct feeling that they were laughing at me.
Also, we live in a ridiculously nice house in a lovely part of town and today, at dinner, the hand-me-down-down-down dining room set that we have been living with turned in its two-week notice. While dining in our lovely dining room in our lovely house in our lovely part of town, Joe went from upright to on the ground in point two seconds when his chair gave up the ghost and collapsed, for good, into several small pieces. We're like the biggest posers I know, we're like those ornate beautiful wedding cakes with jewels in the icing that, when you cut them open, are just grocery-store variety yellow sheet cake.
Does anyone know where you can buy folding chairs?
Sunday, April 01, 2007
cathouse
If I thought for a heartbeat that anyone was still reading my blog, I'd apologize for not posting.
I haven't done laundry, worked out, or cooked in what feels like a year, but is probably closer to a month. Every day off I've had since I started my new job has been dedicated to picking, buying, closing, packing, moving, unpacking the new house.
But I am settling. And my OCD is finally sated--I know where everything is, I'm finding places for it all. And I've got a to-do list a mile long, but somehow I feel relatively on top of it all for once.
I am, however, officially losing my mind. Those of you who know my old house know the elaborate system of moats, ladders, and armed guards that I set up to ensure that my kitties' precious paws never touch the outside world. It is only going to be worse here. But the newest mark of my utter insanity has to be what I did yesterday. Provoked by the massive pet food recall, I strolled down the street to the little natural pet food boutique and dropped five bucks on four cans of high-end, organic, all-natural fancy-schmancy canned cat food. Pleased with myself, I brought home the bounty and, in the chattery baby-talk that I've picked up since the new job started, explained to the kitties how healthy and happy they would now be.
It is not going over well.
Here's what's funny to me: in the last 60 days, I have quit my job of three years (and my career of five), started a new job and a new field and a new lifestyle, bought a house and moved and settled in. And I'm talking about cat food.
Sigh.
I haven't done laundry, worked out, or cooked in what feels like a year, but is probably closer to a month. Every day off I've had since I started my new job has been dedicated to picking, buying, closing, packing, moving, unpacking the new house.
But I am settling. And my OCD is finally sated--I know where everything is, I'm finding places for it all. And I've got a to-do list a mile long, but somehow I feel relatively on top of it all for once.
I am, however, officially losing my mind. Those of you who know my old house know the elaborate system of moats, ladders, and armed guards that I set up to ensure that my kitties' precious paws never touch the outside world. It is only going to be worse here. But the newest mark of my utter insanity has to be what I did yesterday. Provoked by the massive pet food recall, I strolled down the street to the little natural pet food boutique and dropped five bucks on four cans of high-end, organic, all-natural fancy-schmancy canned cat food. Pleased with myself, I brought home the bounty and, in the chattery baby-talk that I've picked up since the new job started, explained to the kitties how healthy and happy they would now be.
It is not going over well.
Here's what's funny to me: in the last 60 days, I have quit my job of three years (and my career of five), started a new job and a new field and a new lifestyle, bought a house and moved and settled in. And I'm talking about cat food.
Sigh.
Monday, March 19, 2007
stress relief
So there is all kinds of crap going on.
Moving is stressful. Living with piles of boxes and trying to figure out how we will get the couch into the new house and wondering when I will have a day off to unpack...well, it is hard for me. The idea of entering into a situation where everything is not EXACTLY where it belongs really screws with my OCD.
Starting a new job is stressful. Even though I am awesome and smart and learn quickly and am very much enjoying myself, it is a hard job and it is taking its toll on me, more so than the usual "I don't know anyone's name or, even, where the bathroom is" new-job phase does.
There are other things kind of stressing me out, too, things that I think about a lot but are not anyone's business but the people to whom they belong, so we will acknowledge the stress and then we will move on.
So I will tell you a story.
There is a beautiful six-year old German Shepherd mix in the shelter, with one floppy ear and one perky ear, and he is timid and scared and a little goofy because I don't think he ever got out much. But he's kind and gentle and sweet and I love him, and I stop and say hello to him when I walk down the kennel, and I noticed that recently he has been kind of loud. All the time. Constantly. I stop and say "hello doggie, how are you today FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOULD YOU PLEASE SHUT UP" and then my ears start to ring and I run back to my office where it is quiet and sane and only the rooster crowing or the hens clucking disturb my work.
He went to an adoption event on Sunday, and as the volunteer walked him out to the van I noticed that he IMMEDIATELY stopped to relieve himself. Which made me think "oh yay, he's housebroken!" But today, with the barking and the nonstop noise and the barking and oh my god the barking, I started to think, wait, he's housebroken. So housebroken, perhaps, that he won't even use the outside part of the kennel. And maybe he's trying to tell us that he needs to go out. Like, NOW. So I grabbed a leash and walked to his run and there he was, barking and jumping and barking some more. I took him out, and he bolted for the field, and immediately began to relieve himself all over the place. I mean, all over the place, like, seven different times. And he looked at me, and he looked so grateful and relieved and happy that I puffed up with pride and self-importance. I was so proud of myself for taking time out of my day to help this dog feel better, for stepping away from my desk and doing something that's not necessarily in my job description, for going above and beyond and oh, wait.
Because it had just occurred to me that, now that the contents of his stomach were deposited all over the dog field, somebody had to clean it up. And that somebody was, yeah, the recent yuppie Banana-wearing desk-jockeying metro-riding new girl, aka me.
I looked at the dog, the field, the dog. He looked back at me, ear flopped, eyes curious. I sighed, picked up a baggie, stretched out my hand. Gagged a little. Seven different places, for the love of god. I did what I had to do. Returned him to his run. He flopped over on his bed, happy, sleepy, and thank god, quiet.
This, I think, is why I have cats.
Moving is stressful. Living with piles of boxes and trying to figure out how we will get the couch into the new house and wondering when I will have a day off to unpack...well, it is hard for me. The idea of entering into a situation where everything is not EXACTLY where it belongs really screws with my OCD.
Starting a new job is stressful. Even though I am awesome and smart and learn quickly and am very much enjoying myself, it is a hard job and it is taking its toll on me, more so than the usual "I don't know anyone's name or, even, where the bathroom is" new-job phase does.
There are other things kind of stressing me out, too, things that I think about a lot but are not anyone's business but the people to whom they belong, so we will acknowledge the stress and then we will move on.
So I will tell you a story.
There is a beautiful six-year old German Shepherd mix in the shelter, with one floppy ear and one perky ear, and he is timid and scared and a little goofy because I don't think he ever got out much. But he's kind and gentle and sweet and I love him, and I stop and say hello to him when I walk down the kennel, and I noticed that recently he has been kind of loud. All the time. Constantly. I stop and say "hello doggie, how are you today FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOULD YOU PLEASE SHUT UP" and then my ears start to ring and I run back to my office where it is quiet and sane and only the rooster crowing or the hens clucking disturb my work.
He went to an adoption event on Sunday, and as the volunteer walked him out to the van I noticed that he IMMEDIATELY stopped to relieve himself. Which made me think "oh yay, he's housebroken!" But today, with the barking and the nonstop noise and the barking and oh my god the barking, I started to think, wait, he's housebroken. So housebroken, perhaps, that he won't even use the outside part of the kennel. And maybe he's trying to tell us that he needs to go out. Like, NOW. So I grabbed a leash and walked to his run and there he was, barking and jumping and barking some more. I took him out, and he bolted for the field, and immediately began to relieve himself all over the place. I mean, all over the place, like, seven different times. And he looked at me, and he looked so grateful and relieved and happy that I puffed up with pride and self-importance. I was so proud of myself for taking time out of my day to help this dog feel better, for stepping away from my desk and doing something that's not necessarily in my job description, for going above and beyond and oh, wait.
Because it had just occurred to me that, now that the contents of his stomach were deposited all over the dog field, somebody had to clean it up. And that somebody was, yeah, the recent yuppie Banana-wearing desk-jockeying metro-riding new girl, aka me.
I looked at the dog, the field, the dog. He looked back at me, ear flopped, eyes curious. I sighed, picked up a baggie, stretched out my hand. Gagged a little. Seven different places, for the love of god. I did what I had to do. Returned him to his run. He flopped over on his bed, happy, sleepy, and thank god, quiet.
This, I think, is why I have cats.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
this is why they all tease me at work
Did y'all even notice what Whitey McWhitechick said in her previous post? "It's not like I'm driving onto the set of Boyz From the Hood."
I must've watched that movie a dozen times when I had to do a paper on it in my American Studies senior seminar, and I still don't know the damn thing is called "Boyz N the Hood."
The night desk guy is going to have to work overtime on my street cred.
I must've watched that movie a dozen times when I had to do a paper on it in my American Studies senior seminar, and I still don't know the damn thing is called "Boyz N the Hood."
The night desk guy is going to have to work overtime on my street cred.
Monday, March 12, 2007
a tale of two cities
My old job was in Foggy Bottom, one block from lobbyist-heavy K Street and four from the corruption-tainted White House. Each day I battled hurried yuppies and ostentatiously badged government workers on the Metro, walked past luxury high-rises, pausing at the Watergate while Condi's security convoy escorted her to work, buffeted by Ann Taylor sweater sets and Brooks Brothers suits hustling by on their way to lobby for change and manage money and write laws. On special occasions my colleagues and I would lunch at Legal Seafood, downing Sam Adams and listening to the hushed rustlings of greed, of power, of self-importance. We would hit the diviest dive bars we could for happy hour, in an attempt to avoid rubbing elbows with rolled-up blue oxford sleeves and loosened school ties. I bought into it, too, finding myself puffing just a little when I would too-casually tell someone "I work in The City."
My new job takes me a bit further into the same city. I crank up Dylan or maybe the Dixie Chicks and (if I'm lucky and traffic's light) fly past the monuments and up, up over the bridge past the Capitol gleaming with hope and promise in the morning sun. Traffic backs up here and I inch down the ramp towards the tunnel, passing under the lane designation signs: "The House" and "The Senate/Mass Ave." This is where it all happens: this is where the country is run. Now I'm under the city, travelling directly beneath the bustling busy expensively suited lawmakers and aides and lobbyists and filibusters and briefings and scandals. When I come up out of the tunnel, I'm still in DC, but things are different here, here in my new part of town. (Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! Stop reading!)
I'm not going to make it out to be worse than it is; I'm not driving onto the set of Boyz From the Hood. It's daylight, and there are commuters crowding the road, and school buses trundle by and the huge newspaper building rises up stark and solemn and gentrified over it all, crawling with security guards. But there are liquor stores, and halfway houses, and mission groups. Glass bottles litter the gutters, and the windows are barred and the buildings are run down, drooping, dulled. It's not a place I'd want to be at 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, or, really, any night and I'm grateful that the latest I ever have to stay is 8 p.m. and by then the roads are clear and I just zip right down into the tunnel and out onto the freeway. I'm grateful for the night desk guy who likes to teach me cool handshakes and doesn't blink when I ask him to walk me out to my car on those weekly late nights. Most of all, I'm grateful that I don't live here.
I've lived in Arlington and worked in DC long enough that I hardly even notice the towering monuments, the stark solemnity of the Pentagon, the graceful beauty of Arlington Cemetery. It's just like when I lived in Charlottesville and couldn't understand why people came from all over the country to see Monticello (the novelty wears off after the third field trip), or when I went to W&M and scoffed at the tourists vacationing in Colonial Williamsburg. But I've been noticing DC lately, on my commute. I've been noticing the Capitol and the executive buildings and the landmarks. I've noticed that, when I'm not in rush hour, it only takes me 18 minutes to get from my house in Yuppieville, through the seat of government, to the edge of poverty. And I drive slow, like a country girl lost in the big city.
I can understand why the government seems so out of touch with what's going on in the rest of the country. DC is its own little compound, an enclave of money and power puffed up on self-importance and high-minded theory and utterly oblivious to the day-to-day lives its constituents lead. It's an hour's drive to the closest small farm, so I can accept that the administration may not be able to empathize with small farmers crushed under the weight of corporate agriculture, selling off heads of cattle and wondering if they'll have enough to see them through the winter. But I cannot understand how the machine grinds on, pouring money into endless wars, cutting social programs, bumbling educational policy, widening the gap between those that have and those that steal, when the evidence, the effects, are literally sitting right outside the windows of those fancy Capitol Hill offices.
How do you turn a blind eye to the poverty and violence and despair in your own back yard?
My new job takes me a bit further into the same city. I crank up Dylan or maybe the Dixie Chicks and (if I'm lucky and traffic's light) fly past the monuments and up, up over the bridge past the Capitol gleaming with hope and promise in the morning sun. Traffic backs up here and I inch down the ramp towards the tunnel, passing under the lane designation signs: "The House" and "The Senate/Mass Ave." This is where it all happens: this is where the country is run. Now I'm under the city, travelling directly beneath the bustling busy expensively suited lawmakers and aides and lobbyists and filibusters and briefings and scandals. When I come up out of the tunnel, I'm still in DC, but things are different here, here in my new part of town. (Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! Stop reading!)
I'm not going to make it out to be worse than it is; I'm not driving onto the set of Boyz From the Hood. It's daylight, and there are commuters crowding the road, and school buses trundle by and the huge newspaper building rises up stark and solemn and gentrified over it all, crawling with security guards. But there are liquor stores, and halfway houses, and mission groups. Glass bottles litter the gutters, and the windows are barred and the buildings are run down, drooping, dulled. It's not a place I'd want to be at 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, or, really, any night and I'm grateful that the latest I ever have to stay is 8 p.m. and by then the roads are clear and I just zip right down into the tunnel and out onto the freeway. I'm grateful for the night desk guy who likes to teach me cool handshakes and doesn't blink when I ask him to walk me out to my car on those weekly late nights. Most of all, I'm grateful that I don't live here.
I've lived in Arlington and worked in DC long enough that I hardly even notice the towering monuments, the stark solemnity of the Pentagon, the graceful beauty of Arlington Cemetery. It's just like when I lived in Charlottesville and couldn't understand why people came from all over the country to see Monticello (the novelty wears off after the third field trip), or when I went to W&M and scoffed at the tourists vacationing in Colonial Williamsburg. But I've been noticing DC lately, on my commute. I've been noticing the Capitol and the executive buildings and the landmarks. I've noticed that, when I'm not in rush hour, it only takes me 18 minutes to get from my house in Yuppieville, through the seat of government, to the edge of poverty. And I drive slow, like a country girl lost in the big city.
I can understand why the government seems so out of touch with what's going on in the rest of the country. DC is its own little compound, an enclave of money and power puffed up on self-importance and high-minded theory and utterly oblivious to the day-to-day lives its constituents lead. It's an hour's drive to the closest small farm, so I can accept that the administration may not be able to empathize with small farmers crushed under the weight of corporate agriculture, selling off heads of cattle and wondering if they'll have enough to see them through the winter. But I cannot understand how the machine grinds on, pouring money into endless wars, cutting social programs, bumbling educational policy, widening the gap between those that have and those that steal, when the evidence, the effects, are literally sitting right outside the windows of those fancy Capitol Hill offices.
How do you turn a blind eye to the poverty and violence and despair in your own back yard?
Monday, March 05, 2007
with everything going on, i have nothing to say
I warned you the blogging would suffer.
It's a very different thing, my new job. Instead of getting all of my work done by noon and sitting aimlessly at my computer searching for jobs and occasionally throwing in a blog entry to kill time, I'm actually so busy the day flies by and sometimes I forget to eat lunch.
My coping mechanisms are taking a beating. I haven't sat in on a euthanasia, yet, but a few animals to whom I felt a personal connection have been put down and that's hard, it's sad, it bothers me but it also bothers me that it doesn't bother me as much as I feel like it should. If that makes sense. What is starting to get to me is that it seems like every time I go up to the front desk to make a copy or put something away, someone's up there giving up their animal. "She bit me." "He smells bad." "There's nobody to take care of it." I don't interact with these people; it's partly not my job but it's also partly that I can't trust myself not to judge them, scorn them, scowl at them. And I'm not sure at all how I'm going to cope with possibly years of seeing it day in and day out, how it will affect my impression of people, how I will stop myself from assuming the worst in everyone off the bat, guilty until proven worthy. Today I walked past the front desk and there was a dog, a little white terrier, cowering sick and dirty and scared and shivering in a ratty cardboard box, its sunken eyes rolling and the stench of neglect and despair filling the room, and I kept walking, eyes averted, suddenly very busy. And I felt awful--I should have stopped, stroked its head, spoken softly, given it a moment of comfort before its inevitable end. That's the point, that's why I'm there, that's why I took the pay cut and make the commute and let my life get eaten up by this job: to provide what comfort I can, to make an animal's life just a little better in some small way. But I didn't.
Meanwhile, I bought a house. This is insanity, really. My absentee landlord has decided to sell our current abode and now I have to figure out how to convince him that he shouldn't sell it until after we're gone because I cannot fathom how I will make this place presentable while I am trying to move out of it.
And all I can think about is my complete inadequacy in what has never seemed an imporant facet of adulthood but now looms dramatically in my future: decorating. My new house (!!!) has hardwood floors in the main level and I feel strongly that there should be, like, rugs but I have no idea how, or where, one goes about purchasing rugs. What colors do I pick? Are there superior and inferior fabrics? Is there math involved?
It is a very good thing that February sweeps are over with because I can't do all of these things while there is good TV on.
It's a very different thing, my new job. Instead of getting all of my work done by noon and sitting aimlessly at my computer searching for jobs and occasionally throwing in a blog entry to kill time, I'm actually so busy the day flies by and sometimes I forget to eat lunch.
My coping mechanisms are taking a beating. I haven't sat in on a euthanasia, yet, but a few animals to whom I felt a personal connection have been put down and that's hard, it's sad, it bothers me but it also bothers me that it doesn't bother me as much as I feel like it should. If that makes sense. What is starting to get to me is that it seems like every time I go up to the front desk to make a copy or put something away, someone's up there giving up their animal. "She bit me." "He smells bad." "There's nobody to take care of it." I don't interact with these people; it's partly not my job but it's also partly that I can't trust myself not to judge them, scorn them, scowl at them. And I'm not sure at all how I'm going to cope with possibly years of seeing it day in and day out, how it will affect my impression of people, how I will stop myself from assuming the worst in everyone off the bat, guilty until proven worthy. Today I walked past the front desk and there was a dog, a little white terrier, cowering sick and dirty and scared and shivering in a ratty cardboard box, its sunken eyes rolling and the stench of neglect and despair filling the room, and I kept walking, eyes averted, suddenly very busy. And I felt awful--I should have stopped, stroked its head, spoken softly, given it a moment of comfort before its inevitable end. That's the point, that's why I'm there, that's why I took the pay cut and make the commute and let my life get eaten up by this job: to provide what comfort I can, to make an animal's life just a little better in some small way. But I didn't.
Meanwhile, I bought a house. This is insanity, really. My absentee landlord has decided to sell our current abode and now I have to figure out how to convince him that he shouldn't sell it until after we're gone because I cannot fathom how I will make this place presentable while I am trying to move out of it.
And all I can think about is my complete inadequacy in what has never seemed an imporant facet of adulthood but now looms dramatically in my future: decorating. My new house (!!!) has hardwood floors in the main level and I feel strongly that there should be, like, rugs but I have no idea how, or where, one goes about purchasing rugs. What colors do I pick? Are there superior and inferior fabrics? Is there math involved?
It is a very good thing that February sweeps are over with because I can't do all of these things while there is good TV on.
Monday, February 26, 2007
home
A while back, around new years, I posted a musing on what kind of person I would be in a year. One never knows what the coming months will bring; we're at the point in our lives where every morning dawns with only the guarantee that things won't be the same at dusk. To prove my point, I promptly quit my job; no longer "college administrator" or "premed advisor" I became instead "dog walker." Or "phone-call maker." Or "girl who pretends not to cry when the beautiful Rottie is deemed unadoptable." I'm still trying this new identity on for size, still trying to figure out where my life fits into this chaos of always-on-your-feet, uniform-required, loud and dirty and sad and rewarding and crazy married-to-your-job environment.
And I don't have much time to ponder it or discuss it, because in the spirit of embracing change and charging forth, I've gone and bought a house.
I keep saying it because it hasn't registered yet; people seem to think it's very exciting and the permanence, the hugeness of the whole thing just hasn't hit me. Maybe it's because it's a townhouse--it's really only part of a building, after all. And we haven't had the big somber closing event with the lawyers, so possibly after that you'll find me curled up in the fetal position on the floor. It's hard to process, because for the past week my life has been composed solely of work, dinner, and lengthy conversations with my parents, Joe's parents, the realtors.
What I do know is that it's a beautiful, light-filled house packed with windows, and the cats can have their own room, and there's a garage, and it's in damn near the cutest part of NoVA I've encountered. I'm a half-mile walk from the frozen custard store, and that, my friends, is exciting. What's especially thrilling to me is that now, forever, nobody else can come into my home without my invitation. I can be secure in the knowledge that I own something, some little piece of the world belongs to me, if nothing else goes right I have a place to come home to and it's mine, just what I want, just perfect for me and Joe and this crazy little furball family we have. In my head I'm already sitting at the breakfast bar checking email before work, curled up next to the big bay window reading a book, sunning on the patio on a rare day off.
In the meantime, I have to figure out how to pack up and move my life from one place to another in one month when I DON'T HAVE ANY DAYS OFF.
Hm. Anyone looking to make a quick buck?
And I don't have much time to ponder it or discuss it, because in the spirit of embracing change and charging forth, I've gone and bought a house.
I keep saying it because it hasn't registered yet; people seem to think it's very exciting and the permanence, the hugeness of the whole thing just hasn't hit me. Maybe it's because it's a townhouse--it's really only part of a building, after all. And we haven't had the big somber closing event with the lawyers, so possibly after that you'll find me curled up in the fetal position on the floor. It's hard to process, because for the past week my life has been composed solely of work, dinner, and lengthy conversations with my parents, Joe's parents, the realtors.
What I do know is that it's a beautiful, light-filled house packed with windows, and the cats can have their own room, and there's a garage, and it's in damn near the cutest part of NoVA I've encountered. I'm a half-mile walk from the frozen custard store, and that, my friends, is exciting. What's especially thrilling to me is that now, forever, nobody else can come into my home without my invitation. I can be secure in the knowledge that I own something, some little piece of the world belongs to me, if nothing else goes right I have a place to come home to and it's mine, just what I want, just perfect for me and Joe and this crazy little furball family we have. In my head I'm already sitting at the breakfast bar checking email before work, curled up next to the big bay window reading a book, sunning on the patio on a rare day off.
In the meantime, I have to figure out how to pack up and move my life from one place to another in one month when I DON'T HAVE ANY DAYS OFF.
Hm. Anyone looking to make a quick buck?
Thursday, February 22, 2007
yeah, i didn't quite expect this
So I'm not adjusting as quickly as I thought to my sort-of-altered work schedule. By sort-of-altered I mean "I'm never home anymore."
There's traffic. And I never leave work when I think I'm going to. There are things to do. I leave home at 9. I get home at 8. I'll adjust.
The blogging will suffer.
I'm sneaking in a blog entry now, I probably shouldn't be, I have lots of things to be doing, but I'm working very diligently and I'm processing applications and I'm talking on the phone and I'm doing just what your average person does on a day at work.
And there's a Basset Hound sitting on my foot.
Awesome.
There's traffic. And I never leave work when I think I'm going to. There are things to do. I leave home at 9. I get home at 8. I'll adjust.
The blogging will suffer.
I'm sneaking in a blog entry now, I probably shouldn't be, I have lots of things to be doing, but I'm working very diligently and I'm processing applications and I'm talking on the phone and I'm doing just what your average person does on a day at work.
And there's a Basset Hound sitting on my foot.
Awesome.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
cold feet
Monday I went to Newjob for a bit, to try to get my feet wet and learn where the copier and the bathroom and the water fountain are. I started off my glamorous new career by stuffing envelopes, doing background checks on complete strangers, and helping evaluate the behavior of an effusive rottweiler who managed to try to eat the fake baby used as part of the evaluation. I was not particularly good at any of these things.
Yesterday, at Oldjob, I had a meeting with a particularly delusional, difficult student who has been the bane of my existance for a year and a half and, prior to that, the bane of my predecessor's. It seemed that nothing we could say could get this kid to understand the reality of his situation--we screamed, we pleaded, we begged, we tried everything. While meeting with him for the 20th and final time yesterday, I had an epiphany, a breakthrough. Suddenly and clearly I saw exactly what his problem was, what he was doing and why and what the best way to get through to him would be. And not for the first time, but certainly for the last, I thought, "DAMN, I'm good at this job."
It is scary, terrifying even, to be leaving my comfort zone. I am competent at my job. I excel, actually, at my job. I have been here for a while and I am used to knowing the game, I am used to being the go-to girl. It's not hard to become accustomed to confidence, to get complacent with your own skill. When the novelty of being senior, of training new hires, of being a leader wears off, you just get the benefit: the daily ego boost of knowing you know your shit.
Standing in the shelter on Monday, bracing my forearm against the enthusiastic leap of the rottweiler, I wondered if I was doing it right, if the trainer thought I was stupid, if I was supposed to try to correct the behavior or just let the trainer evaluate it. I drank 32 ounces of water but didn't go to the bathroom because what if the walls are too thin and they could hear me at the front desk? I didn't say much to anyone, my vocal cords paralyzed by insecurities, incompetence, ignorance. It's been a long time since I've been the Dumb New Girl.
I know in a few months I'll think this is funny, but right now I still have a lot of anxiety to work through. The details and logistics and oh-crap-I-have-to-drive-to-work-now realizations of starting a new job have so far prevented me from worrying and terrifying over the implications of this particular job change for my career, my future, my sense of self, my relationships; I still have all of that to doubt and fear and obsess over. So y'all have that to look forward to.
Meanwhile, where's the cheapest place to buy jeans? I don't think my three pair are going to last too long.
Yesterday, at Oldjob, I had a meeting with a particularly delusional, difficult student who has been the bane of my existance for a year and a half and, prior to that, the bane of my predecessor's. It seemed that nothing we could say could get this kid to understand the reality of his situation--we screamed, we pleaded, we begged, we tried everything. While meeting with him for the 20th and final time yesterday, I had an epiphany, a breakthrough. Suddenly and clearly I saw exactly what his problem was, what he was doing and why and what the best way to get through to him would be. And not for the first time, but certainly for the last, I thought, "DAMN, I'm good at this job."
It is scary, terrifying even, to be leaving my comfort zone. I am competent at my job. I excel, actually, at my job. I have been here for a while and I am used to knowing the game, I am used to being the go-to girl. It's not hard to become accustomed to confidence, to get complacent with your own skill. When the novelty of being senior, of training new hires, of being a leader wears off, you just get the benefit: the daily ego boost of knowing you know your shit.
Standing in the shelter on Monday, bracing my forearm against the enthusiastic leap of the rottweiler, I wondered if I was doing it right, if the trainer thought I was stupid, if I was supposed to try to correct the behavior or just let the trainer evaluate it. I drank 32 ounces of water but didn't go to the bathroom because what if the walls are too thin and they could hear me at the front desk? I didn't say much to anyone, my vocal cords paralyzed by insecurities, incompetence, ignorance. It's been a long time since I've been the Dumb New Girl.
I know in a few months I'll think this is funny, but right now I still have a lot of anxiety to work through. The details and logistics and oh-crap-I-have-to-drive-to-work-now realizations of starting a new job have so far prevented me from worrying and terrifying over the implications of this particular job change for my career, my future, my sense of self, my relationships; I still have all of that to doubt and fear and obsess over. So y'all have that to look forward to.
Meanwhile, where's the cheapest place to buy jeans? I don't think my three pair are going to last too long.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
I don't have to sign up for American Idol quite yet
Bea (our foster) has found a permanent home. We deliver her on Saturday. I didn't fail.
Which is good, because my termination at Old Job became official today. So quitting New Job is now officially Not An Option.
My preparatory shopping list has grown to bizarre and ridiculous proportions. When you know you are about to start making less money, do you start saving IMMEDIATELY? Or do you rush right out and buy every thing you think you will need for the foreseeable future while you still have the cash?
I think we all know the answer.
I have two days off from work. I should be cleaning out my closet (getting rid of all them fancy pants), fixing the door locks on my car, reading books on dog breeds. It's possible I'll do all those things; it's also possible I will burn holes in my wallet. Let's hope I make it through this week fiscally solvent.
Which is good, because my termination at Old Job became official today. So quitting New Job is now officially Not An Option.
My preparatory shopping list has grown to bizarre and ridiculous proportions. When you know you are about to start making less money, do you start saving IMMEDIATELY? Or do you rush right out and buy every thing you think you will need for the foreseeable future while you still have the cash?
I think we all know the answer.
I have two days off from work. I should be cleaning out my closet (getting rid of all them fancy pants), fixing the door locks on my car, reading books on dog breeds. It's possible I'll do all those things; it's also possible I will burn holes in my wallet. Let's hope I make it through this week fiscally solvent.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Two Things
First, Mr. Important YuppieMan on the Metro, men should not carry purses. If they chose to carry bags, they should be of the structured and manly macho variety, not the crocheted slouchy variety.
If men such as yourself choose to cary slouchy feminine manbags, they should not compensate for their choices by manfully plopping said bag directly in the middle of the floor on a crowded metro train in the middle of morning rush hour in an attempt to prove their masculine right to space. Because if you do, you lose all right to surprise when I kick aside your masculine manful gesture in my feminine womanly attempt to get off the train at my stop.
And the second thing: I possibly have failed at my new job before I even start. Some lovely nice people came to meet our foster cat this weekend, and were approved for adoption, and in my overeager attempt to give them a thorough picture of the good and bad characteristics of this particular cat, I may have terrified them and made them question their choice to even adopt an animal at all, ever. So, yeah. That's confidence-building.
If Eleanor still reads my blog, she is going to be very dissapointed in me.
If men such as yourself choose to cary slouchy feminine manbags, they should not compensate for their choices by manfully plopping said bag directly in the middle of the floor on a crowded metro train in the middle of morning rush hour in an attempt to prove their masculine right to space. Because if you do, you lose all right to surprise when I kick aside your masculine manful gesture in my feminine womanly attempt to get off the train at my stop.
And the second thing: I possibly have failed at my new job before I even start. Some lovely nice people came to meet our foster cat this weekend, and were approved for adoption, and in my overeager attempt to give them a thorough picture of the good and bad characteristics of this particular cat, I may have terrified them and made them question their choice to even adopt an animal at all, ever. So, yeah. That's confidence-building.
If Eleanor still reads my blog, she is going to be very dissapointed in me.
Friday, February 02, 2007
i'm going to have to do so much more laundry now
This morning I woke up with the oddest feeling in my right arm. Really, the lack of feeling. Except it wasn't numb; it was heavy, it was tingly, and I had absolutely no control over its movement. Sitting up in panic, I watched it flop into my lap and my heart started racing as I poked and pinched it, wondering how I would make it through the next 60-some years with no right arm. I couldn't lift my arm. I couldn't move my fingers. It was terrifying and yet fascinating and all sorts of things were pounding through my sleep-blurred mind for the few minutes until I fully awakened and the blood flow, and feeling, returned to my arm.
I also had a powerful leg cramp in my left calf--the kind where you're not sure whether to flex or relax the leg, bend or straighten, but it's so painful you're not sure you'll ever recover. And I've got an odd stabbing pain in my right shoulder this morning.
My body is either releasing all the stress and anxiety of the last several months, or gearing up for more. Yesterday I quit my job and accepted a position as adoptions coordinator at a prominent DC-area humane society. I use "humane society" rather than "animal shelter" in order to emphasize the services and programs offered by the organization, in order to reinforce the idea of the humane society as an education and welfare organization and not just a dog pound. Because I will be doing so much more than just helping people pick animals--I'll be participating in humane education, working with volunteers, writing, doing outreach, counseling, training, helping make tough decisions, increasing visibility and understanding.
I am terrified.
And so excited.
I told Joe that this is either the bravest thing I've ever done, or the stupidest. He pointed out that "brave" is what people say when they're too polite to say "stupid." We also considered that "brave" is what people say when something works; "stupid" is what they say when it fails.
I always read about people who "left a promising career in finance" to go non-profit or "walked away from a career in law" to open a yarn store. I never thought I would be a person who "walked away" from something. But I am, at least for now, walking away from the only thing I've ever really done, walking away from my training and experience and background and trying to apply that to something entirely different. It's alarming. And it's exactly the right thing for me to do.
I'm still not ready to write about what it was like to quit yesterday--it was a lot sadder than I expected it to be. But for the next two weeks I will be taking leftover vacation, tying up lose ends, breaking the news, and training my replacement. I'll also be trying to figure out what kind of shoes are best for all-day wear in an animal shelter. Any suggestions?
Oh, and once more, I QUIT MY JOB. I GOT A NEW ONE. I COMPLETED A NEW YEARS RESOLUTION.
What am I going to whine about now?
I also had a powerful leg cramp in my left calf--the kind where you're not sure whether to flex or relax the leg, bend or straighten, but it's so painful you're not sure you'll ever recover. And I've got an odd stabbing pain in my right shoulder this morning.
My body is either releasing all the stress and anxiety of the last several months, or gearing up for more. Yesterday I quit my job and accepted a position as adoptions coordinator at a prominent DC-area humane society. I use "humane society" rather than "animal shelter" in order to emphasize the services and programs offered by the organization, in order to reinforce the idea of the humane society as an education and welfare organization and not just a dog pound. Because I will be doing so much more than just helping people pick animals--I'll be participating in humane education, working with volunteers, writing, doing outreach, counseling, training, helping make tough decisions, increasing visibility and understanding.
I am terrified.
And so excited.
I told Joe that this is either the bravest thing I've ever done, or the stupidest. He pointed out that "brave" is what people say when they're too polite to say "stupid." We also considered that "brave" is what people say when something works; "stupid" is what they say when it fails.
I always read about people who "left a promising career in finance" to go non-profit or "walked away from a career in law" to open a yarn store. I never thought I would be a person who "walked away" from something. But I am, at least for now, walking away from the only thing I've ever really done, walking away from my training and experience and background and trying to apply that to something entirely different. It's alarming. And it's exactly the right thing for me to do.
I'm still not ready to write about what it was like to quit yesterday--it was a lot sadder than I expected it to be. But for the next two weeks I will be taking leftover vacation, tying up lose ends, breaking the news, and training my replacement. I'll also be trying to figure out what kind of shoes are best for all-day wear in an animal shelter. Any suggestions?
Oh, and once more, I QUIT MY JOB. I GOT A NEW ONE. I COMPLETED A NEW YEARS RESOLUTION.
What am I going to whine about now?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
and just like that...
...things change.
Big changes. Send bourbon. Send flowers. Send money (please, send money). Send a straightjacket, because I might be doing something crazy.
I have to go through the proper channels and tie up some loose ends. But then I'll spill.
Send money. Seriously.
Big changes. Send bourbon. Send flowers. Send money (please, send money). Send a straightjacket, because I might be doing something crazy.
I have to go through the proper channels and tie up some loose ends. But then I'll spill.
Send money. Seriously.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
what you (don't) wish for
Even the most grounded and least materialistic person can get a little crazy after registering for their wedding. And I'm not that person--I'm a little shallow, I like stuff maybe a little too much. So you can understand that after playing with the websites and the fancy gun-thingy at Pottery Barn and Kitchens, Etc. and planning imaginary kitchens and living rooms and bathrooms and picking out towels and shower curtains and knives, I had a pretty concrete list of things that I wanted. And once I'd picked them, once I'd placed them in my future linen closet or pantry or bathroom, I HAD TO HAVE THEM. When you get that registry gun in your hand, things change real damn quick from "Oh, that's cute" to "If I do not own that, I will die. Just die."
When you register for a wedding in the dot.com world, the great controversy is To Look or Not to Look. In the months before my wedding, I had boards and comps to study for, a job, class, volunteering, and job searching. So of course I looked--how else would I put off all of the responsibility, the stress? I spent hours watching my registry, wondering who'd shelled out for the ridiculously expensive duvet cover and what I would do if nobody bought me the griddle pan ("how will I make hamburgers?"). One of these hours, I noticed a few things under the "purchased" category that were not on my "requested" list. Concerned, I scrolled down for further examination and I found that two stainless steel utensil canisters had been purchased for me.
Utensil canisters? What the eff? I didn't ask for utensil canisters. I wanted towels. And a pizza cutter. And vases! Stainless steel? Are you kidding me? Furious at whomever would have the GALL to assume that they could go off of my registry, I speed-dialed my sister and unleashed a vent that in absolutely no way took into account someone's generosity in purchasing me a gift in the first place, that entirely ignored that it is, in fact, the thought that counts.
She laughed at me. This may have had something to do with the fact that it was, in fact, she who had purchased the canisters, as I found out to my complete chagrin and humiliation at my bridal shower a few weeks later. But the canisters went into my kitchen in my first apartment, and they're in my kitchen now, and they're both filled with spatulas and wooden spoons and whisks and the pizza cutter that I finally did get. I couldn't live without those canisters--they keep my tools compact and clean and close at hand and they go fabulously with my stainless-steel appliances. Many of my wedding gifts--requested or not--have long since gone into storage, victims of the space-race constantly taking place in my miniature metro home. But those canisters will be on any counter I have for the foreseeable future, because (as my sister, in her older and wiser way, knew) a girl can live without a griddle pan, but every kitchen needs a place to put the spatulas.
The moral here is that sometimes it's the things you don't ask for that end up meaning the most. Whether it's the thoughtful gift or the unforeseen life event, it's often when life veers off of our carefully planned route that the scenery is most rewarding.
I didn't ask for career dissatisfaction. I went to graduate school, I worked hard, I took the perfect job for my skills and talents and interests. I saw myself, just a few years hence, heading up the advising division of a major university or leading the student services department of a community college. And I would excel at either of those things--I'm that good at my job. It came as a shock to me, this realization that I no longer enjoy nor even, really, care that much about education. Don't get me wrong, the core issues are still important to me; I care about access and equality and the sociology of education. It's just that now I'd prefer to read the headlines on cnn.com instead of devour the textbooks and engage in lengthy discourse. It's faded from a passion to a passing interest. To answer the arguments I've already heard, it's not just these particular students or this particular school or this particular job. I'm a counselor, I'm trained in analysis and exploration and the one thing I gained from my degree was a high level of self-awareness and I know in my heart after well over a year of careful consideration that this promising career path is no longer mine.
If you've not yet experienced your existential crisis, let me tell you, it's not a lot of fun. It's terrifying, pushing 30 (am I too young to be pushing 30? I feel like you can say that when you're less than 3 years away) and having no idea what you want to be when you grow up. It's frustrating, having so many skills and yet none that are in demand for anything other than what you do. It's annoying, having a career crisis in the middle of a frickin' recession. And it's exhausting, trudging to work every day and doing your very best--because that's all I know how to do--even when you hate it, when it makes you gnash your teeth and blink away tears all at the same time. No, I didn't ask for this.
But I'm so very glad it's happening. Not on the micro level, because it sucks and I hate it and I whine all the time and I cry and maybe annoy everyone around me especially Rachel who bears the brunt of my angst. But in the grand scheme of things, on the whole, this is good for me. I've had to look at myself, hard, the kind of self-examination that makes you squirm a little like when the doctor asks you how much you drink. There's nothing like a job crisis to make you examine your goals, your priorities, your deep down hopes and fears. You learn a lot about yourself when you're trying to convince someone else you're good enough for their job. And job interviews all over this crazy little city have taught this country girl that she might get honked at or get lost or arrive forty minutes early, but she'll get there and even she can drive in DC (with the help of the Verizon Navigator system, that is). Even better, I've had to find ways to enjoy myself, define myself, outside of work: volunteering, socializing, travelling, learning to knit. My life is fuller and richer now than it would be if I was only my job and the best thing of all is that I've learned to appreciate just how much I have going for me.
Rachel told me the other day that, outside of the job thing, my life is just about perfect and I have to agree. Though I wish my sister and her wisdom and canister-buying weren't so far away, my family is close and supportive (even if not always within two hours' drive). My marriage is happy, my animals are healthy, I've got a cute little house in a cute little city and I live next door to the gym. Most importantly, my hair is looking absolutely adorable lately.
So, to whomever or whatever has chosen this time and this place for my identity crisis, right now I'm cursing you. Right now I'm angry and sad and frustrated and so, so tired of the whole damn thing. But someday, when I'm back on track, I'll appreciate the journey just that much more for having overcome these obstacles. This crisis, the lessons I've learned, they will be my stainless-steel canisters: way more useful than I ever imagined, and always just in arm's reach in case I need them.
And you thought I wouldn't end on a cliche.
When you register for a wedding in the dot.com world, the great controversy is To Look or Not to Look. In the months before my wedding, I had boards and comps to study for, a job, class, volunteering, and job searching. So of course I looked--how else would I put off all of the responsibility, the stress? I spent hours watching my registry, wondering who'd shelled out for the ridiculously expensive duvet cover and what I would do if nobody bought me the griddle pan ("how will I make hamburgers?"). One of these hours, I noticed a few things under the "purchased" category that were not on my "requested" list. Concerned, I scrolled down for further examination and I found that two stainless steel utensil canisters had been purchased for me.
Utensil canisters? What the eff? I didn't ask for utensil canisters. I wanted towels. And a pizza cutter. And vases! Stainless steel? Are you kidding me? Furious at whomever would have the GALL to assume that they could go off of my registry, I speed-dialed my sister and unleashed a vent that in absolutely no way took into account someone's generosity in purchasing me a gift in the first place, that entirely ignored that it is, in fact, the thought that counts.
She laughed at me. This may have had something to do with the fact that it was, in fact, she who had purchased the canisters, as I found out to my complete chagrin and humiliation at my bridal shower a few weeks later. But the canisters went into my kitchen in my first apartment, and they're in my kitchen now, and they're both filled with spatulas and wooden spoons and whisks and the pizza cutter that I finally did get. I couldn't live without those canisters--they keep my tools compact and clean and close at hand and they go fabulously with my stainless-steel appliances. Many of my wedding gifts--requested or not--have long since gone into storage, victims of the space-race constantly taking place in my miniature metro home. But those canisters will be on any counter I have for the foreseeable future, because (as my sister, in her older and wiser way, knew) a girl can live without a griddle pan, but every kitchen needs a place to put the spatulas.
The moral here is that sometimes it's the things you don't ask for that end up meaning the most. Whether it's the thoughtful gift or the unforeseen life event, it's often when life veers off of our carefully planned route that the scenery is most rewarding.
I didn't ask for career dissatisfaction. I went to graduate school, I worked hard, I took the perfect job for my skills and talents and interests. I saw myself, just a few years hence, heading up the advising division of a major university or leading the student services department of a community college. And I would excel at either of those things--I'm that good at my job. It came as a shock to me, this realization that I no longer enjoy nor even, really, care that much about education. Don't get me wrong, the core issues are still important to me; I care about access and equality and the sociology of education. It's just that now I'd prefer to read the headlines on cnn.com instead of devour the textbooks and engage in lengthy discourse. It's faded from a passion to a passing interest. To answer the arguments I've already heard, it's not just these particular students or this particular school or this particular job. I'm a counselor, I'm trained in analysis and exploration and the one thing I gained from my degree was a high level of self-awareness and I know in my heart after well over a year of careful consideration that this promising career path is no longer mine.
If you've not yet experienced your existential crisis, let me tell you, it's not a lot of fun. It's terrifying, pushing 30 (am I too young to be pushing 30? I feel like you can say that when you're less than 3 years away) and having no idea what you want to be when you grow up. It's frustrating, having so many skills and yet none that are in demand for anything other than what you do. It's annoying, having a career crisis in the middle of a frickin' recession. And it's exhausting, trudging to work every day and doing your very best--because that's all I know how to do--even when you hate it, when it makes you gnash your teeth and blink away tears all at the same time. No, I didn't ask for this.
But I'm so very glad it's happening. Not on the micro level, because it sucks and I hate it and I whine all the time and I cry and maybe annoy everyone around me especially Rachel who bears the brunt of my angst. But in the grand scheme of things, on the whole, this is good for me. I've had to look at myself, hard, the kind of self-examination that makes you squirm a little like when the doctor asks you how much you drink. There's nothing like a job crisis to make you examine your goals, your priorities, your deep down hopes and fears. You learn a lot about yourself when you're trying to convince someone else you're good enough for their job. And job interviews all over this crazy little city have taught this country girl that she might get honked at or get lost or arrive forty minutes early, but she'll get there and even she can drive in DC (with the help of the Verizon Navigator system, that is). Even better, I've had to find ways to enjoy myself, define myself, outside of work: volunteering, socializing, travelling, learning to knit. My life is fuller and richer now than it would be if I was only my job and the best thing of all is that I've learned to appreciate just how much I have going for me.
Rachel told me the other day that, outside of the job thing, my life is just about perfect and I have to agree. Though I wish my sister and her wisdom and canister-buying weren't so far away, my family is close and supportive (even if not always within two hours' drive). My marriage is happy, my animals are healthy, I've got a cute little house in a cute little city and I live next door to the gym. Most importantly, my hair is looking absolutely adorable lately.
So, to whomever or whatever has chosen this time and this place for my identity crisis, right now I'm cursing you. Right now I'm angry and sad and frustrated and so, so tired of the whole damn thing. But someday, when I'm back on track, I'll appreciate the journey just that much more for having overcome these obstacles. This crisis, the lessons I've learned, they will be my stainless-steel canisters: way more useful than I ever imagined, and always just in arm's reach in case I need them.
And you thought I wouldn't end on a cliche.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
in case you'd forgotten that i'm a big screaming liberal
Sometimes I forget how angry the Bush administration makes me. How sneaky and evil and awful they are. But reading on cnn.com about John Cusack's new movie (about the widower of an Iraq casualty) reminded me...
"First-time director James C. Strouse's script came Cusack's way at just the right moment. Angry that the Bush administration had banned media footage of coffins coming home bearing soldiers killed in Iraq, Cusack had been looking to tell the story behind one of those coffins.
"I thought it was the most brazen, cowardly, egregious political act I'd seen in my lifetime," Cusack said in an interview. "Do you think that's going to stop anything? Do you think if you don't show the coffins we won't find out?""
I'm not so good with the words. Sometimes I have to find famous people to say it for me.
"First-time director James C. Strouse's script came Cusack's way at just the right moment. Angry that the Bush administration had banned media footage of coffins coming home bearing soldiers killed in Iraq, Cusack had been looking to tell the story behind one of those coffins.
"I thought it was the most brazen, cowardly, egregious political act I'd seen in my lifetime," Cusack said in an interview. "Do you think that's going to stop anything? Do you think if you don't show the coffins we won't find out?""
I'm not so good with the words. Sometimes I have to find famous people to say it for me.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
knit 1, purl 2, kn...aw, hell
Today I was going to post a picture of my first six inches of real knitting. The first six inches of a scarf, in fact, purple with a lighter purple stripe and I actually had the stripe.
These six inches of wool represent three solid days of staring until I am cross-eyed, of trying and unravelling and trying and unravelling and looking at books and buying different needles and trying again.
Despite my luxurious new sheets (Overstock was having a sale) and my soft warm blanket and the fact that my bed is now a cocoon of heavenly refuge against the bitter bitter cold gray winter, I have stayed up late, til all hours, knitting and knitting and unravelling and knitting and knitting.
Last night, as I listened to Studio 60 and stared intensely at my needles, Callie, frustrated and furious with the loss of her rightful place in my lap and fed up with the tantalizing twitch, twitch of the yarn, leapt up onto the couch and tore into my skein of purple yarn, pulling and biting at the thread that ran up to my scarf work. A scuffle ensued, and when I finally removed her claws from my thigh and surveyed the damage, I realized that my knit work was so tangled, pulled out of shape, with loops slipped out and yarn too tight, that it was beyond my almost non-existent repair skills.
I spent the rest of the night unravelling my scarf, leaving me with roughly NO completed knitting to show for three straight days of practice, and wondering why on earth I took up a hobby so clearly incompatible with my family reponsibilities (i.e., sole source of feline entertainment).
These six inches of wool represent three solid days of staring until I am cross-eyed, of trying and unravelling and trying and unravelling and looking at books and buying different needles and trying again.
Despite my luxurious new sheets (Overstock was having a sale) and my soft warm blanket and the fact that my bed is now a cocoon of heavenly refuge against the bitter bitter cold gray winter, I have stayed up late, til all hours, knitting and knitting and unravelling and knitting and knitting.
Last night, as I listened to Studio 60 and stared intensely at my needles, Callie, frustrated and furious with the loss of her rightful place in my lap and fed up with the tantalizing twitch, twitch of the yarn, leapt up onto the couch and tore into my skein of purple yarn, pulling and biting at the thread that ran up to my scarf work. A scuffle ensued, and when I finally removed her claws from my thigh and surveyed the damage, I realized that my knit work was so tangled, pulled out of shape, with loops slipped out and yarn too tight, that it was beyond my almost non-existent repair skills.
I spent the rest of the night unravelling my scarf, leaving me with roughly NO completed knitting to show for three straight days of practice, and wondering why on earth I took up a hobby so clearly incompatible with my family reponsibilities (i.e., sole source of feline entertainment).
Friday, January 19, 2007
maybe if i'd gone to finishing school instead of graduate school
Of all of the challenges I have faced as an adult, navigating money and relationships and identity and societal responsiblity, the most difficult has got to be getting a haircut.
I know this seems silly, especially given all of the uberangst I've been spouting here lately. But anyone who's changed towns in the last ten years or so of their life knows what I'm talking about--the search. The dissapointment. The fear. The disasters.
When I lived in Charlottesville I had a great stylist, one I found after years of searching for a hairdresser who would not automatically chop off all of my hair just because it is fine and limp. When I moved up here I had to embark upon a two-year epic search, because most of the salons up here are pretentious, overpriced, crowded, inconveniently located, and pretentious. Also, they are a little pretentious. I found a great place in Pentagon City, but unfortunately my experience there was financed by a generous donation from the parental units and after that expired I couldn't afford to go back. This whole ordeal has meant that I've often gone months and months, in one case almost a year, without haircuts for the past three years. While I'm loving the long hair thing, I'm not crazy about this raggedy-ass thing that accompanies that practice and so I need to step it up and get a haircut. Last time, I tried out Elizabeth Arden, as their haircuts aren't actually any more expensive than anyone else's around here, and I really really liked the girl who cut my hair and I kind of want to go back but I'm scared because I was totally outclassed there.
I knew I was in trouble when there was an elevator to get to the salon. It was a private elevator, so I stepped in and pushed the button and, on the way up, tried to arrange myself in a pose that expressed class and confidence and the idea that I was totally comfortable in a day spa. I think it would have worked, too, except that the door opened behind me and the receptionists all got a really great view of my ass in its carefully arranged pose. Flustered, I stumbled over to the front desk, where the tall drink of water taking my name had to bite back a giggle when she asked if it was my first time there.
She walked me back to the waiting area, where there were cookies and apples and tea and water and all kinds of other things and I got a little confused because, like, did I have to pay for the buffet? No? Okay, then, I'd like a glass of water. Except I felt a little silly since the area was clearly self-serve, but she seemed to take pity on me and I suppose it made her feel better to pour me a glass of water. Or perhaps she was afraid that I would knock the whole kit and kaboodle over. Water in hand, I followed her to the changing area, which was a large closet full of smocks and a thin little curtain on the rod separating the closet from the larger confines of the waiting room filled with strangers. And then, she left me there. Alone. And confused.
I stood there for a few minutes, trying to look--in case anyone came through the curtain--as if I knew what I was doing. But I didn't, because I'd never taken my clothes off for a haircut before. I was wearing a sweater, so I figured, okay, that could come off, and I carefully hung it up and stowed my bag, a process that ate up at least three minutes of stall time. But my shirt, hmm. I mean, well, hmm. Okay. So I should be wearing a smock. That much was clear from the pile of them in the closet. But am I supposed to be wearing a smock OVER my shirt, or INSTEAD of my shirt? Another four minutes went towards careful evaluation of the smocks, in an attempt to determine how shirt-like they were. The answer: completely ambiguous. Some ties that could have been the front or the back, but otherwise just sort of drapey black things that offered no more, but no less, coverage than your average hospital gown.
Surely, if I were supposed to take my shirt off, the curtain would offer more privacy? That's good. Let's go with that. Right. I didn't see any other half-naked women wandering around there. Except it was quiet and to be honest I didn't see any other women wandering around there at all. Perhaps because they all knew where they were supposed to be. Perhaps because they knew where the good water was. I've no idea. All I know is, I finally determined that my shirt would stay on and the smock would go over it and I emerged, flushed and victorious, from the dressing room only to find the hostess still waiting for me with a questioning, slightly scornful look on her face. She asked me if everything was okay, a question to which I found the answer quite obvious and so refrained from saying anything other than an ambiguous "mm," which she could have taken to mean of course, I am completely at home here or no, you idiot, I'm clearly out of my league and should be taken out, shot, and dragged to the nearest Hair Cuttery.
When Heather finally came out to collect me for my haircut, she greeted me with a smile and a concerned, "Are you okay with your shirt?" I did not know what that meant and, thrown by the possibilities which included did you mean to leave your shirt on, you utter moron? and the less likely just making sure you're not one of those freaks who likes to take their shirt off, I got all dry-mouthed and flustered and reached for my water, which, of course, I had left in the dressing room.
Perhaps I'll just see how long my hair can grow before it just gives up and starts cutting itself.
I know this seems silly, especially given all of the uberangst I've been spouting here lately. But anyone who's changed towns in the last ten years or so of their life knows what I'm talking about--the search. The dissapointment. The fear. The disasters.
When I lived in Charlottesville I had a great stylist, one I found after years of searching for a hairdresser who would not automatically chop off all of my hair just because it is fine and limp. When I moved up here I had to embark upon a two-year epic search, because most of the salons up here are pretentious, overpriced, crowded, inconveniently located, and pretentious. Also, they are a little pretentious. I found a great place in Pentagon City, but unfortunately my experience there was financed by a generous donation from the parental units and after that expired I couldn't afford to go back. This whole ordeal has meant that I've often gone months and months, in one case almost a year, without haircuts for the past three years. While I'm loving the long hair thing, I'm not crazy about this raggedy-ass thing that accompanies that practice and so I need to step it up and get a haircut. Last time, I tried out Elizabeth Arden, as their haircuts aren't actually any more expensive than anyone else's around here, and I really really liked the girl who cut my hair and I kind of want to go back but I'm scared because I was totally outclassed there.
I knew I was in trouble when there was an elevator to get to the salon. It was a private elevator, so I stepped in and pushed the button and, on the way up, tried to arrange myself in a pose that expressed class and confidence and the idea that I was totally comfortable in a day spa. I think it would have worked, too, except that the door opened behind me and the receptionists all got a really great view of my ass in its carefully arranged pose. Flustered, I stumbled over to the front desk, where the tall drink of water taking my name had to bite back a giggle when she asked if it was my first time there.
She walked me back to the waiting area, where there were cookies and apples and tea and water and all kinds of other things and I got a little confused because, like, did I have to pay for the buffet? No? Okay, then, I'd like a glass of water. Except I felt a little silly since the area was clearly self-serve, but she seemed to take pity on me and I suppose it made her feel better to pour me a glass of water. Or perhaps she was afraid that I would knock the whole kit and kaboodle over. Water in hand, I followed her to the changing area, which was a large closet full of smocks and a thin little curtain on the rod separating the closet from the larger confines of the waiting room filled with strangers. And then, she left me there. Alone. And confused.
I stood there for a few minutes, trying to look--in case anyone came through the curtain--as if I knew what I was doing. But I didn't, because I'd never taken my clothes off for a haircut before. I was wearing a sweater, so I figured, okay, that could come off, and I carefully hung it up and stowed my bag, a process that ate up at least three minutes of stall time. But my shirt, hmm. I mean, well, hmm. Okay. So I should be wearing a smock. That much was clear from the pile of them in the closet. But am I supposed to be wearing a smock OVER my shirt, or INSTEAD of my shirt? Another four minutes went towards careful evaluation of the smocks, in an attempt to determine how shirt-like they were. The answer: completely ambiguous. Some ties that could have been the front or the back, but otherwise just sort of drapey black things that offered no more, but no less, coverage than your average hospital gown.
Surely, if I were supposed to take my shirt off, the curtain would offer more privacy? That's good. Let's go with that. Right. I didn't see any other half-naked women wandering around there. Except it was quiet and to be honest I didn't see any other women wandering around there at all. Perhaps because they all knew where they were supposed to be. Perhaps because they knew where the good water was. I've no idea. All I know is, I finally determined that my shirt would stay on and the smock would go over it and I emerged, flushed and victorious, from the dressing room only to find the hostess still waiting for me with a questioning, slightly scornful look on her face. She asked me if everything was okay, a question to which I found the answer quite obvious and so refrained from saying anything other than an ambiguous "mm," which she could have taken to mean of course, I am completely at home here or no, you idiot, I'm clearly out of my league and should be taken out, shot, and dragged to the nearest Hair Cuttery.
When Heather finally came out to collect me for my haircut, she greeted me with a smile and a concerned, "Are you okay with your shirt?" I did not know what that meant and, thrown by the possibilities which included did you mean to leave your shirt on, you utter moron? and the less likely just making sure you're not one of those freaks who likes to take their shirt off, I got all dry-mouthed and flustered and reached for my water, which, of course, I had left in the dressing room.
Perhaps I'll just see how long my hair can grow before it just gives up and starts cutting itself.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
hello winter
This week has been just a little crazy at work. Like, students returning to school crazy. Like, hours and hours of appointments and answering questions and standing at the front desk like a secretary in inappropriate shoes crazy. So I have not blogged. Which, if you'll remember, I warned you might happen.
I keep forgetting that I'm blogging again--it was so easy to fall out of the habit--and so I never have that much to say. I used to notice things and record them in my head ("I am going to blog that so hard!") but I don't anymore, I just note things and grumble about them and move on to the next frustration or observation or amusement.
But a few things:
1. It is freaking cold outside. How did this happen? I was so thrown off by the global warming we were experiencing, so grumpy about the Christmas in Miami situation we had going on, that I completely flaked on remembering that it would, eventually, get cold. And it did, all at once and overnight. Fortunately, I have never been so prepared for the cold weather: I have my winter coats hanging on the peg by the door, my gloves and scarves organized by color in the foyer. By COLOR, people. I am going to kick winter's ASS this year!
Except that this morning I ran out the door half barefoot and left my gloves on the shelf. It was a damn cold morning, y'all, and it's hard to kick winter's ass when you have a quarter-share in flakiness and a half-ownership in sleep-deprived.
2. I have worn jeans to work every day since I got my "raise." There is no stated dress code in my office, but for the past two and a half years I have done my best to be pretty and professional and sharp (without wearing skirts). I have watched with interest as others in my office, those of the older ilk, have shown up in jeans, in sweats, in shorts, in ratty t-shirts and never received a sideways glance. I have watched with concern as my younger coworkers have worn tailored, attractive denim and been chastised and slammed with passive-aggressive snide remarks. And now that I'm doing my best to be on my way out, I'm going to challenge the status quo and wear jeans until someone says something.
Besides, they say you should dress for the job that you want, not the job that you have. And that's what I'm doing.
3. Eleanor is going to teach me to knit on Saturday, since my massive intellect and multiple degrees have proven inadequate in conquering that particular learning objective. I will finally have a reason to sit upright while watching TV! New Years Resolutions all over the place!
Did I ever tell y'all that I read in a magazine that when you watch TV, you are one step away from death, metabolically speaking? Seriously, like with only sleeping in between the two. I am going to learn to knit and then watch those calories torch!
4. Today I had to stand at the front desk, helping students, for three straight hours. For two of those hours there was a box of Entenmann's doughnuts six inches from my hand. I didn't eat a single one. Not even half of one. Give me a medal.
I keep forgetting that I'm blogging again--it was so easy to fall out of the habit--and so I never have that much to say. I used to notice things and record them in my head ("I am going to blog that so hard!") but I don't anymore, I just note things and grumble about them and move on to the next frustration or observation or amusement.
But a few things:
1. It is freaking cold outside. How did this happen? I was so thrown off by the global warming we were experiencing, so grumpy about the Christmas in Miami situation we had going on, that I completely flaked on remembering that it would, eventually, get cold. And it did, all at once and overnight. Fortunately, I have never been so prepared for the cold weather: I have my winter coats hanging on the peg by the door, my gloves and scarves organized by color in the foyer. By COLOR, people. I am going to kick winter's ASS this year!
Except that this morning I ran out the door half barefoot and left my gloves on the shelf. It was a damn cold morning, y'all, and it's hard to kick winter's ass when you have a quarter-share in flakiness and a half-ownership in sleep-deprived.
2. I have worn jeans to work every day since I got my "raise." There is no stated dress code in my office, but for the past two and a half years I have done my best to be pretty and professional and sharp (without wearing skirts). I have watched with interest as others in my office, those of the older ilk, have shown up in jeans, in sweats, in shorts, in ratty t-shirts and never received a sideways glance. I have watched with concern as my younger coworkers have worn tailored, attractive denim and been chastised and slammed with passive-aggressive snide remarks. And now that I'm doing my best to be on my way out, I'm going to challenge the status quo and wear jeans until someone says something.
Besides, they say you should dress for the job that you want, not the job that you have. And that's what I'm doing.
3. Eleanor is going to teach me to knit on Saturday, since my massive intellect and multiple degrees have proven inadequate in conquering that particular learning objective. I will finally have a reason to sit upright while watching TV! New Years Resolutions all over the place!
Did I ever tell y'all that I read in a magazine that when you watch TV, you are one step away from death, metabolically speaking? Seriously, like with only sleeping in between the two. I am going to learn to knit and then watch those calories torch!
4. Today I had to stand at the front desk, helping students, for three straight hours. For two of those hours there was a box of Entenmann's doughnuts six inches from my hand. I didn't eat a single one. Not even half of one. Give me a medal.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
half off
So...
if you've spoken to me at all in the past year, you know that my New Year's resolution #1 is to Get A (New) Job. In that effort on Sunday afternoon I curled up on the couch under a blanket with a Diet Coke and the Sunday Washington Post.
Because I am concerned with the environmental hypocrisy involved in not reading the GIGANTIC Sunday paper (see resolution #2, reduce environmental footprint) and because the Want Ads scare me with their inherent frustration and fury and causation of general feelings of inadequacy and desperation, I stalled a little by reading the other sections of the paper first. Including the Magazine and the comics and all of the stuff in the shiny blue wrapper in the middle, which is where I made the most amazing discovery.
Coupons!
I vaguely remember my mother clipping coupons, back in the day. I am not sure why this trait did not pass itself on to me, unless it was like football in that it was such an integral part of my childhood that I repressed (repulsed?) it and avoided it entirely until I was roughly 25. Maybe I secretly associated coupon-clipping with trailers and pink velcro curlers and aprons and other affectations of white-trash housewifery (how many people did I just offend? Six? Eight? Moving on.) Whatever the reason, I've never paid much attention to coupons unless they were of the "banana republic sale" variety. So imagine my surprise when, rifling through the two coupon sections of the Post, I found page after page of discounts on items I BUY EVERY WEEK!!!
I mean really. Fifty cents off of Lean Cuisines! A dollar off of my favorite toothpaste! Two dishwasher detergent packages for the price of one! People, you can SAVE MONEY if you just cut out these little pieces of paper!
Completely distracted from the Get A (New) Job mission, I eagerly and diligently cut out coupon after coupon (only, of course, for products that I already buy. I'm no dummy), arranged them in order of my grocery store aisles, and promptly forgot about them when I got up to go grocery shopping. I'm still new at this.
What I really want now is one of those little accordion-style coupon wallets. Does anyone know where I can find one of these? And, also, some pink velcro hair curlers?
if you've spoken to me at all in the past year, you know that my New Year's resolution #1 is to Get A (New) Job. In that effort on Sunday afternoon I curled up on the couch under a blanket with a Diet Coke and the Sunday Washington Post.
Because I am concerned with the environmental hypocrisy involved in not reading the GIGANTIC Sunday paper (see resolution #2, reduce environmental footprint) and because the Want Ads scare me with their inherent frustration and fury and causation of general feelings of inadequacy and desperation, I stalled a little by reading the other sections of the paper first. Including the Magazine and the comics and all of the stuff in the shiny blue wrapper in the middle, which is where I made the most amazing discovery.
Coupons!
I vaguely remember my mother clipping coupons, back in the day. I am not sure why this trait did not pass itself on to me, unless it was like football in that it was such an integral part of my childhood that I repressed (repulsed?) it and avoided it entirely until I was roughly 25. Maybe I secretly associated coupon-clipping with trailers and pink velcro curlers and aprons and other affectations of white-trash housewifery (how many people did I just offend? Six? Eight? Moving on.) Whatever the reason, I've never paid much attention to coupons unless they were of the "banana republic sale" variety. So imagine my surprise when, rifling through the two coupon sections of the Post, I found page after page of discounts on items I BUY EVERY WEEK!!!
I mean really. Fifty cents off of Lean Cuisines! A dollar off of my favorite toothpaste! Two dishwasher detergent packages for the price of one! People, you can SAVE MONEY if you just cut out these little pieces of paper!
Completely distracted from the Get A (New) Job mission, I eagerly and diligently cut out coupon after coupon (only, of course, for products that I already buy. I'm no dummy), arranged them in order of my grocery store aisles, and promptly forgot about them when I got up to go grocery shopping. I'm still new at this.
What I really want now is one of those little accordion-style coupon wallets. Does anyone know where I can find one of these? And, also, some pink velcro hair curlers?
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
breathe easy
I really really really want to join the ranks of the righteous and be one of those people who disdains material Christmas gifts, choosing instead to dedicate their resources towards bettering the world around them. They shun the shallow and the selfish, the consumer-driven greed-fest that Christmas has become in so many ways. And I agree wholeheartedly with the principle and I want, badly, to act on it. There are two reasons, however, that I still actively participate in the present-fest.
First and foremost, I’ve tried it. People seemed unimpressed. And I’m so desperate for positive feedback and avoiding the WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME middle-school flashbacks that I can’t go through that again.
Second, my Christmas presents this year so significantly improved my quality of life I’m not sure I can express in words how cool they are. For all-time greatest present, it is not, as you might suspect, my awesome new video ipod (I can watch TV! On the metro! Working out! Whenever I want! My life is complete!) or the warm winter coat (brr, baby, it’s FINALLY cold outside, but not inside my toasty new parka with the pocket and earphone vent for my awesome new ipod). Instead, it’s this random little eye pillow with the um, herbs and such in it.
It doesn’t seem like much—a silk pillow filled with beads? seeds? hulls? I do not know, and aromatic, pungent even, with the scents of peppermint, eucalyptus, spearmint, and other odd things you would think wouldn’t be very soothing. I cannot believe I have gone my entire life without this. You see, I am allergic to cats. And I have two. Well, three, currently. I keep the allergies under control with Zyrtec, but every night in that hour between when my Zyrtec wears off and I take the next one, I get sniffly and stuffy and my eyes get all watery and I have a little trouble breathing just at the time I want to get to bed.
So every time this has happened since Christmas, I have stretched out in bed and laid this little eye pillow over my face and suddenly, I can breathe. The sniffles and the stuffy and the watery is all gone, and everything clears up. I love it. It is a lifesaver.
Remember that new identity I was talking about? How I don’t know what or who I’ll be in a year? I mentioned vegan and lobbyist and student and really, the possibilities are endless. But I tell you, this eye pillow thing is really tilting the scales in favor of naturopathic, incense-burning, charm-wearing hippie.
First and foremost, I’ve tried it. People seemed unimpressed. And I’m so desperate for positive feedback and avoiding the WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME middle-school flashbacks that I can’t go through that again.
Second, my Christmas presents this year so significantly improved my quality of life I’m not sure I can express in words how cool they are. For all-time greatest present, it is not, as you might suspect, my awesome new video ipod (I can watch TV! On the metro! Working out! Whenever I want! My life is complete!) or the warm winter coat (brr, baby, it’s FINALLY cold outside, but not inside my toasty new parka with the pocket and earphone vent for my awesome new ipod). Instead, it’s this random little eye pillow with the um, herbs and such in it.
It doesn’t seem like much—a silk pillow filled with beads? seeds? hulls? I do not know, and aromatic, pungent even, with the scents of peppermint, eucalyptus, spearmint, and other odd things you would think wouldn’t be very soothing. I cannot believe I have gone my entire life without this. You see, I am allergic to cats. And I have two. Well, three, currently. I keep the allergies under control with Zyrtec, but every night in that hour between when my Zyrtec wears off and I take the next one, I get sniffly and stuffy and my eyes get all watery and I have a little trouble breathing just at the time I want to get to bed.
So every time this has happened since Christmas, I have stretched out in bed and laid this little eye pillow over my face and suddenly, I can breathe. The sniffles and the stuffy and the watery is all gone, and everything clears up. I love it. It is a lifesaver.
Remember that new identity I was talking about? How I don’t know what or who I’ll be in a year? I mentioned vegan and lobbyist and student and really, the possibilities are endless. But I tell you, this eye pillow thing is really tilting the scales in favor of naturopathic, incense-burning, charm-wearing hippie.
Friday, January 05, 2007
An Open Letter to Banana Republic
Dear BR,
I love you. I do. Your website is not only bookmarked in my Explorer, it's the first thing that comes up when I type in "b" in the search bar. I long ago dropped the "Republic" and now affectionately refer to you as "Banana," as if we were old friends. And we are, we are old friends--I still have shirts from you that saw me through more than one frat party (remember that time I put a glowstick in my bra and pulled on the soft black turtleneck sweater over it? everyone couldn't stop staring at my chest. and i did that on PURPOSE. i thought it was FUNNY. man, was i DRUNK). Everything I'm wearing right now is from Banana, in fact, except my shoes.
The thing is, though, old pal, that the reason that I'm able to dress in head-to-toe Banana is because my mother bought me this sweater, the jeans were on sale, and I got the necklace at the outlet. Like many, many twenty-somethings in the DC Metro area who pay $20K a year in rent and $8 a bag for grapes at the grocery store, I cannot just stroll into your retail store and plunk down $100 for a sweater. It's not in my nature and it's not in my budget, and I hate you for this. You are overpriced, and you are a tease, and you have forgotten your roots.
You used to be affordable and friendly. You used to be no better than your preppy-basics relative Gap. Remember that? Don't lie. I know it's almost as embarrassing as my glowstick bra, but it's part of your past and there are those of us who remember where you came from, before you got a couple mentions in Vogue and InStyle and got all overpriced and wannabe-couture.
I have reached my limit of frustration with you. I am tired of searching your sale page and finding that I can't even afford your half-price leftovers. Yesterday I fell in love with a wool knit slouchy handbag on the sale page. I love that bag. I want to marry it. I want to put my whole life in it and carry it around everywhere I go, even in the summer, even to the gym; I want to still have that bag when I'm eighty and I need it to carry around my spare teeth and my calcium pills. But this bag is sale priced at $120 and OH MY GOD that's reduced from $278. Almost THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a bag that isn't even leather. It is KNIT. What is woven into this bag--antioxidants? The pope's hair? Does it rub your back when you are tired? Does it block telemarketers? I do not understand. How can a purse cost three hundred dollars from a store that used to have a fake Cuban guy in a straw hat greeting shoppers and handing out coupons at the door?
I cheat on you with unabashed, shameless abandon now. Most of my clothes come from Old Navy or H&M. But I miss you, Banana. I want you to come back to me. If you started making clothes I could afford again, I'd even put a glowstick in my bra. Just for you.
Kisses and couture,
Kate
I love you. I do. Your website is not only bookmarked in my Explorer, it's the first thing that comes up when I type in "b" in the search bar. I long ago dropped the "Republic" and now affectionately refer to you as "Banana," as if we were old friends. And we are, we are old friends--I still have shirts from you that saw me through more than one frat party (remember that time I put a glowstick in my bra and pulled on the soft black turtleneck sweater over it? everyone couldn't stop staring at my chest. and i did that on PURPOSE. i thought it was FUNNY. man, was i DRUNK). Everything I'm wearing right now is from Banana, in fact, except my shoes.
The thing is, though, old pal, that the reason that I'm able to dress in head-to-toe Banana is because my mother bought me this sweater, the jeans were on sale, and I got the necklace at the outlet. Like many, many twenty-somethings in the DC Metro area who pay $20K a year in rent and $8 a bag for grapes at the grocery store, I cannot just stroll into your retail store and plunk down $100 for a sweater. It's not in my nature and it's not in my budget, and I hate you for this. You are overpriced, and you are a tease, and you have forgotten your roots.
You used to be affordable and friendly. You used to be no better than your preppy-basics relative Gap. Remember that? Don't lie. I know it's almost as embarrassing as my glowstick bra, but it's part of your past and there are those of us who remember where you came from, before you got a couple mentions in Vogue and InStyle and got all overpriced and wannabe-couture.
I have reached my limit of frustration with you. I am tired of searching your sale page and finding that I can't even afford your half-price leftovers. Yesterday I fell in love with a wool knit slouchy handbag on the sale page. I love that bag. I want to marry it. I want to put my whole life in it and carry it around everywhere I go, even in the summer, even to the gym; I want to still have that bag when I'm eighty and I need it to carry around my spare teeth and my calcium pills. But this bag is sale priced at $120 and OH MY GOD that's reduced from $278. Almost THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a bag that isn't even leather. It is KNIT. What is woven into this bag--antioxidants? The pope's hair? Does it rub your back when you are tired? Does it block telemarketers? I do not understand. How can a purse cost three hundred dollars from a store that used to have a fake Cuban guy in a straw hat greeting shoppers and handing out coupons at the door?
I cheat on you with unabashed, shameless abandon now. Most of my clothes come from Old Navy or H&M. But I miss you, Banana. I want you to come back to me. If you started making clothes I could afford again, I'd even put a glowstick in my bra. Just for you.
Kisses and couture,
Kate
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
old lame song
I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who are unique, different, renegade even. I want to go against the grain, do my own thing, raise my beer and yell out “It’s My Life” at a Bon Jovi concert and actually mean it. But at the end of the day, I’m not really all that different than any other married twenty-something professional woman trying to make a go of it in this rat-race, expensive little metro I reluctantly call home.
In that vein, instead of a self-righteous and high-minded blog about how New Years resolutions are passe and trite, how self-improvement should be a constant and it’s irrational and arbitrary to pick the first of the year to make a fresh start, I’ll start off my blogging re-entry with a long and boring post about my run-of-the-mill and ever-so-common resolutions.
1. Get a job. A new one, that is. One that doesn’t make me grit my teeth in boredom and frustration; one where I’m appreciated either by the people for whom I work or by the constituency I serve, be that people or animals or the environment or social justice or bookstore customers. I’ve decided that thankless jobs can be rewarding if your supervisors appreciate your efforts, and jobs in which your supervisors ignore or (worse) deride you can still be enjoyable if you’re working for something that matters to you. My current job fits neither of these descriptions, and it’s time to buckle down and make a change. Enough of the bitching already. Get ready, world—here comes my resume.
2. Reduce my enviromental footprint. I did an online quiz recently (www.myfootprint.org) and learned that if everyone lived like I do, we would need 4.5 planet earths. I’m pretty sure this is a lower number than average given that I take public transportation daily, but there also wasn’t an element that factored in my bizarrely high level of garbage production. I do not know WHY we fill up our gigantic trash can every week. I do not know HOW we manage to produce such a freakishly large amount of crap every day. What I do know is that everything, everything we depend on is a finite resource and if the annoyingly warm winter we’re experiencing is any indication we are causing environmental chaos at an alarming rate. I do not wish to have to move to Canada just to escape tropical Christmas weather, so I am going to do whatever little tiny things that I can to try to stem the tide of ecological destruction that our country seems so intent on pursuing. I will begin with a more consistent recycling effort, swing through some of those fancy flourescent light-bulbs that last a million hours, and perhaps end up with all-natural home cleaning products. I have more research to do. But perhaps I will save one or two trees for your children to enjoy.
3. Save money. I have never suffered any delusions that I am anything other than white trash with money—thanks to my hard-working husband I live in a tax bracket far removed from where I would be if I depended on my own dumbass choices. Because we are comfortable, it is easy to get TOO comfortable and forget that the gravy train may not always run on time. This year alone I’ve gone to some 20 concerts (Bob Dylan being the high point, Rascal Flatts being the low), fled the country twice, bought a massive TV, and developed a first-name relationship with the friendly Lebanese Taverna takeout people. However, given that I’m looking for jobs in non-profits, our poverty alert is constantly at Orange and (cross your fingers for me!) right now is hovering at Red. It’s time to start acting like a grownup and begin socking it away for that day hopefully soon when I make absolute crap money and love it.
4. Learn to dance. I do not know how to make this happen. But if anyone has any ideas, I’m open to anything that will allow me to get through the Summer 2007 wedding gauntlet (five and counting!) with at least a little flair.
There are others, of course, too personal for the internets, but that’s a start. Maybe by the end of this year I will be someone entirely new—a hippie, a vegan, a lobbyist, a student. Maybe I’ll be all kinds of broke. Maybe I’ll be lighting candles with rolled up dollar bills. Sometimes I wish I could see into the future: maybe I’d’ve worked a bit harder on my 2006 resolutions if I could look ahead and see that I’d be the same person, sitting on the same couch, bitching about the same problems, one year in the future.
Probably not.
At any rate, here we go…
In that vein, instead of a self-righteous and high-minded blog about how New Years resolutions are passe and trite, how self-improvement should be a constant and it’s irrational and arbitrary to pick the first of the year to make a fresh start, I’ll start off my blogging re-entry with a long and boring post about my run-of-the-mill and ever-so-common resolutions.
1. Get a job. A new one, that is. One that doesn’t make me grit my teeth in boredom and frustration; one where I’m appreciated either by the people for whom I work or by the constituency I serve, be that people or animals or the environment or social justice or bookstore customers. I’ve decided that thankless jobs can be rewarding if your supervisors appreciate your efforts, and jobs in which your supervisors ignore or (worse) deride you can still be enjoyable if you’re working for something that matters to you. My current job fits neither of these descriptions, and it’s time to buckle down and make a change. Enough of the bitching already. Get ready, world—here comes my resume.
2. Reduce my enviromental footprint. I did an online quiz recently (www.myfootprint.org) and learned that if everyone lived like I do, we would need 4.5 planet earths. I’m pretty sure this is a lower number than average given that I take public transportation daily, but there also wasn’t an element that factored in my bizarrely high level of garbage production. I do not know WHY we fill up our gigantic trash can every week. I do not know HOW we manage to produce such a freakishly large amount of crap every day. What I do know is that everything, everything we depend on is a finite resource and if the annoyingly warm winter we’re experiencing is any indication we are causing environmental chaos at an alarming rate. I do not wish to have to move to Canada just to escape tropical Christmas weather, so I am going to do whatever little tiny things that I can to try to stem the tide of ecological destruction that our country seems so intent on pursuing. I will begin with a more consistent recycling effort, swing through some of those fancy flourescent light-bulbs that last a million hours, and perhaps end up with all-natural home cleaning products. I have more research to do. But perhaps I will save one or two trees for your children to enjoy.
3. Save money. I have never suffered any delusions that I am anything other than white trash with money—thanks to my hard-working husband I live in a tax bracket far removed from where I would be if I depended on my own dumbass choices. Because we are comfortable, it is easy to get TOO comfortable and forget that the gravy train may not always run on time. This year alone I’ve gone to some 20 concerts (Bob Dylan being the high point, Rascal Flatts being the low), fled the country twice, bought a massive TV, and developed a first-name relationship with the friendly Lebanese Taverna takeout people. However, given that I’m looking for jobs in non-profits, our poverty alert is constantly at Orange and (cross your fingers for me!) right now is hovering at Red. It’s time to start acting like a grownup and begin socking it away for that day hopefully soon when I make absolute crap money and love it.
4. Learn to dance. I do not know how to make this happen. But if anyone has any ideas, I’m open to anything that will allow me to get through the Summer 2007 wedding gauntlet (five and counting!) with at least a little flair.
There are others, of course, too personal for the internets, but that’s a start. Maybe by the end of this year I will be someone entirely new—a hippie, a vegan, a lobbyist, a student. Maybe I’ll be all kinds of broke. Maybe I’ll be lighting candles with rolled up dollar bills. Sometimes I wish I could see into the future: maybe I’d’ve worked a bit harder on my 2006 resolutions if I could look ahead and see that I’d be the same person, sitting on the same couch, bitching about the same problems, one year in the future.
Probably not.
At any rate, here we go…
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