It seems more blogcationy around here than not. Yet, I think about it. Waiting like the most patient dog in the world. The most patient dog in the world, who would have long-ago starved to death from inactivity.
Today I received a letter from myself in the mail. I wrote the letter in August at a two-week intensive professional development thing I did. The thing was amazing. The letter came at a good moment.
It's been hard, the new job. Some days harder than others, but most hard. There was one where I came home and was able to say it had been a good day. That's one day out of lots.
It's not all bad, of course, just hard. And lonely, as I knew it would be. So, I try to take the moments.
The student who told me that she liked my pants today.
The actual dogs, who do get fed.
Honey, whose birthday is tomorrow.
And, today, the letter. The last line of which I said (to myself, remember), "Take care of yourself and ride your bike more often, without guilt and with joy."
I haven't done that, of course, but I like that I told myself to.
Showing posts with label Emotions and Therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Emotions and Therapy. Show all posts
Monday, November 14, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
of i
Taking some time off work this month and things are generally ok-ish.
Today, though, I read a book I didn't like that I have to lead a discussion on tomorrow. I also didn't work out. (Or eat much, so I guess it's ok-ish).
Feeling kind of down.
So I cleaned all my Apple products. Pad of i, Pod of i, Phone of i. All with Klear of i and the wonderful blue cloth.
At least one thing went well today.
Today, though, I read a book I didn't like that I have to lead a discussion on tomorrow. I also didn't work out. (Or eat much, so I guess it's ok-ish).
Feeling kind of down.
So I cleaned all my Apple products. Pad of i, Pod of i, Phone of i. All with Klear of i and the wonderful blue cloth.
At least one thing went well today.
Friday, November 12, 2010
NoLa
King Tut brought me to New Orleans the first time.
Kids in the gifted and talented program at my elementary school did not usually get to take out-of-town trips until the 5th grade. The exhibition of King Tut's treasures in New Orleans prompted a year roll-back and I came--petrified and overwhelmed--to New Orleans. I do remember the exhibit vaguely and the alarmingly gold t-shirt I bought at it.
Some years later I saw plaster of paris replica of said exhibit at the Luxor in Las Vegas. The "best authenticity money can buy," or so I'm told. Standing in LV looking at the plaster did make a vision of my nine year old self come rushing back. I remembered the crowds and the gold.
I didn't come back to New Orleans until my drive from Georgia to California as I departed for programs PhD. That time, I had a po boy, some beignets, and went to Preservation Hall. I came back later with the folklorists.
Ten years or so ago, I came back again for an education conference. I was involved in creating a new kind of undergraduate education program at Commuter State and one of my colleagues suggested we present a paper about it at a big education conference here. The feeling of being at a big conference outside of your field is not unlike being a third grader in King Tut's Egypt. I remember wandering around the city (it was just before Mardi Gras) and watching parades and feeling out of place and out of sorts.
At the end of my stay, I went to check out of the hotel and discovered that I had been charged $1000+ for some equipment. I protested that I had not rented any equipment and the fees were removed. I flew home. A few days later, I got a letter indicating that the charges had been placed on my account again. I called and was assured they would again be removed.
Then I received my American Express card bill. Lo, the charges were once again there.
I switched tactics and protested via American Express. They removed the charges and "investigated." Sure enough, I got a letter from them indicating that the hotel had satisfied them that the charges were legitimate and I was re-recharged. I asked for the "evidence" that the hotel had presented. I was sent a copy of an equipment charge signed by someone named Buffie who has my last name. Buffie. I am not Buffie.
I then had my dad, an attorney who recently compared himself to a late-year Grover Cleveland. Apparently President Cleveland in has late life got rather large and started shooting people when he was cross with them. Anyway, dad wrote a sufficiently threatening letter, mostly referencing his ability to sue and disparaging Buffie and all named Buffie. The charges were reversed and stayed that way.
Sometimes lawyers help when reason does not.
I came back about a year later (and stayed in the hotel across the street). That trip was marked by a missed flight that kept me from driving out to Baton Rogue to see Patti and Tom. I never saw Tom again.
I've been back since that incident, but only briefly when Patti took my mother and I on a post-Katrina view a couple of years ago.
So I'm back now. On the 35th floor of Buffie's hotel. Looking out over the river. It's not a great time for me to travel. The conference I'm attending is fine and interesting and has not reminded me of my King Tut self, for the most part, but I wish I were in the other LA.
Last night, I went to dinner with a whole bunch of folks from my University system. One of the attendees has left the system and is now the vice-president of the college across the street from my high school. The college where Patti was the chaplain for a while. I listened to her tell another person about her experiences. After she talked for a while, I said something about what she was saying, and she said, "I keep forgetting you know all about the places I'm talking about."
Yes. I do know about them. The memory of the past is strong here. It's written on the landscape.
I guess I'd rather start over with New Orleans. Go all the way back to the kid in the gold t-shirt and give her different experiences of this place.
But I'm here now, with all that I do know. So, I'll have a beignet, I guess. And drive to see Patti tomorrow. Then, I'll go home.
Honey has never been here, so I can come one more time sometime. We'll make new memories. And none will involve Buffie.
Kids in the gifted and talented program at my elementary school did not usually get to take out-of-town trips until the 5th grade. The exhibition of King Tut's treasures in New Orleans prompted a year roll-back and I came--petrified and overwhelmed--to New Orleans. I do remember the exhibit vaguely and the alarmingly gold t-shirt I bought at it.
Some years later I saw plaster of paris replica of said exhibit at the Luxor in Las Vegas. The "best authenticity money can buy," or so I'm told. Standing in LV looking at the plaster did make a vision of my nine year old self come rushing back. I remembered the crowds and the gold.
I didn't come back to New Orleans until my drive from Georgia to California as I departed for programs PhD. That time, I had a po boy, some beignets, and went to Preservation Hall. I came back later with the folklorists.
Ten years or so ago, I came back again for an education conference. I was involved in creating a new kind of undergraduate education program at Commuter State and one of my colleagues suggested we present a paper about it at a big education conference here. The feeling of being at a big conference outside of your field is not unlike being a third grader in King Tut's Egypt. I remember wandering around the city (it was just before Mardi Gras) and watching parades and feeling out of place and out of sorts.
At the end of my stay, I went to check out of the hotel and discovered that I had been charged $1000+ for some equipment. I protested that I had not rented any equipment and the fees were removed. I flew home. A few days later, I got a letter indicating that the charges had been placed on my account again. I called and was assured they would again be removed.
Then I received my American Express card bill. Lo, the charges were once again there.
I switched tactics and protested via American Express. They removed the charges and "investigated." Sure enough, I got a letter from them indicating that the hotel had satisfied them that the charges were legitimate and I was re-recharged. I asked for the "evidence" that the hotel had presented. I was sent a copy of an equipment charge signed by someone named Buffie who has my last name. Buffie. I am not Buffie.
I then had my dad, an attorney who recently compared himself to a late-year Grover Cleveland. Apparently President Cleveland in has late life got rather large and started shooting people when he was cross with them. Anyway, dad wrote a sufficiently threatening letter, mostly referencing his ability to sue and disparaging Buffie and all named Buffie. The charges were reversed and stayed that way.
Sometimes lawyers help when reason does not.
I came back about a year later (and stayed in the hotel across the street). That trip was marked by a missed flight that kept me from driving out to Baton Rogue to see Patti and Tom. I never saw Tom again.
I've been back since that incident, but only briefly when Patti took my mother and I on a post-Katrina view a couple of years ago.
So I'm back now. On the 35th floor of Buffie's hotel. Looking out over the river. It's not a great time for me to travel. The conference I'm attending is fine and interesting and has not reminded me of my King Tut self, for the most part, but I wish I were in the other LA.
Last night, I went to dinner with a whole bunch of folks from my University system. One of the attendees has left the system and is now the vice-president of the college across the street from my high school. The college where Patti was the chaplain for a while. I listened to her tell another person about her experiences. After she talked for a while, I said something about what she was saying, and she said, "I keep forgetting you know all about the places I'm talking about."
Yes. I do know about them. The memory of the past is strong here. It's written on the landscape.
I guess I'd rather start over with New Orleans. Go all the way back to the kid in the gold t-shirt and give her different experiences of this place.
But I'm here now, with all that I do know. So, I'll have a beignet, I guess. And drive to see Patti tomorrow. Then, I'll go home.
Honey has never been here, so I can come one more time sometime. We'll make new memories. And none will involve Buffie.
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Disrupting "normal"
Living in a large city like Los Angeles and taking things for granted from the good (there's bahn mi available near my work) to the once-would-have-been-extraordinary to the now ordinary (there are also lots of Starbucks around) to the banal (how many very ordinary pharmacy chain store outlets do we need exactly?) makes it easy to be lulled into a kind of complacency. Things disappear (Chris and Pitts, for example) and things persist (Philippe's). Why am I hung up on restaurants today?
A couple of weeks ago I was at a celebration of my university's (commuter state) founders day. It was very hot (in what passes for Fall in Southern California) and we had been in the celebration tent for far too long. The speaker, when he finally arrived, was decent. He's the author of a book about the sub-region in which commuter state is located. He talked at some length about the history of the place. Much of what he said I knew, but some of it was new to me. The following weekend, Honey and I happened to be near campus and I drove her around a little telling her about the new information I now had lodged into my brain from the talk. About the fair and the horse races and about the now disappeared football team.
I like thinking about the history of places, both recent and distant. I'm especially intrigued by that living in Los Angeles. Because I grew up in Atlanta, the places were all new and exurby. Post Sherman, Atlantans love nothing more than tearing down and redoing.
Los Angeles, on the other hand, keeps some (but not, by any means, all) of its history around. You can see Victorian homes, mid-century ranches, Greene and Greenes, missions, and new mcmansions. There are even restaurants (see how the brain makes loops) that date back 100 years. Beef French dip, hot mustard, chili with, and a custard at Philippe's please.
I've always liked that about LA. I love our O'Keefe and Merritt brown stove with its NuTone copper hood.
I loved learning last week that the area our laundry room and half bath are in is properly (in SoCal) called a "service porch." And so it shall be henceforth in my mind.
Ok, so we don't live in a mid century architectural masterpiece. No one was selling a Lautner for the mid-200s when we bought our house. Still, it's got some fine mid century touches. And laminate flooring. You don't get laminate flooring in a Lautner. Nope.
Anyway, I was thinking yesterday, while waiting in traffic about these things we don't pay attention to until it occurs to us to do so. I was not far from commuter state, where the preserved orange groves remain and I noticed a sign waver. Sign wavers are not an unusual sight in LA, so I looked, noted that he was holding a sign for a Halloween store and wearing a mask. He was dancing and waving the sign, as was to be expected. But he was also occasionally stopping his dancing and moved in a threatening manner at particular passing cars. I'm sure he was doing this because of the scary mask he had on. His intent was, no doubt, benign.
The effect was chilling. Really. I felt relieved when he did it to the car in front of mine and accelerated quickly through the intersection when the stuck traffic allowed me to. I thought most of the way home about why he seemed so scary. It was, I suppose, the juxtaposition of his easy dancing, the sign, the normal street corner, and these quick, sudden violent movements that kept intruding on that scene. Normal. Then not.
It happened that I had been at another campus in my University's system earlier that day. I had not been to that campus before, even though it's our closest sister campus. It, in fact, started as a satellite campus of ours. (I am aware, by the way, that this level of detail makes figuring out which campus is which pretty easy. Since I don't think I have many non-friend readers, I'm going to persist with the semi revelatory. Non-California friends are welcome to ask privately for details in case you don't want to figure out which campuses are which).
Anyway, sister campus has a lovely setting. It's in a valley, near the ocean, surrounded by mountains and touched by sea breezes. Commuter state, on the other hand, has a hot tent. No, let me be fair, it's a beautiful campus, just in a hot part of SoCal.
Sister campus was a long time coming and many many sites were considered. Several of them were met by strong community opposition. Finally they settled on the site of an about to be closed mental hospital. A rather notorious one.
We met in sister campus' spectacular library, the only modern architecture building on campus. It looks out across this series of smaller Spanish colonial buildings. Some of them have been converted into office and classroom space. Many of them sit empty, waiting to be retrofitted with modern HVAC (rather than steam heating through asbestos laden walls) and ADA compliant entrances and bathrooms. As a colleague from sister campus said to me yesterday, "it costs a million dollars to walk into one of these buildings."
My boss and I walked around a little after the meeting and I bought Honey a t-shirt from the campus with their cheesy mascot on it. (Not that commuter state's mascot lacks cheese-factor, mind you).
I realized that I had taken that the normal that was a quiet Friday at a small University for granted. But somewhere in my head and in that space there were other echos. Echos of people whose lives were trapped in that place. Of the past that is being written over with each of the million dollar entrances into each of those unrefurbished buildings.
It's the same kind of echo that I have always tried to make myself hear on the battlefields of the Civil War. It's easy enough to stand in Sharpsburg or Mannassas and think that Antietam and Bull Run are theoretical battles where theoretical people died. (Speaking of the Civil War and battlefields, I cannot recommend enough the recent Slate series on touring them. Go read it when you're done with me today).
Same building, different purpose, different era.
A lot of these building were built with New Deal money. The Great Society indeed.
Seems innocuous enough on first glance, right?
A couple of weeks ago I was at a celebration of my university's (commuter state) founders day. It was very hot (in what passes for Fall in Southern California) and we had been in the celebration tent for far too long. The speaker, when he finally arrived, was decent. He's the author of a book about the sub-region in which commuter state is located. He talked at some length about the history of the place. Much of what he said I knew, but some of it was new to me. The following weekend, Honey and I happened to be near campus and I drove her around a little telling her about the new information I now had lodged into my brain from the talk. About the fair and the horse races and about the now disappeared football team.
I like thinking about the history of places, both recent and distant. I'm especially intrigued by that living in Los Angeles. Because I grew up in Atlanta, the places were all new and exurby. Post Sherman, Atlantans love nothing more than tearing down and redoing.
Los Angeles, on the other hand, keeps some (but not, by any means, all) of its history around. You can see Victorian homes, mid-century ranches, Greene and Greenes, missions, and new mcmansions. There are even restaurants (see how the brain makes loops) that date back 100 years. Beef French dip, hot mustard, chili with, and a custard at Philippe's please.
I've always liked that about LA. I love our O'Keefe and Merritt brown stove with its NuTone copper hood.
Ok, so we don't live in a mid century architectural masterpiece. No one was selling a Lautner for the mid-200s when we bought our house. Still, it's got some fine mid century touches. And laminate flooring. You don't get laminate flooring in a Lautner. Nope.
Anyway, I was thinking yesterday, while waiting in traffic about these things we don't pay attention to until it occurs to us to do so. I was not far from commuter state, where the preserved orange groves remain and I noticed a sign waver. Sign wavers are not an unusual sight in LA, so I looked, noted that he was holding a sign for a Halloween store and wearing a mask. He was dancing and waving the sign, as was to be expected. But he was also occasionally stopping his dancing and moved in a threatening manner at particular passing cars. I'm sure he was doing this because of the scary mask he had on. His intent was, no doubt, benign.
The effect was chilling. Really. I felt relieved when he did it to the car in front of mine and accelerated quickly through the intersection when the stuck traffic allowed me to. I thought most of the way home about why he seemed so scary. It was, I suppose, the juxtaposition of his easy dancing, the sign, the normal street corner, and these quick, sudden violent movements that kept intruding on that scene. Normal. Then not.
It happened that I had been at another campus in my University's system earlier that day. I had not been to that campus before, even though it's our closest sister campus. It, in fact, started as a satellite campus of ours. (I am aware, by the way, that this level of detail makes figuring out which campus is which pretty easy. Since I don't think I have many non-friend readers, I'm going to persist with the semi revelatory. Non-California friends are welcome to ask privately for details in case you don't want to figure out which campuses are which).
Anyway, sister campus has a lovely setting. It's in a valley, near the ocean, surrounded by mountains and touched by sea breezes. Commuter state, on the other hand, has a hot tent. No, let me be fair, it's a beautiful campus, just in a hot part of SoCal.
Sister campus was a long time coming and many many sites were considered. Several of them were met by strong community opposition. Finally they settled on the site of an about to be closed mental hospital. A rather notorious one.
We met in sister campus' spectacular library, the only modern architecture building on campus. It looks out across this series of smaller Spanish colonial buildings. Some of them have been converted into office and classroom space. Many of them sit empty, waiting to be retrofitted with modern HVAC (rather than steam heating through asbestos laden walls) and ADA compliant entrances and bathrooms. As a colleague from sister campus said to me yesterday, "it costs a million dollars to walk into one of these buildings."
My boss and I walked around a little after the meeting and I bought Honey a t-shirt from the campus with their cheesy mascot on it. (Not that commuter state's mascot lacks cheese-factor, mind you).
I realized that I had taken that the normal that was a quiet Friday at a small University for granted. But somewhere in my head and in that space there were other echos. Echos of people whose lives were trapped in that place. Of the past that is being written over with each of the million dollar entrances into each of those unrefurbished buildings.
It's the same kind of echo that I have always tried to make myself hear on the battlefields of the Civil War. It's easy enough to stand in Sharpsburg or Mannassas and think that Antietam and Bull Run are theoretical battles where theoretical people died. (Speaking of the Civil War and battlefields, I cannot recommend enough the recent Slate series on touring them. Go read it when you're done with me today).
Same building, different purpose, different era.
Seems innocuous enough on first glance, right?
As one commenter on a 2002 Los Angeles Weekly article said about this place, where he had been confined as a child:
Now and then, when I think about those days, I Google the names of the people I knew there. So far, only two staff members have shown up--and no patients. It makes me wonder whether I'm a rarity because I'm still alive. Another possibility I've considered is that they've changed their names and don't want to be found. It's hard to face the ghosts of such a twisted past without someone who shared it to reflect with.
Since I don't share that past, I can't know what that person experienced, any more than I can know what Sullivan Ballou thought as he wrote his wife before the First Battle of Bull Run, where he was killed:
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again.
What I do know is that when I stand in these places, rich with the sacrifices and mistakes of the past, I would do well to pay attention to that small voice echoing in my head or in the space. I should have stopped and looked more closely. The interactive map of sister campus has all the unrefurbished buildings in gray. They don't "do" anything when you click on them. But standing near them, they do speak to what was once there. I will go back to sister campus soon and look at them again, I think. And listen.
I am not nostalgic for the time of service porches, copper fixtures, and steam asbestos heating.
Things go away, sometimes, for good reasons. Sister campus is surely and better use for that space than its previous incarnation. Soon enough, Halloween will come and go and the guy with the mask will leave the corner.
And we will all remember. And all forget.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
On the eve of a trip away
Back when I started this blog, there were lots of blogs. I suppose there still are. My RSS feed certainly suggests that the blogs I track keep getting updated. I even find new ones to read occasionally.
What is gone now (and I think for good) is the community of bloggers who I felt part of who read and commented on each other's posts. There may be tweeting now, for all I know. There's certainly facebooking. What we've lost, though, is medium to long form ideas and the exchange thereof. I suppose I'm not anti-tweet per se, but I come close. And every time I update my status on facebook, I am both careful and a little unsure if my "friends" need to know what I've just said.
All of which is to say that I was thinking about vacation blogging this morning.
My morning gave me time and space to think, in part because I do not need or want to run in errands. If Saturday is normally about going to the cleaners and getting bagels and getting the car washed, I have decided none of those things are necessary this particular Saturday. Honey and I leave for vacation Monday. I'm thinking this weekend should be:
bike, riding;
dogs, hanging out with;
movie, seeing;
meals, eating.
Not necessarily in that order. And to be sure, some things need to be repeated.
We were to have gone to Lassen National Park to go camping. (File under: recession, vacation)
It's not really our National Park, but sounded really wonderful. It's only accessible in the summer. I'm pretty sure it's summer, what with the heat rash and all.
So I had turned camping into a bit of a research project.
Tent: check, REI Hobitat 4, vestibule, and footprint
Sleeping platforms: check, cot, zero gravity chair
Coffee: check, titanium coffee pot and individual plunger mugs
I could go on and on. Maps, GPS, hotels. I had it sorted.
Then, we got a phone call. They'd be chainsawing at our campground from 7am until 4pm everyday.
Noise sources expect, National Park camping:
Noise sources unexpected, National Park camping:
Serendipity intervened. I like to think of Serendipity as a person. She's out there somewhere. Sometimes she's hanging around with me. Other times, she's occupied with someone stuck in a tight spot who just happens to have the right tool to get out of it. This may be one of the reasons I buy so many stupid tools on steepandcheap.com. Just trying to help Ms. Serendipity out.
I had, the very morning of the chainsaw phone call, gotten a notice that our most favoritist place we have gone to (a lot) over the past couple of years, the fabulous (truly truly) El Morocco Inn and Spa in (not so) fabulous Desert Hot Springs was running a special. More than half off high season rates. Half off low season rates. As cheap as camping.
So instead of a very long drive, followed by very loud camping, we have a much shorter drive followed by a really nice bed and real mineral springs. And massages. All of which (despite the triple digits) will clear the heat rash right up. Also maybe some of the current ennui.
So back to blogging trips. I like blogging trips. See, for eg:
Bear Aware
or
The Geese of Hawaii
Hmm, maybe I like blogging trips that somehow involve animals.
Anyway, trips happen whether I blog or not. I may or may not blog on this trip.
If I do blog about it, I will assuredly write medium to long form. Spa-tels cannot be tweeted.
What is gone now (and I think for good) is the community of bloggers who I felt part of who read and commented on each other's posts. There may be tweeting now, for all I know. There's certainly facebooking. What we've lost, though, is medium to long form ideas and the exchange thereof. I suppose I'm not anti-tweet per se, but I come close. And every time I update my status on facebook, I am both careful and a little unsure if my "friends" need to know what I've just said.
All of which is to say that I was thinking about vacation blogging this morning.
My morning gave me time and space to think, in part because I do not need or want to run in errands. If Saturday is normally about going to the cleaners and getting bagels and getting the car washed, I have decided none of those things are necessary this particular Saturday. Honey and I leave for vacation Monday. I'm thinking this weekend should be:
bike, riding;
dogs, hanging out with;
movie, seeing;
meals, eating.
Not necessarily in that order. And to be sure, some things need to be repeated.
We were to have gone to Lassen National Park to go camping. (File under: recession, vacation)
It's not really our National Park, but sounded really wonderful. It's only accessible in the summer. I'm pretty sure it's summer, what with the heat rash and all.
So I had turned camping into a bit of a research project.
Tent: check, REI Hobitat 4, vestibule, and footprint
Sleeping platforms: check, cot, zero gravity chair
Coffee: check, titanium coffee pot and individual plunger mugs
I could go on and on. Maps, GPS, hotels. I had it sorted.
Then, we got a phone call. They'd be chainsawing at our campground from 7am until 4pm everyday.
Noise sources expect, National Park camping:
Noise sources unexpected, National Park camping:
Serendipity intervened. I like to think of Serendipity as a person. She's out there somewhere. Sometimes she's hanging around with me. Other times, she's occupied with someone stuck in a tight spot who just happens to have the right tool to get out of it. This may be one of the reasons I buy so many stupid tools on steepandcheap.com. Just trying to help Ms. Serendipity out.
I had, the very morning of the chainsaw phone call, gotten a notice that our most favoritist place we have gone to (a lot) over the past couple of years, the fabulous (truly truly) El Morocco Inn and Spa in (not so) fabulous Desert Hot Springs was running a special. More than half off high season rates. Half off low season rates. As cheap as camping.
So instead of a very long drive, followed by very loud camping, we have a much shorter drive followed by a really nice bed and real mineral springs. And massages. All of which (despite the triple digits) will clear the heat rash right up. Also maybe some of the current ennui.
So back to blogging trips. I like blogging trips. See, for eg:
Bear Aware
or
The Geese of Hawaii
Hmm, maybe I like blogging trips that somehow involve animals.
Anyway, trips happen whether I blog or not. I may or may not blog on this trip.
If I do blog about it, I will assuredly write medium to long form. Spa-tels cannot be tweeted.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Heat rash: 2010 edition
Some years ago I wrote a short story called "Heat Rash." It was "published" in a "Journal" that I helped produce while a graduate student at UCLA. Lots of quotes in the previous sentence. An acquaintance/sort-of-friend of mine decided she wanted to create a student journal of LGBT, (um, what's the word?), stuff. She asked me to help. She and her gay bff took credit as editors-in-chief. This other guy, Kirk, and I really did the whole thing. Kirk did the layout and the design. I did all the editing. In exchange we got credit as the "editorial board." The acquaintance/sort-of-friend didn't really want to publish my short story, but she had the good sense to know she wouldn't get all the free work from me if she didn't. So, we compromised (there was more give from me, truth told, than her). I was to write a scholarly introduction to my story. Um, ok.
I just reread the introduction (I can't bring myself to do more than skim the story). I cite and discuss Walter Ong's Orality and Literacy. Go me. Remembered something from my oral narrative seminar. Of course, I don't remember the seminar very well now, other than the cute girl who always brought pop tarts to class, but that's another matter.
Anyway, I will quote (with some chagrin) from the story:
"It is April and it is Thursday and I have a heat rash under my left arm that has been bothering me all day. It is red and bumpy and will soon cover my entire body.... The best solution I can come up with is to keep my right hand in my armpit at all times. Left handed only, I am proceeding."
The story is a somewhat autobiographical account of one spring and summer I spent in D.C. Re-skimming it now, many of the things I recall happening that summer seem to be in there. I'll spare the plot to all concerned (mostly myself).
I should make a side note about the acquaintance/sort-of-friend: she moved to D.C. to attend my Alma mater for graduate school. When she did that, she broke up with her girlfriend and left her behind. That girlfriend is sitting behind me now at her own desk, some 16 years later. So something very good came out of the "journal" after all.
Oh, and I do still have the short story on my c.v. I cited Walter Ong, after all.
The acquaintance/sort-of-friend lives in--of all places--Albania now. She and her partner are undoubtedly having adventures of a very Balkan nature. I do not envy her the life she has. I expect the same is true of her in regards to me.
I have what I think may be a heat rash now. It's not where the old one was. Regardless, it hurts and itches.
It does bring to mind the overwrought heartache of young summers. They seem very long ago indeed.
I ran into a former student of mine last night, who immediately began asking if the things she knew about me from before were still true. She twice asked if we had gone to any Angel games recently. I said no both times and refrained from launching into my lament about the unused and guilt-inducing "Angel Bucks" we have sitting in a drawer. I said that sometimes we have to move on from the things we loved. I liked baseball a lot once. Now, less so.
Things change.
The heat rash made me think about the past, but did not make me want to return to it.
One more quote:
"The tendency, according to Ong, of a literate culture is to emphasize the individual, to have linear plot structure in a story, an to view fixed text as the norm."
If heat rashes aren't fixed, then how can plots be linear?
Somebody pass the cortizone.
I just reread the introduction (I can't bring myself to do more than skim the story). I cite and discuss Walter Ong's Orality and Literacy. Go me. Remembered something from my oral narrative seminar. Of course, I don't remember the seminar very well now, other than the cute girl who always brought pop tarts to class, but that's another matter.
Anyway, I will quote (with some chagrin) from the story:
"It is April and it is Thursday and I have a heat rash under my left arm that has been bothering me all day. It is red and bumpy and will soon cover my entire body.... The best solution I can come up with is to keep my right hand in my armpit at all times. Left handed only, I am proceeding."
The story is a somewhat autobiographical account of one spring and summer I spent in D.C. Re-skimming it now, many of the things I recall happening that summer seem to be in there. I'll spare the plot to all concerned (mostly myself).
I should make a side note about the acquaintance/sort-of-friend: she moved to D.C. to attend my Alma mater for graduate school. When she did that, she broke up with her girlfriend and left her behind. That girlfriend is sitting behind me now at her own desk, some 16 years later. So something very good came out of the "journal" after all.
Oh, and I do still have the short story on my c.v. I cited Walter Ong, after all.
The acquaintance/sort-of-friend lives in--of all places--Albania now. She and her partner are undoubtedly having adventures of a very Balkan nature. I do not envy her the life she has. I expect the same is true of her in regards to me.
I have what I think may be a heat rash now. It's not where the old one was. Regardless, it hurts and itches.
It does bring to mind the overwrought heartache of young summers. They seem very long ago indeed.
I ran into a former student of mine last night, who immediately began asking if the things she knew about me from before were still true. She twice asked if we had gone to any Angel games recently. I said no both times and refrained from launching into my lament about the unused and guilt-inducing "Angel Bucks" we have sitting in a drawer. I said that sometimes we have to move on from the things we loved. I liked baseball a lot once. Now, less so.
Things change.
The heat rash made me think about the past, but did not make me want to return to it.
One more quote:
"The tendency, according to Ong, of a literate culture is to emphasize the individual, to have linear plot structure in a story, an to view fixed text as the norm."
If heat rashes aren't fixed, then how can plots be linear?
Somebody pass the cortizone.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
The iPad, the girl out the window, and my future
So, for some time I've been wanting, but resisting, the latest piece of kit from M. Jobs and co. I even ordered the new iPhone to keep me from buying an iPad. I justified the iPhone purchase by telling myself that work would pay for it, so it was "needed." (I should note that though it has not yet arrived, I have secured one of the hard to find "bumpers" for it).
Now, I will take a slight detour. I currently have a job that I like and am good at. I also really like the people I work with. I don't want to do my current job forever--indeed it is one of those jobs that I should not do forever lest I be viewed as "stuck." At any rate a job has opened up that I don't think I want, but there are people who want me to apply for it. I am even led to believe that if I did apply, I would probably get it. It's more money, more responsibility, more pressure. It also takes me--I think--in the wrong direction. So, I decided not to apply. Then I got a call. My boss got a call. I was asked to rethink. I am supposed to be rethinking as I write.
So, being me, I cried a little and I processed a lot. And then I decide to buy an iPad after all. Do you follow that? I'm not sure I do either, but there was the compulsion. Being compelling.
So I stop by Best Buy and ask. Nope. They only have 3G ones. Don't want 3G. One data plan with AT&T is enough, thanks. So, this morning, I commence to calling.
Apple Store #1: get on the waiting list
Best Buy #2: we don't carry ipads
Apple store #2: how about a 3G?
Best Buy #2: How about a 3G?
...some time later...
Apple Store #5: we have a 64mb wifi
So, without much thinking (or any crying), I head out to points east and emerge with the biggest wifi iPad there is.
Honey goes off to the gym to let me play with it. I start to lose myself in app land. The worries of the moment recede.
Then the dogs begin to bark. I look up from Honey's desk (where iTunes lives) and see two kids walking in front of the house heading to our front door. I say (through the window), "I'm sorry, but I don't want to buy anything from you."
The older one immediately responds, "you are a racist."
I said something in protest, but she was gone. It burst my iPad bubble to be sure. And it made me mad. I did refrain from walking outside and giving her a piece of my mind. I don't have to take the lies in. But they do deflate.
What will I do next, job-wise? I don't know, though I suspect I'll stay where I am.
In the meantime, in case you're wondering, the iPad works fine for first draft blogging. (Final edits requires the MacBook Pro. I did mention my official Apple fangirl status, right?)
The iPad may save me from something. I just don't know what yet.
Now, I will take a slight detour. I currently have a job that I like and am good at. I also really like the people I work with. I don't want to do my current job forever--indeed it is one of those jobs that I should not do forever lest I be viewed as "stuck." At any rate a job has opened up that I don't think I want, but there are people who want me to apply for it. I am even led to believe that if I did apply, I would probably get it. It's more money, more responsibility, more pressure. It also takes me--I think--in the wrong direction. So, I decided not to apply. Then I got a call. My boss got a call. I was asked to rethink. I am supposed to be rethinking as I write.
So, being me, I cried a little and I processed a lot. And then I decide to buy an iPad after all. Do you follow that? I'm not sure I do either, but there was the compulsion. Being compelling.
So I stop by Best Buy and ask. Nope. They only have 3G ones. Don't want 3G. One data plan with AT&T is enough, thanks. So, this morning, I commence to calling.
Apple Store #1: get on the waiting list
Best Buy #2: we don't carry ipads
Apple store #2: how about a 3G?
Best Buy #2: How about a 3G?
...some time later...
Apple Store #5: we have a 64mb wifi
So, without much thinking (or any crying), I head out to points east and emerge with the biggest wifi iPad there is.
Honey goes off to the gym to let me play with it. I start to lose myself in app land. The worries of the moment recede.
Then the dogs begin to bark. I look up from Honey's desk (where iTunes lives) and see two kids walking in front of the house heading to our front door. I say (through the window), "I'm sorry, but I don't want to buy anything from you."
The older one immediately responds, "you are a racist."
I said something in protest, but she was gone. It burst my iPad bubble to be sure. And it made me mad. I did refrain from walking outside and giving her a piece of my mind. I don't have to take the lies in. But they do deflate.
What will I do next, job-wise? I don't know, though I suspect I'll stay where I am.
In the meantime, in case you're wondering, the iPad works fine for first draft blogging. (Final edits requires the MacBook Pro. I did mention my official Apple fangirl status, right?)
The iPad may save me from something. I just don't know what yet.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Where have you gone baseball?
When I was growing up, baseball (and a few other sports) was something my family could do together. It wasn't a perfect context by any means. But, we could usually watch the Braves and be ok for a few hours.
I've always held onto baseball. I lived in DC pre-Nationals, so I didn't adopt a second team in my time there. When I moved to L.A., I adopted Honey's Angels (after I met Honey, that is) and continued to root for the Braves.
When I was in graduate school, I had a hard time my first summer finding a job. I finally landed one with a company that did SAT tutoring in high school students' homes. I have never before (or since) had such an up-close view of affluent L.A. Before I started the tutoring (which was mostly a late summer/fall activity, scheduled around the SAT test dates), this company hired me to answer the phone in the office. The office was in one of the owners' apartments down in a cool part of the city. I wasn't allowed to do much, just take messages. The owner, in fact, laid me out when he heard me giving a parent a little information about what they did. I had repeated a little bit of his spiel verbatim. I had, after all, heard it a thousand times by that point.
He was an arrogant prick. Very impressed with his own masculinity and Ivy League degree. He was also a rabid fantasy baseball player. He dismissed my curiosity about it. Women couldn't possibly be interested in baseball at the level fantasy required. Certainly not mid-Atlantic educated ones, who weren't admitted to an Ivy. Or a seven sister. Or...
I worked for them for one SAT season. Never once did I ever see or experience them backing up one of their employees. They were perfectly happy to let us line up passively in front of the bus that was angry parents of lazy student's SAT scores. It was a wretched experience. If anyone wants the name of the company (they sold out to a national company, but still have the same set-up), do let me know. I know, given the current economic situation in the U.S., there are lots of people who need jobs. If you'd like one that will make you feel like shit, let me know and I'll hook you up.
I left the bad company and went to work for a much more pleasant one (who did the same thing(ish) in a mini-mall east of downtown). Company II was owned by and catered exclusively to Taiwanese immigrants. Laying the weird meat buns I would sometimes get as gifts aside (but not those lovely red envelopes with money), it was a nice thing to do for the rest of my graduate school summers.
I held onto baseball past that. I hoped with the Braves every year. Felt very sad the summer of 1994. Got back my joy with the Braves World Series of 1995. Teresa and I went to Angels games, mixed in a Braves/Dodgers game here and there. We also took time out to go to minor league ball in the Cal League.
My favorite experience was attending a game at the home of the Stockton Ports (now the Mudville Nine) and winning a six pack of pickled peppers. What was not to like?
The 2002 series was unbelievable. We breathed in and out with each pitch. We named our new cat Halo.
Then, a few years ago, Ivy-jerk notwithstanding, I started playing fantasy baseball. First, I played for free (with strangers) on Yahoo. Then I joined a money league, ran the blog league and enjoyed myself (mostly).
Last year baseball started to change for me. The money in the game has been out of control for a while. Add the drugs. What have I watched? The game itself is fine. MLB far from it.
Was Mark Lemke the last clean player? Maybe Tim Salmon? Bob Horner? Bib Gibson? Did Bart Giamatti's untimely death ruin it for good?
When I think about my sadness around baseball--and it is surely there--some of it is tied up in fantasy. The baseball blog league (which was terrifically fun) never attracted enough people to keep it going (unlike it's much healthier sister blogleague football--coming soon for 09!). The pay league, into which I was invited by my brother, has gone like this:
Year 1: My dad and I agree to have a team. He does nothing except pick the team name (with which I am still saddled). I finish dead dog last. It cost me real money.
Year 2: I invite a blog-friend in. I finish tied for third. It costs me less money. Somehow, my dad gets talked into taking a team of his own. I try to help him on the phone. I try to help him in person, while we're on vacation. It's really frustrating. He finishes last.
Year 3: For some subconsciously masochistic reason, I agree to be the commissioner. I like being the commissioner in the blogleagues. This is not also true of the pay league. I also switch jobs mid-summer. Result: I finish out of the money by 1 point, I spend a lot of time I don't have entering changes for the league. Mostly though, I have my integrity questioned, am accused of using my commissioner "powers" to cheat and then have a huge fight with my brother. He tells me in the course of the fight that the guy who said I had cheated had done more for the people in the league than I would ever know. I decide to quit.
Year 4: I don't quit. I think (at the time) that I might get some love of the game back. Be easy, enjoy yourself. Today, again, my integrity is questioned because of a lopsided trade I agreed to. It was lopsided trade designed to help me next year.
But today, I keep thinking about baseball. And feeling sad. And wondering whether I should play or watch at all next year. Or the rest of this.
I can think of a few things that might help me feel better--the Ken Burns doc, some Roger Angell, some Stephen J. Gould. I'd say that I could go to a Rancho Cucamonga Quakes game, but we've had two actual earthquakes in the last three days and somehow I don't want to go to a stadium called the epicenter. Plus there's that whole--I don't like the Inland Empire much problem. My university's team is done for the year, so the *pling* of the aluminum bats can be no comfort now.
That's Bronson Arroyo, one of the guys I got in the lopsided trade. He's curently 6-5 with an ERA of 6.56. He's 6'5" and goes 195. I don't think he uses steroids. That's good, at least.
It's a beautiful game, baseball. I need to find out how to get back to its beauty.
The dirt's pretty. So's the ball. It's everything around it that's suspect.
Cue outro...
"Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio [or insert alt player, as needed]...?" I'd like some of the joy in Mudville back but am afraid there are too many strikes now.
I've always held onto baseball. I lived in DC pre-Nationals, so I didn't adopt a second team in my time there. When I moved to L.A., I adopted Honey's Angels (after I met Honey, that is) and continued to root for the Braves.
When I was in graduate school, I had a hard time my first summer finding a job. I finally landed one with a company that did SAT tutoring in high school students' homes. I have never before (or since) had such an up-close view of affluent L.A. Before I started the tutoring (which was mostly a late summer/fall activity, scheduled around the SAT test dates), this company hired me to answer the phone in the office. The office was in one of the owners' apartments down in a cool part of the city. I wasn't allowed to do much, just take messages. The owner, in fact, laid me out when he heard me giving a parent a little information about what they did. I had repeated a little bit of his spiel verbatim. I had, after all, heard it a thousand times by that point.
He was an arrogant prick. Very impressed with his own masculinity and Ivy League degree. He was also a rabid fantasy baseball player. He dismissed my curiosity about it. Women couldn't possibly be interested in baseball at the level fantasy required. Certainly not mid-Atlantic educated ones, who weren't admitted to an Ivy. Or a seven sister. Or...
I worked for them for one SAT season. Never once did I ever see or experience them backing up one of their employees. They were perfectly happy to let us line up passively in front of the bus that was angry parents of lazy student's SAT scores. It was a wretched experience. If anyone wants the name of the company (they sold out to a national company, but still have the same set-up), do let me know. I know, given the current economic situation in the U.S., there are lots of people who need jobs. If you'd like one that will make you feel like shit, let me know and I'll hook you up.
I left the bad company and went to work for a much more pleasant one (who did the same thing(ish) in a mini-mall east of downtown). Company II was owned by and catered exclusively to Taiwanese immigrants. Laying the weird meat buns I would sometimes get as gifts aside (but not those lovely red envelopes with money), it was a nice thing to do for the rest of my graduate school summers.
I held onto baseball past that. I hoped with the Braves every year. Felt very sad the summer of 1994. Got back my joy with the Braves World Series of 1995. Teresa and I went to Angels games, mixed in a Braves/Dodgers game here and there. We also took time out to go to minor league ball in the Cal League.
My favorite experience was attending a game at the home of the Stockton Ports (now the Mudville Nine) and winning a six pack of pickled peppers. What was not to like?
The 2002 series was unbelievable. We breathed in and out with each pitch. We named our new cat Halo.
Then, a few years ago, Ivy-jerk notwithstanding, I started playing fantasy baseball. First, I played for free (with strangers) on Yahoo. Then I joined a money league, ran the blog league and enjoyed myself (mostly).
Last year baseball started to change for me. The money in the game has been out of control for a while. Add the drugs. What have I watched? The game itself is fine. MLB far from it.
Was Mark Lemke the last clean player? Maybe Tim Salmon? Bob Horner? Bib Gibson? Did Bart Giamatti's untimely death ruin it for good?
When I think about my sadness around baseball--and it is surely there--some of it is tied up in fantasy. The baseball blog league (which was terrifically fun) never attracted enough people to keep it going (unlike it's much healthier sister blogleague football--coming soon for 09!). The pay league, into which I was invited by my brother, has gone like this:
Year 1: My dad and I agree to have a team. He does nothing except pick the team name (with which I am still saddled). I finish dead dog last. It cost me real money.
Year 2: I invite a blog-friend in. I finish tied for third. It costs me less money. Somehow, my dad gets talked into taking a team of his own. I try to help him on the phone. I try to help him in person, while we're on vacation. It's really frustrating. He finishes last.
Year 3: For some subconsciously masochistic reason, I agree to be the commissioner. I like being the commissioner in the blogleagues. This is not also true of the pay league. I also switch jobs mid-summer. Result: I finish out of the money by 1 point, I spend a lot of time I don't have entering changes for the league. Mostly though, I have my integrity questioned, am accused of using my commissioner "powers" to cheat and then have a huge fight with my brother. He tells me in the course of the fight that the guy who said I had cheated had done more for the people in the league than I would ever know. I decide to quit.
Year 4: I don't quit. I think (at the time) that I might get some love of the game back. Be easy, enjoy yourself. Today, again, my integrity is questioned because of a lopsided trade I agreed to. It was lopsided trade designed to help me next year.
But today, I keep thinking about baseball. And feeling sad. And wondering whether I should play or watch at all next year. Or the rest of this.
I can think of a few things that might help me feel better--the Ken Burns doc, some Roger Angell, some Stephen J. Gould. I'd say that I could go to a Rancho Cucamonga Quakes game, but we've had two actual earthquakes in the last three days and somehow I don't want to go to a stadium called the epicenter. Plus there's that whole--I don't like the Inland Empire much problem. My university's team is done for the year, so the *pling* of the aluminum bats can be no comfort now.
That's Bronson Arroyo, one of the guys I got in the lopsided trade. He's curently 6-5 with an ERA of 6.56. He's 6'5" and goes 195. I don't think he uses steroids. That's good, at least.
It's a beautiful game, baseball. I need to find out how to get back to its beauty.
The dirt's pretty. So's the ball. It's everything around it that's suspect.
Cue outro...
"Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio [or insert alt player, as needed]...?" I'd like some of the joy in Mudville back but am afraid there are too many strikes now.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Two wheels (motorized division)
For those of you who have read and still read my homages to randomness, you know that occasionally I lapse into discussion of bicycles. I am aware that no one but me wants to read these lapses. Yet I persist. It's a little like my current occasional behavior of defying the Garmin Nüvi. I just can't help myself.
See? My Gunnar Rockhound. Don't tell me to turn on Roscoe. I just won't do it.
Today, though, I am coming clean about a new two wheeled addition to my life.
Here it is surrounded by its non-motorized friends...
Introductions all around, shall we? In the back top, we have my newest bicycle, the Kona Dew Deluxe. It's not REALLY a hybrid if it has disc wheels, right? Underneath it (and mostly obscured) is Honey's Gary Fisher Tassajara. To the right on top it my (now sold) Surly Cross Check. We never quite got along. Below the Surly is my Gunnar. And in the center is my Kymco People 250. (Honey's Orbea Onix was inside at the time the picture was taken and her Honda Magna was in the shop--see explanation below).
There it is...
Let's go back a few years shall we?
When I was in graduate school, I decided to get a motorcycle. Why did I decide to do this? Well there were a few reasons. UCLA let you park one for free. UCLA didn't let you breathe for free. They also didn't let you park a car at all unless you lived in Amarillo and could prove your commute was too long by bus. So, parking a motorcycle in any number of highly convenient motorcycle lots (including one right behind the building my program was in) seemed fab.
Also Honey had one. I like doing what Honey does. She's my honey, after all.
Honey, being the independent sort that she is, had learned to ride her bike on her own, taken the DMV test on her own, and was all set. I'm not that adventurous. Instead, I decided to take the Motorcycle Foundation Safety course. It consisted of two in-class session that were a little like High School driving class. Taught by an older guy who said he never drove a car, they were a little boring, but ok otherwise.
The class also had two riding days. We rode little motorcycles in the parking lot of Pasadena Community College. I was the only woman and the instructor thought me pretty much incapable. Those two days were among the most stressful in my life. I can, right now, conjure my late 20s self standing at the trunk of my car, on a break, my legs trembling, eating some string cheese and a nutri-grain bar.
Somehow, despite his dislike of me, I passed. He wasn't done, though. His parting shot was, "do some of what you're doing out on the road and you'll get yourself killed."
Pedagogically, a very weak approach, I must say. I don't know WHAT I did wrong that was going to put me in danger, but I do remember the fear and humiliation.
Anyway, I got myself one of these:
It's an 84 Honda Nighthawk. I bought it in 95 or so. I rode it to UCLA for several years. Didn't get myself killed, obviously.
I sold it in 99 or so. I needed the money. I had stopped riding it once I finished my degree. I must say that I never quite got over the MSF guy's warning. I was relieved when a nice Air Force officer bought it from me.
I always regretted that Honey and I didn't ride more together. We did a long ride once and I was barely able to get through Malibu Canyon because of fear. She was fine. I'm scarred.
Honey kept her motorcycle and it sat in our garage for a long time, inoperable. Last summer, with gas at almost $5 a gallon in California, she decided to get it fixed. That's her story. My story, typically, is to follow along with Honey's enthusiasms. No motorcycle, though. Not this time.
I wanted a scooter. Cute, fun, feet flat. Automatic. A Vespa. I'd wanted a scooter for years. I remember checking the alternative weekly in Washington when I lived there for one to buy. Didn't have to be a Vespa. Any decent scooter would do. It was going to be different this time. I was going to be different this time.
So, I investigated. Discovered that there were, essentially, four types of scooter manufacturers:
Italian: Vespa, Piaggio, Aprilia. Uber-cool, super-expensive, and probably out of my league.
Japanese: Some of the usual suspects, Honda, Kawasaki, etc. Moderately priced. Not a lot of choices.
Taiwanese: Lots of choices, decent reputations, brands I hadn't heard of: Kymco, Sym, Genuine
Chinese: I gather to be avoided.
I ran into a problem. I wasn't the only one who thought to buy a scooter last summer with gas the way it was. Quelle surprise. Finding a scooter in a showroom was hard. Verging on impossible.
What you could get was a 50cc.
That Nighthawk? It was a 700cc.
50s are great for gas mileage. They'll get 80-100mpg. They also only get up to about 30 miles per hour. I test rode one. I really liked its looks.
I was a total freak about riding it. Nervous and tense. Once I got going, though, I remembered. What to do. Where to look. How to use my hands and feet.
I might have bought it right on the spot, but for the 50cc thing. And Teresa calming me down. Bless her heart.
Most scooter manufacturers make a 150cc. Yamaha 150s would be available in October (this was July/August). Vespas could be sooner, but they cost $5000+. Genuine Buddies were too small. The world seemed to be tilting toward a Kymco. The Kymco dealer was getting some Agility 125s in.
I haunted craigslist and ebay. The same scooter popped up on both down in Orange County. It was a 250cc, which seemed better for hauling my ass around. I talked to the guy and made arrangements to come see it. I even bought a helmet. I brought some mountain bike gloves. I got out cash. Carrying around a lot of cash makes me nervous. So does buying motor vehicles.
Teresa and I agreed that it would be better not to take it on the freeway. Getting from Orange County to Los Angeles County without using the freeway is not easy. I think it took about three hours.
By the time we pulled into the scooter dealer (it needed service), I was exhausted. I was also pretty sure I had made a good decision. It ran well, fit me nicely, and it was fun.
I ride it a couple of times a week, at least.
Sometimes, I act like a goober and stick my knee out when I turn. Mostly, though, I just ride it. Sitting up straight. Following all the laws. I never split lanes. I always wear the gear (jacket, full-face helmet, armored gloves). Gas costs $2 a gallon just now. It cost me $3.11 to fill up the People last week.
Honey and I have ridden a couple of times together. We'll ride some more, I'm sure. Maybe not Malibu Canyon. Maybe to the movies again.
Vroom.
See? My Gunnar Rockhound. Don't tell me to turn on Roscoe. I just won't do it.
Today, though, I am coming clean about a new two wheeled addition to my life.
Here it is surrounded by its non-motorized friends...
Introductions all around, shall we? In the back top, we have my newest bicycle, the Kona Dew Deluxe. It's not REALLY a hybrid if it has disc wheels, right? Underneath it (and mostly obscured) is Honey's Gary Fisher Tassajara. To the right on top it my (now sold) Surly Cross Check. We never quite got along. Below the Surly is my Gunnar. And in the center is my Kymco People 250. (Honey's Orbea Onix was inside at the time the picture was taken and her Honda Magna was in the shop--see explanation below).
There it is...
Let's go back a few years shall we?
When I was in graduate school, I decided to get a motorcycle. Why did I decide to do this? Well there were a few reasons. UCLA let you park one for free. UCLA didn't let you breathe for free. They also didn't let you park a car at all unless you lived in Amarillo and could prove your commute was too long by bus. So, parking a motorcycle in any number of highly convenient motorcycle lots (including one right behind the building my program was in) seemed fab.
Also Honey had one. I like doing what Honey does. She's my honey, after all.
Honey, being the independent sort that she is, had learned to ride her bike on her own, taken the DMV test on her own, and was all set. I'm not that adventurous. Instead, I decided to take the Motorcycle Foundation Safety course. It consisted of two in-class session that were a little like High School driving class. Taught by an older guy who said he never drove a car, they were a little boring, but ok otherwise.
The class also had two riding days. We rode little motorcycles in the parking lot of Pasadena Community College. I was the only woman and the instructor thought me pretty much incapable. Those two days were among the most stressful in my life. I can, right now, conjure my late 20s self standing at the trunk of my car, on a break, my legs trembling, eating some string cheese and a nutri-grain bar.
Somehow, despite his dislike of me, I passed. He wasn't done, though. His parting shot was, "do some of what you're doing out on the road and you'll get yourself killed."
Pedagogically, a very weak approach, I must say. I don't know WHAT I did wrong that was going to put me in danger, but I do remember the fear and humiliation.
Anyway, I got myself one of these:
It's an 84 Honda Nighthawk. I bought it in 95 or so. I rode it to UCLA for several years. Didn't get myself killed, obviously.
I sold it in 99 or so. I needed the money. I had stopped riding it once I finished my degree. I must say that I never quite got over the MSF guy's warning. I was relieved when a nice Air Force officer bought it from me.
I always regretted that Honey and I didn't ride more together. We did a long ride once and I was barely able to get through Malibu Canyon because of fear. She was fine. I'm scarred.
Honey kept her motorcycle and it sat in our garage for a long time, inoperable. Last summer, with gas at almost $5 a gallon in California, she decided to get it fixed. That's her story. My story, typically, is to follow along with Honey's enthusiasms. No motorcycle, though. Not this time.
I wanted a scooter. Cute, fun, feet flat. Automatic. A Vespa. I'd wanted a scooter for years. I remember checking the alternative weekly in Washington when I lived there for one to buy. Didn't have to be a Vespa. Any decent scooter would do. It was going to be different this time. I was going to be different this time.
So, I investigated. Discovered that there were, essentially, four types of scooter manufacturers:
Italian: Vespa, Piaggio, Aprilia. Uber-cool, super-expensive, and probably out of my league.
Japanese: Some of the usual suspects, Honda, Kawasaki, etc. Moderately priced. Not a lot of choices.
Taiwanese: Lots of choices, decent reputations, brands I hadn't heard of: Kymco, Sym, Genuine
Chinese: I gather to be avoided.
I ran into a problem. I wasn't the only one who thought to buy a scooter last summer with gas the way it was. Quelle surprise. Finding a scooter in a showroom was hard. Verging on impossible.
What you could get was a 50cc.
That Nighthawk? It was a 700cc.
50s are great for gas mileage. They'll get 80-100mpg. They also only get up to about 30 miles per hour. I test rode one. I really liked its looks.
I was a total freak about riding it. Nervous and tense. Once I got going, though, I remembered. What to do. Where to look. How to use my hands and feet.
I might have bought it right on the spot, but for the 50cc thing. And Teresa calming me down. Bless her heart.
Most scooter manufacturers make a 150cc. Yamaha 150s would be available in October (this was July/August). Vespas could be sooner, but they cost $5000+. Genuine Buddies were too small. The world seemed to be tilting toward a Kymco. The Kymco dealer was getting some Agility 125s in.
I haunted craigslist and ebay. The same scooter popped up on both down in Orange County. It was a 250cc, which seemed better for hauling my ass around. I talked to the guy and made arrangements to come see it. I even bought a helmet. I brought some mountain bike gloves. I got out cash. Carrying around a lot of cash makes me nervous. So does buying motor vehicles.
Teresa and I agreed that it would be better not to take it on the freeway. Getting from Orange County to Los Angeles County without using the freeway is not easy. I think it took about three hours.
By the time we pulled into the scooter dealer (it needed service), I was exhausted. I was also pretty sure I had made a good decision. It ran well, fit me nicely, and it was fun.
I ride it a couple of times a week, at least.
Sometimes, I act like a goober and stick my knee out when I turn. Mostly, though, I just ride it. Sitting up straight. Following all the laws. I never split lanes. I always wear the gear (jacket, full-face helmet, armored gloves). Gas costs $2 a gallon just now. It cost me $3.11 to fill up the People last week.
Honey and I have ridden a couple of times together. We'll ride some more, I'm sure. Maybe not Malibu Canyon. Maybe to the movies again.
Vroom.
Friday, January 30, 2009
2191 miles
On Tuesday afternoon I asked my boss if I could take my half-day of "informal time off" the governor gave us on Christmas Eve. She readily agreed, as the beginning of the semester can be stressful. I didn't actually extract myself until almost 3pm, so I later got an e-mail from her ordering me to take another half day off soon. Have I mentioned how much I like working for her? I do, indeed.
Anyway, I was chilling (really heating) at the spa after my "service" and got to thinking about Facebook.
Honey and I had been to this self-same spa the previous Saturday. (No treatment, just soaking--should I mention we got gift certificates for Christmas? I'm all for keeping the economy going, but this is a lot of spa time). Anyway, Honey noticed that a woman was sitting behind us on a rather hard uncomfortable bench while eating a banana. We were changing. Not ten feet away was a padded bench next to a fountain. Honey decided (and I think she's right) that this woman had achieved true spa mindstate. Eating her banana on a hard bench while people changed clothes. Directly behind their butts. One might also use the word fugue.
I am never able to achieve that mindstate.
Which is why I was thinking about Facebook at the spa. Given some of the other stuff that has been going on in my life, I was actually doing pretty well thinking about Facebook.
I was also thinking about how much my steam rooom skill has increased.
First encounter with a steamroom=pretty much total I'm drowning in eucalyptus water panic. Now--I can be in there for a long time. Not as long as Treecup can get beaten up by jacuzzi jets, but a long time for me. Growth comes how it does.
I had resisted Facebook. My brother likes it. He has a lot of friends on it. It seemed like something he did.
Then, last spring I was standing around on REALLY hard marble at my dissertation advisor's retirement party. Why does marble hurt to stand on so much? Anyway, a bunch of people were talking about Facebook and how they had a Facebook group and and and.
So I signed up. Which was fine. I was friended by some people from grad school. Then Honey signed up. Then a couple of blog friends who know my name found me. Ok. I also friended my brother and sister-in-law. See how enlightened I can be?
Ok, so some colleagues from work found me. Also fine/good. One of them suggests a lot of things to me. Also ok. He's like that and he's a good guy. I don't have to TAKE his suggestions, if I don't want to. Plus, he also friended T, despite never having met her and he sends her almost as many suggestions. In that sense, I confirm that it's his approach to Facebook and I don't feel either special or put upon.
Anyway, then I found a high school friend. We had been in and out of touch, but I figured I'd poke her. All of a sudden (and it was probably not a result of my friending her), a BUNCH of H.S. people started friending me and each other. I agreed to all requests, but didn't initiate any. Recently, I looked over my friend list (which isn't long) and my "people you may know" list and it's 75% high school.
I live 2191 miles from my high school (and yes, I did just look it up). I didn't like high school very much. I have exactly ONE person on my Facebook friend list from college. I loved college.
The presence of people from more recent periods in my life is more easily explained. But the high school to college ratio is puzzling to me.
The thing is, the high school folks mostly seem like the kind of people I might like now. Funny, down-to-earth, liberal, interesting and engaged with the kinds of things I care about.
I am going to "unfriend" one of them--though I haven't decided how confrontational to be about it--who affiliated himself with the American Family Association yesterday.
It's odd, actually, to think so much about high school now. It's more than 2191 miles away in time. I'm glad to be through and past it. Don't much want to look at pictures of myself from it.
Having a good relationship to my past self is not always easy for me. Hell, having a good relationship to my present self isn't all that easy, either...
I was also thinking this week about a friend I used to have right after college. He called me a few months ago and assumed that I had caller id on my home phone. I didn't and cannot find him. I've tried and recently got an e-mail about him as a result of my search that suggested his life has been very hard. It brought me no closer to him and has made me very sad.
I can only do the best I can. Sometimes that means looking at pictures of myself in ugly shorts and thinking about high school without being freaked out. Sometimes it means staying a little longer in the steam room.
2191 miles traveled. Or more. A lot more.
(BTW, is any blog readers want to "friend me," send me an e-mail sporksforall at gmail dot com and I'll friend you up, yo).
Anyway, I was chilling (really heating) at the spa after my "service" and got to thinking about Facebook.
Honey and I had been to this self-same spa the previous Saturday. (No treatment, just soaking--should I mention we got gift certificates for Christmas? I'm all for keeping the economy going, but this is a lot of spa time). Anyway, Honey noticed that a woman was sitting behind us on a rather hard uncomfortable bench while eating a banana. We were changing. Not ten feet away was a padded bench next to a fountain. Honey decided (and I think she's right) that this woman had achieved true spa mindstate. Eating her banana on a hard bench while people changed clothes. Directly behind their butts. One might also use the word fugue.
I am never able to achieve that mindstate.
Which is why I was thinking about Facebook at the spa. Given some of the other stuff that has been going on in my life, I was actually doing pretty well thinking about Facebook.
I was also thinking about how much my steam rooom skill has increased.
First encounter with a steamroom=pretty much total I'm drowning in eucalyptus water panic. Now--I can be in there for a long time. Not as long as Treecup can get beaten up by jacuzzi jets, but a long time for me. Growth comes how it does.
I had resisted Facebook. My brother likes it. He has a lot of friends on it. It seemed like something he did.
Then, last spring I was standing around on REALLY hard marble at my dissertation advisor's retirement party. Why does marble hurt to stand on so much? Anyway, a bunch of people were talking about Facebook and how they had a Facebook group and and and.
So I signed up. Which was fine. I was friended by some people from grad school. Then Honey signed up. Then a couple of blog friends who know my name found me. Ok. I also friended my brother and sister-in-law. See how enlightened I can be?
Ok, so some colleagues from work found me. Also fine/good. One of them suggests a lot of things to me. Also ok. He's like that and he's a good guy. I don't have to TAKE his suggestions, if I don't want to. Plus, he also friended T, despite never having met her and he sends her almost as many suggestions. In that sense, I confirm that it's his approach to Facebook and I don't feel either special or put upon.
Anyway, then I found a high school friend. We had been in and out of touch, but I figured I'd poke her. All of a sudden (and it was probably not a result of my friending her), a BUNCH of H.S. people started friending me and each other. I agreed to all requests, but didn't initiate any. Recently, I looked over my friend list (which isn't long) and my "people you may know" list and it's 75% high school.
I live 2191 miles from my high school (and yes, I did just look it up). I didn't like high school very much. I have exactly ONE person on my Facebook friend list from college. I loved college.
The presence of people from more recent periods in my life is more easily explained. But the high school to college ratio is puzzling to me.
The thing is, the high school folks mostly seem like the kind of people I might like now. Funny, down-to-earth, liberal, interesting and engaged with the kinds of things I care about.
I am going to "unfriend" one of them--though I haven't decided how confrontational to be about it--who affiliated himself with the American Family Association yesterday.
It's odd, actually, to think so much about high school now. It's more than 2191 miles away in time. I'm glad to be through and past it. Don't much want to look at pictures of myself from it.
Having a good relationship to my past self is not always easy for me. Hell, having a good relationship to my present self isn't all that easy, either...
I was also thinking this week about a friend I used to have right after college. He called me a few months ago and assumed that I had caller id on my home phone. I didn't and cannot find him. I've tried and recently got an e-mail about him as a result of my search that suggested his life has been very hard. It brought me no closer to him and has made me very sad.
I can only do the best I can. Sometimes that means looking at pictures of myself in ugly shorts and thinking about high school without being freaked out. Sometimes it means staying a little longer in the steam room.
2191 miles traveled. Or more. A lot more.
(BTW, is any blog readers want to "friend me," send me an e-mail sporksforall at gmail dot com and I'll friend you up, yo).
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Sleep, on not getting enough
It may be a sign of getting old, but I find myself increasingly unable to sleep through the night. Honey has always maintained that I am truly amazing in my ability to get to sleep in the first place.
Lately, I've been waking up in the middle of the night. For a while, I wrote it off to pee needs. Go ahead, I'd tell myself, pee and the you'll drop right back off to sleep.
I really don't want to get too reliant on non prescription sleeping pills. Drugs are bad. Nancy Reagan said so.
Truth is, though, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I become acutely aware of discomfort. My ears hurt from the ear plugs I wear because of the dogs. My arms hurt because I tend to fall asleep with them underneath me. My brain comes alive with it's weird loopy patterns. Song lyrics have dominated lately. I rarely get back to sleep.
I still haven't solved the sleep number crevasse problem. (And before anyone asks, no I didn't call them back, despite their offer to help. I don't have the information she asked for and can't really get it--given that we have the "cheap ass sleep number" (or CASN).
So, for now, it's going to have to be Advil PM
or Simply Sleep. I'd blame this all on my recent transition to my fifth decade, but since it predates that, I'll just assume it's some kind of karmic punishment for, well, bad karma.
Point of post, for those who like such summations:
WHINE
Thank you, that is all.
Lately, I've been waking up in the middle of the night. For a while, I wrote it off to pee needs. Go ahead, I'd tell myself, pee and the you'll drop right back off to sleep.
I really don't want to get too reliant on non prescription sleeping pills. Drugs are bad. Nancy Reagan said so.
Truth is, though, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I become acutely aware of discomfort. My ears hurt from the ear plugs I wear because of the dogs. My arms hurt because I tend to fall asleep with them underneath me. My brain comes alive with it's weird loopy patterns. Song lyrics have dominated lately. I rarely get back to sleep.
I still haven't solved the sleep number crevasse problem. (And before anyone asks, no I didn't call them back, despite their offer to help. I don't have the information she asked for and can't really get it--given that we have the "cheap ass sleep number" (or CASN).
So, for now, it's going to have to be Advil PM
or Simply Sleep. I'd blame this all on my recent transition to my fifth decade, but since it predates that, I'll just assume it's some kind of karmic punishment for, well, bad karma.Point of post, for those who like such summations:
WHINE
Thank you, that is all.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Substances
Last week, I took our extra microwave out to the garage. We had acquired it through abandonment, along with an immovable hutch from the estate of the previous owner of our house. We didn't actually need two microwaves. This one had begun to make odd noises and it needed to be abandoned by us. (Shouldn't twice abandoned appliances simply vaporize?)
It's former space is now occupied by two coffee burr grinders and Honey's coffee pot. We're such coffee geeks. She's been drinking decaf since her brain went a little jazzy on her in our visit to the fiftieth state. I acquired a second burr grinder for us, so our coffee consumption can continue unabated. To be clear, in addition to the burr grinders, we also have a filtered water drip coffee maker (for her) and a espresso pot and the magical wonder that is the aerolatte for me.
I thought about our coffee as substance this morning, when I received from the fine institution I work for the updated campus guide to a drug free workplace. I dutifully clicked through and was greeted by our policy and a list of the substances in question that might be abused. They also provided, quite handily, a chart of their nom de narcotics. For example:
COCAINE/CRACK (Blow, bump, C, candy, Charlie, flake, rock, snow)
or
ALCOHOL (Beer, wine, liquor, malt liquor, booze, juice, sauce, hooch)
They also listed the effects of these substances on the user. Back to cocaine, or as I now think of it, bump:
Irritability and depression
Impaired decision-making
Insomnia
I excerpted but have all three of those things. Hmm.
On Wednesday, I was home a little early, impaired, apparently, by my use of Charlie, though I don't recall actually encountering it. I heard a ruckus outside. I went out to find that some kids had been playing with some safety glass that had been left deposited outside our fence. Sigh. I love our neighbors so. Anyway, the kids had moved the safety glass into our driveway. However "safe" it was, I didn't want to leave it there for my Honey to drive over when she got home. I fetched our broom and dustpan and began to sweep it up. Seemingly out of nowhere a woman appeared.
She seemed pleasant and said she had seen the kids playing with the glass. I mumbled something about the joys of our neighborhood. She offered to hold the dustpan for me. I tried to demur, but was unsuccessful. When I looked up at her, I noticed she was crying.
It turned out that she was on her first day as a door to door salesperson for a cleaning product. "No one cares," she said to me.
She wanted very badly to demo the product for me, which she claimed to "clean anything" including our picket fence. Why in the world would I want to clean our picket fence? Answer: I wouldn't.
I have a long history of feeling bad for people like this and she was throwing the works at me. She said something about how tired she was, how lonely she was, that she had tried to quit at lunch, and then there was that "no one cares" mantra. The product, she said, was environmentally friendly. I asked what was in it. She didn't know, but said it was biodegradable.
I tried valiantly to extract myself. She said her supervisor was picking her up at 7pm. She would just wait for him and smoke a cigarette. If I wanted to check out the ingredients of the product online, I could decide what I wanted to do. She asked for a match or a lighter. When I said I didn't have one, she cried a little more and said she wouldn't smoke the cigarette after all.
I went inside. Let the dogs into the house. I looked up the product. No ingredients listed on their website either. It had SUCH a generic name, it was practically ungoogleable. My choices? Stay inside and feel bad for her. Go back outside, give her a check for $64 for a gallon of crap I didn't want, need, or know the make-up of. (Did I mention that the product was SIXTY FOUR DOLLARS?!) I thought some more. When faced with either/or choices, I like to try to think if there is another choice. I remembered that we had been given a lighter in our Advocate 40th Anniversary gift bag. I had proposed throwing it away. Honey, in her wisdom, had urged keeping it. I found it (it was gift boxed!) and went outside. I gave it to the saleswoman and wished her luck.
So, despite my current seeming abuse of some substance or another (if symptoms are any indicator), I was pleased to have a moment of clarity. Now, if I can just figure out what drugs to take to counter-act all these other symptoms...
It's former space is now occupied by two coffee burr grinders and Honey's coffee pot. We're such coffee geeks. She's been drinking decaf since her brain went a little jazzy on her in our visit to the fiftieth state. I acquired a second burr grinder for us, so our coffee consumption can continue unabated. To be clear, in addition to the burr grinders, we also have a filtered water drip coffee maker (for her) and a espresso pot and the magical wonder that is the aerolatte
for me.I thought about our coffee as substance this morning, when I received from the fine institution I work for the updated campus guide to a drug free workplace. I dutifully clicked through and was greeted by our policy and a list of the substances in question that might be abused. They also provided, quite handily, a chart of their nom de narcotics. For example:
COCAINE/CRACK (Blow, bump, C, candy, Charlie, flake, rock, snow)
or
ALCOHOL (Beer, wine, liquor, malt liquor, booze, juice, sauce, hooch)
They also listed the effects of these substances on the user. Back to cocaine, or as I now think of it, bump:
Irritability and depression
Impaired decision-making
Insomnia
I excerpted but have all three of those things. Hmm.
On Wednesday, I was home a little early, impaired, apparently, by my use of Charlie, though I don't recall actually encountering it. I heard a ruckus outside. I went out to find that some kids had been playing with some safety glass that had been left deposited outside our fence. Sigh. I love our neighbors so. Anyway, the kids had moved the safety glass into our driveway. However "safe" it was, I didn't want to leave it there for my Honey to drive over when she got home. I fetched our broom and dustpan and began to sweep it up. Seemingly out of nowhere a woman appeared.
She seemed pleasant and said she had seen the kids playing with the glass. I mumbled something about the joys of our neighborhood. She offered to hold the dustpan for me. I tried to demur, but was unsuccessful. When I looked up at her, I noticed she was crying.
It turned out that she was on her first day as a door to door salesperson for a cleaning product. "No one cares," she said to me.
She wanted very badly to demo the product for me, which she claimed to "clean anything" including our picket fence. Why in the world would I want to clean our picket fence? Answer: I wouldn't.
I have a long history of feeling bad for people like this and she was throwing the works at me. She said something about how tired she was, how lonely she was, that she had tried to quit at lunch, and then there was that "no one cares" mantra. The product, she said, was environmentally friendly. I asked what was in it. She didn't know, but said it was biodegradable.
I tried valiantly to extract myself. She said her supervisor was picking her up at 7pm. She would just wait for him and smoke a cigarette. If I wanted to check out the ingredients of the product online, I could decide what I wanted to do. She asked for a match or a lighter. When I said I didn't have one, she cried a little more and said she wouldn't smoke the cigarette after all.
I went inside. Let the dogs into the house. I looked up the product. No ingredients listed on their website either. It had SUCH a generic name, it was practically ungoogleable. My choices? Stay inside and feel bad for her. Go back outside, give her a check for $64 for a gallon of crap I didn't want, need, or know the make-up of. (Did I mention that the product was SIXTY FOUR DOLLARS?!) I thought some more. When faced with either/or choices, I like to try to think if there is another choice. I remembered that we had been given a lighter in our Advocate 40th Anniversary gift bag. I had proposed throwing it away. Honey, in her wisdom, had urged keeping it. I found it (it was gift boxed!) and went outside. I gave it to the saleswoman and wished her luck.
So, despite my current seeming abuse of some substance or another (if symptoms are any indicator), I was pleased to have a moment of clarity. Now, if I can just figure out what drugs to take to counter-act all these other symptoms...
Monday, January 21, 2008
Hole punched me
I cried more than usual last week. I'm not a big crier, but sometimes things get to a stress level that my usual calm exterior breaks down.
Stress? Me stressed?
My tenure file was due on Friday. This event can cause stress for even the most sanguine academics. My effort was made more complicated by a number of factors.
To wit:
+This was my first file of this type. Normally people submit what's called a "retention file" first. I didn't have to because I just got my job permanently summer before last and because you don't have to submit a file your first year.
+My file qualifies as weird. Most faculty teach. I do too, but my day-to-day effort focuses more on administration.
+If I don't get tenure, I lose my job.
No pressure. None at all.
The mofo required a 5 inch notebook. Priced one of those lately? They're not cheap. $30 not cheap.
Also, Avery needs to try a lot harder. Don't sell 12-tab dividers when the template doesn't work with Word for Mac. I managed to find some 5-tab dividers in the office. Someone had left a sheet in the box that had all the labels pulled off. I formatted carefully, printed and discovered that I had printed on a used, no-label sheet. Um-Hmm. Would you put a used-up sheet back into the label box? Neither would I. Did we have any more 5-tab labels? Nope. Did I need to reformat for 8-tab labels? Yep. Total time making, printing and applying the labels? Well over two hours.
If Avery lodged itself firmly on my office product shit list, Swingline became my office product hero. How? Well, they make this wondrous thing:
Behold the bit of magnificence, friends and neighbors, that is Swingline's electric three hole punch. A friend secreted it away from a neighboring department. After using it to punch for a while (and having several co-workers come by to try it), I asked our office folks to order us one. I heart Swingline. Honey asked, when I was raving about it, "who punches holes any more?" I do and think my office deserves the brilliance and efficiency of the Swingline 525.
Here's the completed product:
Thick, huh?
Look at those labels. They look nice, despite Avery's stupidity, inanity.
My normal bag didn't seem even close to capable of holding the five inches of hole-punched me for delivery to the dean's office. Fortunately, I had gotten a bag for travel that was up to the task.
My green bean machine was ready to carry me for the delivery.
I won't know anything until the end of the semester.
The thing is called a PIF. That's sort of how I feel now that it lives in the dean's office. Like all the air's been released.
piffffffff
The crying, thankfully, has subsided somewhat.
Stress? Me stressed?
My tenure file was due on Friday. This event can cause stress for even the most sanguine academics. My effort was made more complicated by a number of factors.
To wit:
+This was my first file of this type. Normally people submit what's called a "retention file" first. I didn't have to because I just got my job permanently summer before last and because you don't have to submit a file your first year.
+My file qualifies as weird. Most faculty teach. I do too, but my day-to-day effort focuses more on administration.
+If I don't get tenure, I lose my job.
No pressure. None at all.
The mofo required a 5 inch notebook. Priced one of those lately? They're not cheap. $30 not cheap.
Also, Avery needs to try a lot harder. Don't sell 12-tab dividers when the template doesn't work with Word for Mac. I managed to find some 5-tab dividers in the office. Someone had left a sheet in the box that had all the labels pulled off. I formatted carefully, printed and discovered that I had printed on a used, no-label sheet. Um-Hmm. Would you put a used-up sheet back into the label box? Neither would I. Did we have any more 5-tab labels? Nope. Did I need to reformat for 8-tab labels? Yep. Total time making, printing and applying the labels? Well over two hours.
If Avery lodged itself firmly on my office product shit list, Swingline became my office product hero. How? Well, they make this wondrous thing:
Behold the bit of magnificence, friends and neighbors, that is Swingline's electric three hole punch. A friend secreted it away from a neighboring department. After using it to punch for a while (and having several co-workers come by to try it), I asked our office folks to order us one. I heart Swingline. Honey asked, when I was raving about it, "who punches holes any more?" I do and think my office deserves the brilliance and efficiency of the Swingline 525.
Here's the completed product:
Thick, huh?
Look at those labels. They look nice, despite Avery's stupidity, inanity.
My normal bag didn't seem even close to capable of holding the five inches of hole-punched me for delivery to the dean's office. Fortunately, I had gotten a bag for travel that was up to the task.
My green bean machine was ready to carry me for the delivery.
I won't know anything until the end of the semester.
The thing is called a PIF. That's sort of how I feel now that it lives in the dean's office. Like all the air's been released.
piffffffff
The crying, thankfully, has subsided somewhat.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Avoiding the crevasse
I spend a lot of time pretending my body doesn't exist. Oh, sure, I know it does. I glance at on occasion. I can see parts of it as I type. As a whole, though, I'd just as soon let it travel through a slightly parallel universe. I especially hate having my attention drawn to it by forces external.
Most nights I sleep by myself in our Select Comfort bed. My honey sleeps next to me in a device that protects her very badly arthritic spinal column. The Select Comfort bed was not made for one...
The upper arrow pointing to what they're calling "support foam" is actually pointing to something I call "the crevasse" which is an indentation between the two air chambers. When I sleep alone in the bed, I roll into the crevasse. I stay in the crevasse. The crevasse was not meant for sleeping in. And yet, night after night, I hear its siren call and into it I roll.
Saturday night I must have ensconced myself into it fundamentally because Sunday morning my lower back felt as if it had been slammed with a cricket bat.
See how flat those mofos are? Sleeping in the crevasse=getting hit by a cricket bat in the lower back. So what did we decide to do yesterday? Glad you asked; we decided to buy large things at Ikea. Large things that had to be loaded in the FJ and then unloaded in the garage.
Honey had this lovely massage thing from Brookstone I didn't know about and we took turns spending time with it.
Meanwhile, I was riding my bike around campus today and did something to my bad knee. I'm fine sitting. But walking, no so much.
The coporeal and kinesthetic is part of my life, whether I like it or not. Still, right this minute, I might start hitting people and things with a cricket bat if something else goes wrong. Those mofos hurt. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Most nights I sleep by myself in our Select Comfort bed. My honey sleeps next to me in a device that protects her very badly arthritic spinal column. The Select Comfort bed was not made for one...
The upper arrow pointing to what they're calling "support foam" is actually pointing to something I call "the crevasse" which is an indentation between the two air chambers. When I sleep alone in the bed, I roll into the crevasse. I stay in the crevasse. The crevasse was not meant for sleeping in. And yet, night after night, I hear its siren call and into it I roll.
Saturday night I must have ensconced myself into it fundamentally because Sunday morning my lower back felt as if it had been slammed with a cricket bat.
See how flat those mofos are? Sleeping in the crevasse=getting hit by a cricket bat in the lower back. So what did we decide to do yesterday? Glad you asked; we decided to buy large things at Ikea. Large things that had to be loaded in the FJ and then unloaded in the garage.
Honey had this lovely massage thing from Brookstone I didn't know about and we took turns spending time with it.
Meanwhile, I was riding my bike around campus today and did something to my bad knee. I'm fine sitting. But walking, no so much.
The coporeal and kinesthetic is part of my life, whether I like it or not. Still, right this minute, I might start hitting people and things with a cricket bat if something else goes wrong. Those mofos hurt. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Costing more
So Honey mentioned to me yesterday that our faithful laptop was conking out a few times a day. I named the laptop "pretty" when I got it. Shall we take a brief tour of my computers? Sure. Why not? It's my blog after all.
My first computer was a PC. Not a real IBM one, but an Epson with a Hercules paperwhite monitor. It served me fairly well. I upgraded it at some point and it functioned like DOS based PCs did. Well. Then Windows cam along and I lost faith.
In graduate school, I had a class that introduced me to the wonders of that magical place called Cupertino. Hypercard prefigured and guessed at the beginnings of the web. I used the internet then--e-mail and netnews--but hadn't yet seen a graphical interface. Hypercard changed that. I promptly got myself a Mac. A laptop.
Color and everything! It weighed a ton, but I was delighted to have a system that worked.
Taking a page from my Honey... to keep you going. There are baby animals here!
Anyway, we entered into the bright phase when Apple did. An original bondi iMac was complemented by the famous (from Sex and the City) iBook. We called the iBook "clam."
Swivelhead came next. I sent him packing this summer when his disc drive went out. That and he wouldn't play Sims2.
Need another baby animal picture? Honey uses them to help deal with tough stuff. I'm compensating for boring stuff. Not the same thing, really.
Pretty and Swivelhead lived together. Pretty has served us well. Even when Biscuit broke her powercord input, she bravely went to the Apple store and got fixed.
She welcomed Flathead when he came home this summer to replace Swivelhead. She chirped merrily along, all the while communicating with the spaceship (our Airport wireless router).
When Honey told me about Pretty's problems, I was worried. Pretty was nearing the end of her life, it seemed. Was it her screen? Was it her motherboard? Either way, she isn't worth fixing. She's a G4 Mac in an Intel CoreDuo world.
Honey and I discussed, looked online, and talked some about it. She's very careful, my Honey. I am a rushing-in kind of fool. Here's one thing we agreed on, though. Apple needed to stop introducing white computers and then making the non-white ones cost more. Flathead was purchased JUST before the new silver and black iMacs came out. Flathead costs $200 less than his silver and black brethern do now. $200. Remember that number.
The new MacBooks are available in white and black.
Here's the thing, though... The white ones are cheaper.
$200 cheaper.
Oh, sure the black one gets you a better hard drive. But it's so little better that it's not worth talking about.
At one point, Honey said exactly what I was feeling, "I don't want to spend $1000 on something that LOOKS exactly like what we already have." Look again, gentle reader. See the resemblance? The current MacBook and Pretty are so closely related in looks that they shouldn't be allowed to marry. They'd produce warped little white plastic babies. What? Oh, ok, fine. More baby animals...
The dolphin isn't white or deformed or anything. Happy?
Apple knows us. We both REALLY wanted the black one. It was matte black, it was smaller than Pretty. It was faster than Pretty or Flathead. I have a big presentation next week for a major nonprofit in a faraway city. Ok, it's Denver, so it's not that far away, but it is a major nonprofit. Dating back to the 19th century major.
Both of our iPods are black. It costs more. We really liked it better. It had a bigger hard drive. It costs more. $200 more. Apple knows us. $300 more? We'd have a white one. $200, we stand in the Apple Store and discuss.
It was hard to justify. We did it, though. We made it work in our brains and now own "Jelly."
Call us shallow. Go ahead. Here's the thing about Apple. They're gotten 100% on the Human Rights Campaign survey of good places for GLBT folks to work for six years. $200. 6 years of good GLBT relations. Black. $200. White.
They know us.
Jelly is a fine looking machine.
And thus endeth the story. Can I get an amen?
Thanks.
My first computer was a PC. Not a real IBM one, but an Epson with a Hercules paperwhite monitor. It served me fairly well. I upgraded it at some point and it functioned like DOS based PCs did. Well. Then Windows cam along and I lost faith.
In graduate school, I had a class that introduced me to the wonders of that magical place called Cupertino. Hypercard prefigured and guessed at the beginnings of the web. I used the internet then--e-mail and netnews--but hadn't yet seen a graphical interface. Hypercard changed that. I promptly got myself a Mac. A laptop.
Color and everything! It weighed a ton, but I was delighted to have a system that worked.
Taking a page from my Honey... to keep you going. There are baby animals here!
Anyway, we entered into the bright phase when Apple did. An original bondi iMac was complemented by the famous (from Sex and the City) iBook. We called the iBook "clam."
Swivelhead came next. I sent him packing this summer when his disc drive went out. That and he wouldn't play Sims2.
Need another baby animal picture? Honey uses them to help deal with tough stuff. I'm compensating for boring stuff. Not the same thing, really.
Pretty and Swivelhead lived together. Pretty has served us well. Even when Biscuit broke her powercord input, she bravely went to the Apple store and got fixed.
She welcomed Flathead when he came home this summer to replace Swivelhead. She chirped merrily along, all the while communicating with the spaceship (our Airport wireless router).
When Honey told me about Pretty's problems, I was worried. Pretty was nearing the end of her life, it seemed. Was it her screen? Was it her motherboard? Either way, she isn't worth fixing. She's a G4 Mac in an Intel CoreDuo world.
Honey and I discussed, looked online, and talked some about it. She's very careful, my Honey. I am a rushing-in kind of fool. Here's one thing we agreed on, though. Apple needed to stop introducing white computers and then making the non-white ones cost more. Flathead was purchased JUST before the new silver and black iMacs came out. Flathead costs $200 less than his silver and black brethern do now. $200. Remember that number.
The new MacBooks are available in white and black.
Here's the thing, though... The white ones are cheaper.
$200 cheaper.
Oh, sure the black one gets you a better hard drive. But it's so little better that it's not worth talking about.
At one point, Honey said exactly what I was feeling, "I don't want to spend $1000 on something that LOOKS exactly like what we already have." Look again, gentle reader. See the resemblance? The current MacBook and Pretty are so closely related in looks that they shouldn't be allowed to marry. They'd produce warped little white plastic babies. What? Oh, ok, fine. More baby animals...
The dolphin isn't white or deformed or anything. Happy?
Apple knows us. We both REALLY wanted the black one. It was matte black, it was smaller than Pretty. It was faster than Pretty or Flathead. I have a big presentation next week for a major nonprofit in a faraway city. Ok, it's Denver, so it's not that far away, but it is a major nonprofit. Dating back to the 19th century major.
Both of our iPods are black. It costs more. We really liked it better. It had a bigger hard drive. It costs more. $200 more. Apple knows us. $300 more? We'd have a white one. $200, we stand in the Apple Store and discuss.
It was hard to justify. We did it, though. We made it work in our brains and now own "Jelly."
Call us shallow. Go ahead. Here's the thing about Apple. They're gotten 100% on the Human Rights Campaign survey of good places for GLBT folks to work for six years. $200. 6 years of good GLBT relations. Black. $200. White.
They know us.
Jelly is a fine looking machine.
And thus endeth the story. Can I get an amen?
Thanks.
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