Documentation

It's Friday and I'm working from home, from an interior room in my house, waiting out the second tornado warning in seven days. The first one scared me a bit. This is suburban Maryland, not Tornado Alley, and we don't see a lot of Wizard of Oz action around here. Or we didn't used to, because again--second time in a week. Climate change is real. And I'm jaded already. Other than moving a little farther away from the windows, I didn't do a darn thing to prepare for a tornado hit.

Well, that was quick. The tornado warning ended after 15 minutes. The roof is still attached to the house, and we're not in theoretical Kansas anymore. Onward.

*****
Saturday morning. My son was supposed to have a baseball game this morning, which the league cancelled because of field conditions, then reinstated because the field dried quickly in this morning's bright sun and chilly wind, then cancelled again because they had already told the officials not to show up and those officials, busy men apparently, were no longer available.

I was also supposed to have some work to do this weekend, and now apparently I don't have work to do.

It would appear that I'm using the word "apparently" a lot.

Do you see what I did there?

Anyway. From having what I felt was too much to do in too short a time, I have all of a sudden ended up with more free time than I expected and as always, this is a source of panic rather than relief. Because if I don't figure out what to do then I'll feel that the day has gotten away from me, escaped me like a slippery fish, which is really what you get for trying to fish without a hook.

Anyway. It's feast or famine. I feel either overwhelmed or desolate, and there's no in-between. I think I'd like an in-between.

I'm a fun girl, aren't I?

*****
It's Sunday now. Yesterday was actually a pretty good day. I planned and organized a bit. I wrote some things down. I manage stuff better when it's written down. Writing about something makes it real. There's a saying: If it's not documented, then it didn't happen. For me, if it's not documented, then it won't happen. So I documented the next month or so, and now I feel like it will happen, one way or another.

And do you see what happened? Yesterday was an in-between day. I wrote that I needed an in-between day, and voila. The pen really is mightier than the sword.

*****
Speaking of writing, I am watching Season 2 of "The Crown" on Netflix. It's 1956, and Queen Elizabeth II is making last-minute changes to her Christmas speech after having listened to Prince Philip's speech from the royal yacht Britannia. It's an incredibly moving scene, as two people separated by thousands of miles and the breadth of the British Commonwealth and the weight of the Crown declare their love for one another--in a quiet and understated, but unmistakably clear way--in front of millions of listeners from all over the world.

*****
April is almost over and not a second too soon. With May comes a pre-summer onslaught of last high school things and last middle school things, and I don't feel quite ready but I have a plan and it's in writing. It's documented, so it will happen.

Round 1

It's Easter Sunday, 8:15 PM. I'm glad that Easter is over. Spring is the worst.

*****

It doesn't make any sense that spring would provoke such anxiety and dread for someone who loves summer as much as I do. But it does, and I don't know why. Actually I do know why, but I don't want to talk about it. Or write about it. 

*****

I just finished Sandra Tsing Loh's The Madwoman in the Volvo. Years ago, I read Depth Takes a Holiday and A Year in Van Nuys, which were very funny. And then I forgot about Sandra Tsing Loh, until I found this memoir, which she wrote in 2014. A memoir of near-breakdown depression and anxiety was probably not the best reading choice for me right now. And that's probably all I have to say about this book. Except that it's possible for a writer to be too honest. 

So now I'm reading Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate. Personal writing by Asian-American women writers who had difficult childhoods was not necessarily a literary theme that I chose, but here I am. A long time ago, I read The Joy-Luck Club and The Kitchen God's Wife, both of which (especially the former) I liked a lot. And then I just kind of forgot about Amy Tan. I'm glad I found this one.

The Opposite of Fate was published in 2001. It's a series of short essays, many of them about her work or the aspects of her life that fed her work. In one very funny piece, Tan breaks down the fallacies and errors that have crept into analysis of her work and her life, all the result of careless Internet research. This piece reads as very contemporary (not that 2001 was ancient history), and serves as a reminder that even after the 2016 election, we still tend to rely heavily on the Internet and to believe much of what we read online.  By "we," of course, I mean people other than me, because I am automatically and reflexively skeptical of every word I see online. But lots of people I know, even the smart ones, still share political memes and tweets that scream "Russian Troll Factory" to anyone with ears to hear, so to speak.

*****
In the foreword of The Opposite of Fate, Amy Tan describes the pieces as "vignettes" or sketches or something less structured, less serious and purposeful than an essay. Sketch isn't right because these are very well-crafted little pieces of writing, but I get why she doesn't consider them essays. They're less outward-facing than an essay normally is, a little more personal, but not directly personal--she approaches her own life from a slight angle. It's very meta. Anyway, she's much better company than Sandra Tsing-Loh. I finished that book a few days ago and I'm still trying to recover my will to live.

*****
Well, that was harsh. It's Wednesday morning now, 6:45, and I'm writing when I should be waking people up and making lunches and generally preparing for the day. And I'll do all of that, in a minute.

It's do-or-die day for the Washington Capitals, game 7 of the first round of the playoffs against the Carolina Hurricanes. My son and I can't stop quoting the David Pastrnak Dunkin' Donuts commercial: "Hey ref--check your voicemail. I think you missed some calls." As an official myself, I am usually loath to criticize referees and linesmen, but I'll make an exception for Monday night's egregious failure to see what was plainly a good goal.

And that was a lie anyway. I'm not at all loath to criticize NHL officials. I'm the opposite of loath.

*****
It's Thursday now. I'm ready to start my own personal summer right now, but I was hoping that the Washington Capitals wouldn't be starting their summer until mid-June. I don't have enough to do, and now I have to figure out which of the remaining teams to root for.

On January 22, 2017, the words "Tonight's attendance: 1.5 million" scrolled across the Jumbotron at American Airlines Center, home arena of the Dallas Stars. Dallas happened to be playing Washington that night, and so I happened to see it; and for trolling Donald Trump, the Stars earned a special place in my heart forever. They are still standing, so they're my team until next October. I still get to watch hockey, but it won't be the same. At least I have a good book to read. 

Charm City

It's 6:30 Saturday night and I'm in a car on 95 North, halfway between Washington and Baltimore, just like Meg Ryan in fucking Sleepless in Seattle. Crusty today, that's what I am. Crusty.

We're on our way to watch the Baltimore Orioles play the Minnesota Twins. I don't care much about baseball anymore, and I really don't care about American League baseball, especially during the Stanley Cup playoffs. But it's a beautiful night and we have free tickets, so here we are.

I like Baltimore. It's a little rough around the edges right now but it'll be back. I like the harbor and the industrial brick buildings and the Domino Sugar sign and the Bromo Seltzer tower and Fort McHenry and of course, Camden Yards. Camden Yards is a great ballpark, even if you're not an Orioles fan.

We're in our seats now, waiting for the second game of a twi-night doubleheader. It's still light out at 7:45 and the sky is almost perfectly clear and it's starting to get a tiny bit cold but I'm wearing a warm sweater and I'm perfectly comfortable, halfway through a very lovely draft beer and surrounded by happy Baltimoreans on a holiday weekend.

*****

We don't come to Orioles games very often, but when we do, they tend to be memorable. I visited Camden Yards for the first time on September 19, 1998. It just so happened that Cal Ripken Jr. had started to feel a little tired, and had decided to end the famous streak, on that very night.

Ripken’s absence from the starting lineup didn't attract much attention. At that point in his career, he had begun to slow down a bit, and he wasn't playing all nine innings of every game. But the stadium began to buzz a bit when the sixth inning came and went with no Cal. By the eighth inning, all of Oriole Park was on its feet. No other player has come anywhere close to breaking that streak, and it's not likely that any player ever will.

In 2015, Baltimore exploded in fury in the aftermath of Freddie Gray's death.  On April 25, my husband and sons and a friend were at an Orioles game. It was another Saturday night in spring, this one much colder. I'd been outside all day at my older son's track meet, and I gave up my ticket because I couldn't bear the thought of sitting out in the cold for three more hours. I watched the game on TV, hoping to see my family in the stands, so I was watching as the non-violent protests turned non non-violent, and the Baltimore PD shut down the stadium and surrounding neighborhoods, preventing fans from leaving the ballpark. They were allowed to leave 30 minutes later, and everyone made it home safely.

*****
Oh my God. The Old Bay fumes are killing me. Welcome to Baltimore.

*****
So one more game, on September 11, 2015.  The Orioles scored 10 runs in one inning, including two grand slams, against a Kansas City Royals team that didn't know what hit them. That's two grand slams in one inning, not one game. BTW, I looked it up and that has happened a lot more than you'd probably guess. The Orioles won that night.

Still one of my favorite pictures--
it's actually my lock screen photo. 

*****

4-0, Twins, after 2 innings. We might not stay for the whole game. But this is an enthusiastic crowd. 

Wait, did they just score 6 more in the very same third inning? Because it's 10-0 now.

*****

When it comes to American League baseball, we are the fairest of fair-weather fans. At 14-0 in the fourth inning, we packed up and drove home, with the windows open to the breeze and the radio playing top 40 until we were close enough to DC to find the radio broadcast of the Capitals game. It's nice to get out of town once in a while, but it's nicer to be home. 

Transient

When it comes to the physical world, I tend not to notice things. I can drive past the same bench for years, and have no idea what it looks like. (Still.) And it doesn't matter how many times I drive to a place; I can still find a way to get lost. I don't know why this is. Faces stay with me, and I'm very good at matching colors, but geographical landmarks fade into the background and I don't notice them until they change, very dramatically.

Right next door to where I work. a whole building just came down and I barely noticed it. I'm lucky enough to sit by a window; and a few weeks ago, I looked outside and noticed a backhoe moving back and forth, rhythmically gathering piles of debris from one spot on the site where the building once stood, and moving them to another spot. I understand now why 4-year old boys like to watch the action at a construction site. It's very entertaining.

But now a building that's been there for the whole almost year that I worked next door to it (and presumably much longer), is just gone, shoveled away like piles of dirty snow.

I don't really care about the building at all. I have no idea what it contained and I don't even remember what my office view looked like when it was still standing. And I'm not worried about what's going to take its place. Things change.

Last year, I read Maeve Brennan's The Long-Winded Lady. Maeve Brennan moved from place to place when she lived in New York. She lived in hotels and efficiency apartments, and she went out for dinner almost every night, eating at the same restaurants over and over. She never seemed to stay in one apartment or hotel for more than a few months at a time, but she still complained about the pace of change in New York. Every time she looked out a window, or walked around a corner, an old building was coming down, replaced by a high-rise office or apartment building. Brennan herself moved constantly, but she wanted New York to stay the same; that is to say, the same as it was when she found it.

*****

I've never been to Paris, so I've never seen Notre Dame. All of the Americans I know who are mourning its near-destruction are attached to a building that they saw only a handful of times. But I understand. There are lots of places, important and obscure, that I love as much as Parisians love Notre Dame. And they're all temporary--the 800-year-old cathedral, and the 100-year-old beach town, and the neighborhood pool and the who-knows-what-it-was building outside my office window. Nothing man-made is permanent. Nothing.

Scheduling

It's Monday, and I had a a training class today, for a subject about which I know absolutely nothing, that subject being Microsoft Project. The trainer started the class by asking each of us (15 or so) to introduce ourselves and tell the class a little about our Project experience. I was the only person in the room to claim no experience at all, but the trainer didn't seem troubled. And that's what training is for, amirite?

I sat in class all day, and I still don't know how to schedule anything. We spent a lot of time covering what I would describe as technical-administrative background, like licensing and server vs.  online and desktop client (whatever that is) vs. Professional. I'm sure that it's helpful to know the difference between one MS Project product and another, but I'd prefer to learn how to actually use the tool, which is pretty confusing. Even the iconography is confusing. Why a push-pin for "Manually Schedule"? Why not a pen or a pencil? Or a calendar?

*****

Training Day 2: We're actually learning how to schedule things today, which is reinforcing my already-certain knowledge that no one should allow me to schedule or plan anything, ever.

I have one kid graduating from high school in June, and another one graduating from middle school (and making his Confirmation). I'm awash in dates and deadlines, all of which are in writing, but in lots of different places.

One thing that I do know is that both graduations take place on the same day, at the same time, in different places. In project management parlance, this is what we call a conflict. I'm not sure yet how we'll resolve this conflict--split up to cover both events, or skip the middle school graduation altogether in favor of the high school one. The eighth grader won't be happy with that solution, and I won't blame him.

Later tonight, I'm going to dig through all of my notes and emails and make a single consolidated list of all of my dates to remember: Graduation and rehearsal (its predecessor task), times two; spring concerts (also 2), track meets (3), prom (1), Confirmation and rehearsal (1 of each), awards nights (2), baseball games (who knows how many), and college signing deadline (looming).

This is all relatively simple. People do this all the time. They raise their kids and move them confidently from one stage to the next, completing all of the associated administrative tasks with little or no drama. I have no idea why it's so difficult for me. 

But do you know what's not simple? Microsoft Project. I do not claim to be the brightest bulb in the proverbial chandelier, nor the sharpest knife in the proverbial drawer. But I cannot see the value of a scheduling tool--a thing that is supposed to simplify and clarify--that is so complicated that two full days of training leave me nearly as ignorant as I was when we started this class. 

My life, on the other hand, is not that complicated. I don't need enterprise-level software to track and manage my critical path. I just need to write shit down in one place. If only I would. 

College ruled

A day or so ago, I was sitting in a meeting. I could write that sentence almost any day of the week and it would be true; but in this case, it's actually true and I really was sitting in a meeting. The person sitting next to me was writing in a brand-new notebook.  And I could tell from the neatly underlined dates and the careful way that she turned the page that she was in the new-notebook honeymoon phase, which I know well. I have terrible handwriting, but when I have a new notebook, I make an effort, for at least a few pages, to write clearly and legibly, and to keep things organized. For posterity's sake, of course.

Two days later, I was in another meeting, sitting next to another person, writing in another notebook. She wrote in large, neat, squarish cursive that marched diagonally upward across the page, blithely disregarding the horizontal ruled lines. She drew little boxes and shapes, crisp arrows that pointed sharply from one word to another, as if to remind herself of a connection between the two words that wouldn't be apparent otherwise. I had to stop myself from staring over her shoulder to study her notes.

*****
My son had an accepted students day at a small, private, liberal arts college in Maryland. It's a beautiful place, and the swim coach is recruiting him heavily, much to our surprise. He's a good swimmer, but not college-recruit good, even in a Division III school. Division III schools, of course, do not offer athletic scholarships, and this is a very expensive school.  My son was offered a partial academic scholarship, and we have some money saved for his education, but not enough to cover four years of tuition and room and board.  And I keep thinking that we have time to sort it all out, but he graduates from high school in about 60 days or so, so the proverbial clock is ticking.

Accepted students' day was lovely. I am a pretty typical college-educated suburban middle-class mother but I grew up in a working-class inner-city family, and my sisters and I were the first in our family to graduate from college. When I'm at high school band concerts and swim meets and college visits, I nod along and act like I know. But I feel like an impostor, surrounded by people who were born into the educated middle class and have never questioned their right to be there, and know with utter certainty that their only path is upward. But they're all very friendly and kind, and I won't mind leaving my son among their children. I'll just need to remind him occasionally not to take anything for granted, not to assume that his presence in college is an entitlement nor that his middle class good fortune is a lifetime sinecure.

*****
Didn't I start this thing with notebooks? I think I did. I think I did. And I almost bought a new notebook today, at the bookstore of my son's possible college. It was a small leather-bound notebook, its dark-blue cover embossed with the college logo. The leather cover was stiff enough to keep the pages clean and flat, but flexible enough that it would have softened in time. The whole thing fastened neatly with an elastic band.  I imagined that it would be nice to write in.

It was also $24.95, and I have three more notebooks that I haven't touched yet. We haven't decided yet where my son will go to school, but if he wants to go to the private school, then we'll have to make some lifestyle adjustments. I might have to stop buying things, just because I like them, just because I'm a bona-fide member of the middle class and I can. I might have to write in regular notebooks, like everyone else.

Mental acuity

It's Sunday morning and my 14-year-old son and I are hanging around the parking lot at St. Patrick's, waiting for the next influx of Mass-goers to bring us their food bank donations. My son will make his Confirmation in May and this is the last of his required service projects.

We arrived at 7:45, when it was raining though not yet windy and cold. Three hours later, the rain has ended but the temperature has dropped and the wind has picked up, and welcome to spring in Maryland. We are taking shelter in my car for a little while until the 11:30 people arrive.

After an early wake up call yesterday, I got things done, until about 2 o'clock. And then I stopped. Hit with a combination of a lingering cold, tenacious jet lag, and the annual spring depression and anxiety cluster, I sat on the couch and watched reruns of “The West Wing,” and read my book and did practically nothing else. The word "inert" was coined to describe my level of activity .

Had I planned to do nothing all afternoon, I suppose I wouldn't feel bad about doing nothing all day. But I had planned to accomplish things. I did a few things, but I didn't do everything I wanted to do, and I didn't even try.

In The Screwtape Letters, C. S. Lewis writes about a man who realizes too late that he spent too much of his life doing neither what he wanted to do nor what he should have been doing. (Or should have done. Not sure which tense is appropriate for that sentence. Also not sure if the comma after a title should also be italicized or not.) I suppose that a few hours on the couch don't necessarily pave the road to perdition. But I don't like the feeling that a day got away from me. 

*****

It's Monday now. Dinner (chicken thighs with onion and garlic) is cooking and the Capitals are playing one of their last regular season games, against the Florida Panthers. And that is all I have to say today. It's one of those days. I can't sleep and I can't keep a thought in my head and I can't shake this cold (which was probably the flu at some point) and it's been Lent since the beginning of time and I just want a piece of chocolate. Bloody hell.

*****

Well, that was delightful, wasn't it? I'm so much fun in April. Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you more about my panic attacks, heart-pounding anxiety, and crying spells. Supah fun.

*****
Here is the real test of my multitasking abilities. I'm substitute teaching an 8th grade CCD class, and they're taking an Archdiocese-wide standardized test tonight, so all I have to do is stroll about the classroom and remind everyone not to talk.

So what were we talking about? Oh, yes, multitasking. I do too much of it, to the detriment of my cognitive powers. Case in point: I just spent three minutes trying to pull the word "cognitive" out of the fog that surrounds what's left of my brain. I find myself so distracted and mentally disorganized that I can't remember from one minute to the next what I'm doing, or what I need or want to do. So I started using the Pomodoro method again. It's helpful. Very helpful, actually. I find that I can do just about anything for 25 minutes, and for the last three days, I have been an exemplar of productivity and organization. 

*****

But back to the eighth graders. I love eighth graders. I own one, in fact. However, I should have known that a Director of Religious Education who claims to a potential substitute teacher that the Archdiocesan assessment will take up the entire class period and that she won't have to teach anything is about as truthful as the animal shelter volunteer who tells the potential dog parents that the dog they're considering adopting is three years old and has reached his full growth. In both examples, the unsuspecting, good-hearted sucker is walking headlong into a wind tunnel of adolescent energy that's just hitting a growth spurt. 

The kids finished their tests in 15 minutes, leaving me with almost an hour of what-the-hell-do-I-do-now time to fill. Since it's a Confirmation class, I went around the room and made them all tell me about their Confirmation saints and why they chose them. Then we read the Gospel reading for the day. Then we prayed a decade of the Rosary for their teacher, who just had a baby. That left me with 20 minutes to fill, so I let them talk and socialize for the rest of the class. Then I had to explain that the blanket terms "talking" and "socializing" do not encompass activities such as arm-wrestling and paper-throwing and punching. Really. Really. 

*****
It's Thursday now and my state of mind has improved somewhat. Or I should say that my mood has improved, because my mind, which isn't a steel trap on its best day, is a pile of pudding. Case in point: "Pile of pudding" is the best metaphor I can conjure right now. You can't pile pudding anyway. And I can't think so good.