Playing tricks

Do you know what I saw yesterday? I was looking out my kitchen window at about 7:00 in the morning, and I saw the two ladies who lived next door to me walking down the street dragging their golf clubs behind them.

That's odd, I thought. I don't know these ladies that well, but I know them well enough to know that they don't play golf. And even if they did play golf, the nearest golf course is at least 3 miles away. That's a long way to drag your golf clubs on foot, especially when you have a perfectly good car sitting in your driveway.

So yes, I thought that this was odd. And then I took my glasses off my head and put them on my face, and I noticed that the golf clubs weren't golf clubs at all. They were actually the ladies' dog, rearing up on his hind legs. I mistook the leash for a cart handle. And I mistook the dog for a golf bag.

On a normal morning, I think this would have prompted a little bit of anxiety about the state of my eyesight. There's no resemblance between that dog (or any dog, really) and a golf bag. Instead, I chose to enjoy the opportunity to see something in a completely different light, and to imagine a completely different scene than the one that was actually before me.

Who knows what other sights I might see? A tree could become the Eiffel Tower in the right light. The trailer that the neighborhood landscapers use to haul their equipment could look like a horse-drawn carriage. My front yard could be a putting green, and maybe nobody has to walk 3 miles to play golf after all. All the same, I think it might be past time to get my eyes checked.

Pistols at dawn

It's Friday afternoon and do you know what I'm doing tonight? I am going axe-throwing. Yes that's right, axe-throwing. I'm going with a group of women of middle age like me; and if we're being honest, and I'm always being honest, none of us have any damn business throwing axes or anything else. But I'm given to understand that throwing axes is the new trendy activity for ladies' nights. What could go wrong in a situation that involves a bunch of ladies with slow reflexes and sketchy eyesight throwing heavy objects with sharp blades after a glass of wine or two? Let's be clear: Every single one of us belongs in a book club, not on an axe range.

This is what happens when badassery is the new standard of decorum for women of all ages. I suppose bear wrestling or pistols at dawn in Weehawken will be the next trendy outings, and the success of a ladies night will be measured by body count or at least blood loss rather than glasses of wine consumed. Well at least it's not pumpkin spice. At least it's not pumpkin fucking spice.

*****

Do you know what? Axe-throwing is awesome. AWESOME. That was the most fun I’ve had in months. 

Our group was 17 women and one 14-year-old girl who was born to throw axes. Axe-throwing is harder than it looks and some of us picked it up faster than others. Predictably, I was among the others and my first 10 throws or so ended up on the ground. The instructor, who also owns the farm that houses the axe range, asked me when was the last time I relaxed. I told her truthfully that I had no idea. But I finally figured out how to step into the throw and to let the axe go, spinning toward the target. I hit one six-point bullseye, and lots of three- and four-point shots, and when we played a fast 21-point game, the teenager and I carried our team to near-victory. 

And then just as I was rejoicing in my newly acquired axe-throwing proficiency, I dropped a heavy tabletop on my left foot, which is now swollen and bruised. Fortunately for me, the axe-range required closed-toe shoes and so I was wearing running shoes rather than my customary flip-flops. It could have been much worse. I’m not a badass, but irony is. But I'd totally do that again. 

Speech recognition

Yesterday, while I sat in my car in the parking lot waiting for my son to get out of school, I decided to try using my phone’s voice-to-text capability to dictate some writing. Yes, I know that this technology has existed for many years, but I had never tried it before. I like to type, on a real keyboard. It’s very satisfying to feel and see the words move from my brain into my hands, and then onto the page. I think differently when speaking than when writing; so much so that as I talked to my phone, I wondered if what I was doing was speaking or writing or neither? If you're writing without using your hands, are you really writing at all?

I haven’t read what I wrote yesterday, though I know that the first paragraph will be a hot mess because I didn’t realize that you had to actually tell the voice-to-text software to add punctuation. Garbage in, garbage out, right? I would have thought that it would be weird or annoying to have to say “comma” or “period,” but it’s not, and it works very well. Although I do wonder what the technology would make of that last sentence. How does it handle the words “comma” and “period”? I’ll try it and see, some other time. For now, I’ll skip the artificial intelligence and stick with the natural kind, limited though it may very well be. The words you just read were produced the old-fashioned way, typed on a Chromebook into a Google Doc, the way God intended. 

20 years

It's September 10, 2021, the 20th anniversary of the last normal day of American life. Maybe that’s an overstatement, but I don’t think it is. In any case, I think we can agree that 9/11/2001 was the end of the 20th century America that I grew up in, for better or for worse. 

The three-month-old baby who I was nursing on 9/11/2001 is now 20 years old. I used to laugh at him and his friends when they were in middle school and high school, when they’d post their annual 9/11 "Never Forget" social media updates. They were too young to remember in the first place. My younger son wasn’t even born on 9/11. For both of them, that day is American history. They ask us what we remember; where we were when we heard the news, what the rest of the day was like, did everything really completely change? 

*****

Now it’s September 11. I feel like there were a few years after the last major milestone anniversary when the date September 11 would not automatically prompt a memory of September 11, 2001; when you could look at your calendar and see that you had an appointment or an event on September 11 and you wouldn’t automatically think “9/11.” Maybe it was just the passage of time that made the date less significant. Pearl Harbor was almost 80 years ago, and December 7 is an afterthought now. For some people, young enough not to have had parents or grandparents who fought in WW2, it’s not even that. And maybe September 11 will someday be just another American history milestone day. It will be remembered by teachers and students and historians, but the anniversary will pass mostly unremarked other than with a footnote mention on nightly news shows. 

But maybe it's more than just time elapsed since 9/11/2001 that has caused the anniversary to fade into the current events background. The last few years have been so chaotic that September 11 has just gotten lost in the shuffle of political scandals and international incidents and of course a global pandemic with many times more victims than 9/11. The four years between 2017 and 2021 were a lot. We all know one reason, one person to be specific, why that is. But that one person was not the only reason. The fire had already been built. He was just the match. 

*****

It’s September 12 now. It’s Sunday morning and I’m not going to Mass. I haven’t been in several weeks. Maybe next week. Maybe I’ll get back to church next week. 

I watched a little bit of TV news yesterday morning. Of course, it was wall-to-wall coverage of the 9/11 anniversary, as expected and fitting. Later, as my son and I were driving to his baseball game, we listened to NPR’s “It’s Been a Minute,” which was also covering the 9/11 20th anniversary, as well as the 20th anniversary of the release of Mariah Carey’s “Glitter,” because why not?

Sam Sanders was interviewing a journalist and devoted Mariah Carey fan whose name I can’t remember. This woman was a senior at Stuyvesant High School on 9/11/2001, and she woke up that morning with plans to rush to the record store as soon as school was dismissed to buy her copy of “Glitter.” Instead, she and her friends spent the morning walking as far uptown as possible, to get away from the burning, soon-to-collapse towers and to try to find a safe place to shelter in the event of another attack. “That is what it was like for a few days,” I told my son. “It wasn’t just the shock. Everyone was afraid, too. Everyone was afraid that there would be another attack.” 

*****

But we weren’t afraid all the time, either. There was the warm and generous spirit of September 12; a short period of time during which we were all Americans, all united in outrage against the attackers and sympathy for the victims. That was what commentators and editorial writers tried to remind us of in the ensuing months and years, as people began to retreat to their political corners. “The nation is divided,” they said. “The nation is polarized as never before. If only we could remember the spirit of September 12.” Ha ha ha! Little did anyone know that those were the good old days. 

*****

It's Monday now. Later on Sunday, I read a blistering September 12 takedown, an editorial asserting that the so-called spirit of September 12 was a myth, that it never happened, that fear and anger and Islamophobia were the only post-9/11 public emotions that the writer could remember. Certainly he had a point, but I remember that time,too, and there really was a short season of kindness and generosity. People paid strangers' checks in restaurants. People allowed others to go first in line. People actually cared about their fellow American humans, without regard to party affiliation. It was short-lived, but it was real, and it was nice while it lasted. 

*****

Now it's Monday afternoon. Lots of things have changed in the last twenty years, but two things never change: Life goes on, and time passes quickly. I worked all morning like I do every Monday and now I'm waiting in the parking lot at the dentist's office. Six months since my last checkup and 20 years since 9/11/2001. Where did the last six months go? Where did the last 20 years go? It’s later than we think. It’s always later than anyone thinks. 

Band-aids and black dogs

It’s noon, and I've been wondering all morning why I feel so sad and gloomy but of course I know why. It's Saturday of Labor Day weekend, and I hate Labor Day weekend. I hate it. 

It's 6 pm now. I’m waiting in line at Nats Park. We're going to the second game of a doubleheader, the first game of which went into extra innings. Nats Park security is now dealing with outgoing and incoming traffic, all at once. 

We're in now, seated with our cold drinks. Max Scherzer with his two different colored eyes is still gazing down on us from his billboard, even though  the Nats traded Scherzer to Los Angeles weeks ago.

Security screening took longer than usual. I wondered if there had been a bomb threat, but then I noticed that handbags are back at Nats Park.  Obviously, I applaud this decision. A few extra minutes in line won't hurt anyone. I only wish I'd gotten the memo in time. 

It's a beautiful end of summer holiday weekend Saturday and we drove into DC the long way, through streets teeming with students and tourists and weekend revelers. Trick bicyclists took their young lives in their hands, weaving in between cars on Georgia Avenue where it becomes 7th Street, doing stunts that would be dangerous in a parking lot let alone heavy traffic. One crazy young person stood on his bike---not on the pedals, but on the frame and the seat, sideways like a skateboard, gliding between lanes of traffic before jumping back on the seat and pedaling away. Crazy, but impressive. 

*****

That was a fun evening. The Nats held on for a very close win and there were fireworks after the game. We sat next to two Mets fans. There were a lot of Mets fans in the stadium. The score was 4-3 at the top of the 7th inning (it was a 7-inning game) and the Mets fans put on their rally cups, but to no avail. I felt better as we exited the stadium with all of the other happy Nats fans. 

But now it’s Sunday of Labor Day weekend. It’s raining and I probably won’t get to go swimming, and I don’t even care. 

The thing is that summer ending is like anything else you dread. The dreading part is often worse than the thing that you’re dreading. That’s pretty much always true for the end of summer, as much as I hate it. Once it’s really over and the pool is closed and school is back in session, then I find that fall has certain charms (that do not include pumpkin spice). I like fall clothes, especially jackets. I like wood fires, indoors and out. I like the mist in the morning and the light in the afternoon. 

*****

But today, all I can think of is summer and how sad I am to see it go and how much I will miss it, so much that I want to cry. I couldn’t sleep last night for sadness and dread, and it’s finally occurring to me that this might be a bigger mental health crisis than the end of summer usually brings on.

It’s Labor Day now, 11:15 AM. The pool opens in less than an hour but I don’t even want to swim today. I want to sleep. I want to go back to bed and not think about anything. I’m so tired. 

Everything seems overwhelming right now. Work, home responsibilities, social obligations, volunteer work--it all seems like too much. I don’t feel equal to anything. I’m still in my pajamas at 11:30 in the morning, and I can’t even think about summoning the energy to get dressed. It’s hard to even type. My hands are exhausted. Maybe I’ll lie down for a while. Maybe I’ll feel better after a little rest. 

*****

I did lie down for about five minutes. It felt just ridiculous, lying in bed in my pajamas at almost noon on a public holiday. Not even sad or lazy, just ridiculous. So I got up and got dressed and I did a bunch of meaningless chores that could have waited, but necessity wasn’t the point. Doing something made me feel a little better. By 2:30, I was sitting in a deck chair with my friends, watching the crazy kids splash in the cold water, grabbing and hanging on to their last hours of summer fun. The water was too cold for my friends, but I was determined to swim and I did. 

The hot sun soothed my soul and the cold water shocked the lump right out of my throat and I swam about 1,000 meters in water that felt just exactly right after a few laps. 

And now it’s Tuesday, and although we still have a few days of meteorological summer left, the real summer is well and truly over. I’m sad again but not like yesterday. The dread really was the worst part. The band-aid is off now and the skin underneath is just a little bit raw. But I’m afraid that end-of-summer dread wasn’t the only reason why I was too sad to get dressed in the morning yesterday. I think the black dog is back for a while. 

Remnants

It's the third day of school here in Montgomery County, and we already have an early dismissal. The "remnants" of Hurricane Ida are expected to drop on us in a few hours, and the County deemed it wise to get school traffic off the roads early. Good decision. I'm in my car in the parking lot of the church across the street from Rockville High School, avoiding the combined craziness of first week of school traffic and unexpected early dismissal traffic. This is my 7th year as a Rockville parent, and so I know my way around. It's nice to have experience. 

Right now, it's just cloudy. We had very heavy rain overnight, accompanied by thunder and lightning. I awoke to alerts proclaiming flash flood and tornado watches. A tornado seems unlikely but there were some serious flash floods last night. A person died. God rest his soul. 

The church parking lot is filling up a bit. It’s still mostly empty, and I can see the gridlocked parking lot at the school across the street, so I still think that this is the right place to be, but I do hope that word doesn't get out. I'd like for this little pickup traffic workaround to remain an exclusive privilege for the old-timers. Experience should come with a few perks. 

*****

"Remnants" is such an interesting word choice. It's apt, I guess. It means left over, or left behind. It's a pile of fabric scraps, left raggedy on the sewing room floor. It's the remainder of the faithful, staying behind to save the rest of humanity or maybe to destroy it. It’s what’s left after a catastrophe. Does that make the word a synecdoche in the context of a storm? The remnant as the part of the storm that represents the whole? That is stretching it, I think. But still, the word choice is apt, when every end of August and beginning of September seems more dramatic and apocalyptic than the last. Summer ends and school begins and storms threaten and then they materialize and destroy everything in their path. People awaken to smartphones delivering flash flood and tornado and wildfire warnings. Planes fly into buildings. Wars begin and end. Nine unelected people decide the fate of millions. And the air outside my neighborhood Starbucks positively reeks of pumpkin spice. 

*****

We never did see much of the remnant here in Maryland. NYC and my hometown of Philadelphia suffered major flooding but it just rained here. 

I feel like we're overdue for a disaster. That's really just me, I think. I'm always planning for the worst case scenario, and I don't trust good fortune, especially long stretches of good fortune. Natural disaster-wise, we have dodged the proverbial bullet for a long time, and I can't help but wonder when our luck will run out. That’s just me. I don’t just borrow trouble. I borrow it from loan sharks and payday lenders at 25 percent, compounded daily. 

But maybe four years of Trump was our disaster, and that's why the Lord has mercy on us. Anyway it's two days later and I'm back in the church parking lot, where my other stretch of luck might be running out. The place is filling up and it's not even 2:30 yet. The word is out. Someone decided to share this little Rockville life hack with the whole town, and now half of the PTSA is sitting in my little private waiting area, engines running. Well, it couldn't last forever. Nothing lasts forever, not even the first week of school. My son is walking across the street now, so it’s time to go home. 

Delegation

Do you know what I do? I take on too much stuff; too much work and too much extraneous non-work activity, and then I get stressed out and complain about it. The classic answer to people who complain about this problem is to tell them to learn how to say no. “You have to learn how to say no!” This is well-meaning (usually) advice from people who think that you lack assertiveness; that you lack the ability to speak up for yourself. 

I think I know how to say no. I often just choose not to say it. I choose to be overly helpful, and I choose to fill my days until they’re bursting and the seams. And sometimes I find great satisfaction and fulfillment in those choices, but not today. Today I just have too much to do and I’m cranky and irritable. I know how to say no; I just have to actually say it once in a while. 

*****

I haven't been a manager for a long time, not since before I had children. Now with the benefit of both experiences (parenthood and management), I can say that the two roles definitely have much in common. My average day as a project manager consists of answering unanswerable questions, and their attendant follow-up questions. It’s exactly like being the mother of young and inquisitive children. It’s exhausting. 

Another thing that I do as a parent and a manager is to figure out when to help people and when to do things for them, and when to make them figure things out for themselves. The Q&A part is easy for me but this part, the figuring out when to let go, predictably, is not. It occurs to me that there is supposed to be some delegation happening; it is also beginning to occur to me that the delegated work is flowing in the wrong direction. I have no idea how this happened but I am now writing a white paper that someone else is supposed to write. Because I didn't have enough to do already. And there's another thing that project management has in common with parenthood. It's all PsyOps, all the time. I just need to be the experimenter rather than the experimentee.