Very secure...

I had to change a password yesterday. It’s a password for a system that I use daily so I’ll remember the new password after a few days of daily log-ins, but I just hate to change a familiar password. It's a disruption. It throws me off my game. 

The system rejected my first attempt to create a new password because it recognized it as an old password. “We’ve seen that password too many times before” the pop-up message read. Who’s “we,” I thought? Who’s seen it too many times? Not me, I tell you what. I’m very happy with that password. I like it just fine. In fact, it’s one of my very favorite passwords, which is why I keep trying to recycle it. Here’s an idea, Mr. Enterprise Solution: Suppose you let me decide when I’m tired of my password? 

The system didn’t like my second attempt either. “Choose something harder to guess.” Harder for whom, genius? If it’s hard for some hacker in the Caucasus to guess then it’s going to be dang-near impossible for me unless I write it down, and if I have learned anything in decades of yearly cybersecurity training, it’s that writing a password down is not a good idea. 

I finally came up with a new password that was acceptable to the very discerning password approving software or whatever it is, and bonus: The new password is hilarious. I cracked myself up with that password. I’m still laughing. I'm going to laugh my silly head off every time I log in now. 

Then I remembered that I had done the very same thing a few years ago in another enterprise system, and I laughed and laughed until the next day when I couldn’t remember the number and special character combination that accompanied my hilariously funny password, and I had to start all over. Determined not to let this happen again, I wrote down a hint for the new password (which is pure comedy gold I assure you). This is what it’s come to. I need a password for my password. It's a great system. Very secure. Very mindful. 

Five years, give or take

I went to an Orioles game once, in 1998. It was just a random, late-season game. I’m not a particular Orioles fan but my then-boyfriend, now-husband was a huge fan, and he got tickets, and we went. It was fun in the way that all low-stakes baseball games are fun. The Orioles were not in contention for anything that year, so no one other than the most die-hard fans cared if they won or lost that game, but it was a nice night to sit outside and drink beer and eat popcorn and watch baseball with middling levels of attention. 

The game was not exciting but around the sixth inning, a buzz began to grow throughout the stadium. Cal Ripken Jr., who had the longest consecutive games played record in baseball history (a record that will likely stand forever) had not yet entered the game. Cal was nearing the end of his career and he was no longer starting every game as he did in his superstar early and mid career years. It wasn’t uncommon for him to sit out a few innings. But it was the bottom of the sixth inning, and Cal was nowhere to be seen. Was he just not going to play? Was he injured? Was he going to suddenly announce his retirement? The stadium grew more restless and the buzz grew louder, until Cal finally came out of the dugout at the end of the game, to formally announce what everyone had by then already figured out - he had decided that the streak had gone on long enough, and had chosen to sit out the game to end it that night. 

*****

We had a busy weekend. The very last summer swim meet at our home pool - the B Division championship - followed by a quick road trip to Avalon NJ to watch my son compete in the Murray Mile Ocean Classic. He did very well in both things, and it was a lot of fun. But it was hectic. The meet didn’t end until 11:30. We got on the road by 12:30 but the already-horrendous summer Saturday traffic on I-95 was made much worse by two accidents, probably about 40 miles apart from one another. By the time we checked into our fleabag (oh my gosh so terrible more detail later) hotel and dropped our stuff off, we just barely had time to get to the beach to watch the race, which started at 6:30. My son finished the mile in very good time, beating all of his friends who had also caravaned to NJ following the meet, and scored age group honors among the men. My sister and her husband had come to the beach, and so we went out with them and had a very good time. We collapsed on our (terrible terrible terrible) hotel room beds at about 11 pm, and left at 8 the next morning, while all the young people (who stayed at the beach for the day) were still asleep. It wasn’t until we were about 20 miles inland that I realized that I hadn’t written a single word the previous day. It wasn’t intentional; I just forgot. 

*****

I don’t know exactly how long my daily writing streak lasted. Looking at my blog entries, I see references to it going back as far as five years. So it was at least a five-year streak of daily writing. And when I say "daily," I MEAN daily. Seven days a week, 365 days a year, weekends and holidays included. I never missed a day until Saturday. 

*****

Are you thinking that it's stupid and shallow and clueless and solipsistic to compare my small-time daily writing streak for which no records exist and which I can’t even prove really happened to one of the greatest baseball achievements of the 20th century? Of COURSE it is. If I wasn’t clueless and (sometimes) shallow and (occasionally) stupid and (a little bit) solipsistic, then what would I have had to write about for five years? How would I have sustained that streak for as long as I did? 

*****

Well one way was to write everywhere and anywhere. Any time I had five or ten free minutes, I'd open Google Docs and just start writing. Now, for example - it’s 9:18 AM and I'm at work but our whole network is down and the IT people are trying to figure out what's wrong, and the rest of us are just sitting around waiting. Well, the rest of them are sitting around waiting. I'm using these spare ten minutes that might turn into hours to write about writing (or about failing to write). Saturday was just the last day of the old streak. It's Tuesday now and day 3 of a brand new streak. You can miss a day and still be a person who writes every day. See you in five years, give or take. 

Capsule

It’s about ten days into a new season, meteorologically speaking. Whenever the season changes, I find myself thinking about outfits and jackets and dresses that will somehow transform me, or I start looking for that one handbag that will fulfill every requirement that I have for a handbag, making all others unnecessary and obsolete. I’m not going to buy any handbags, or any clothes (except maybe a dress) but I’m noticing them. I’m thinking about them. 

*****

Merino wool dresses, for example. You’ve seen these dresses, right? The 100-day challenge dress, a simple merino wool shift that is allegedly resistant to microbes and so will supposedly be as clean and fresh and free from odors on day 99 as on day one, assuming that you want to wear the same dress every day for three months. And I find that I do, actually. 

Until recently, it had never occurred to me to shop for dresses in merino wool knit. I must have clicked on an ad for merino wool clothing at some point; or maybe I just whispered the words “merino wool” in the middle of the night when I was off in the woods somewhere, all by myself. (That’s metaphorical speech. I’d never be in the woods all by myself, much less at night.) Either way, my social media feeds are now filled - filled, I tell you - with merino wool clothing ads. 

The photos and stories are very appealing; women take the same simple dress and style it differently every day; some days with a turtleneck or t-shirt underneath, sometimes with a jacket or sweater over top. Dressy with stockings and heels; casual with leggings and flats or sneakers. Jewelry, scarves, bags, jackets - combinations of all of these make the same dress look different, look 100 different ways. Or maybe 20 different ways, but that’s still a lot of outfits based on just one dress. If you have 20 different outfits to cover 100 days, you’re only on repeat about once every three weeks. That’s just math. I’m probably going to buy one of these dresses but I’m paralyzed by indecision - it’s down to one of three possible styles and 3 or 4 possible colors. 

*****

Here’s another thing I’m noticing, though I’ve never seen an ad for one - yet. The Marc Jacobs Tote Bag (capitalized because the bag is printed with the words “The Tote Bag”) seems to be all over the place now. On Friday night alone, I saw three of these bags, all carried by millennial women, who are young women as far as I’m concerned. That’s the thing about being my age. Everyone is young.

These bags do not appeal to me, for several reasons. First of all, I don’t like the imprint. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be funny or ironic or what - I just don’t get it. Even worse, one of the bags that I saw on Friday wasn’t even really a tote bag. It was a messenger bag, emblazoned with the bold and erroneous claim that it was a tote bag. I’d feel silly carrying a tote bag that screamed to the world “Hey, look at me - I’m a tote bag!” I’d feel like a gosh-darn idiot carrying a messenger bag that calls itself a tote bag. 

And even if I liked these bags, I can easily imagine buying one and carrying it and growing tired of it within days. There is no possibility that this bag could ever become THE bag, the one that I’m always looking for, the bag to end all bags. It’s a flash in the pan, that self-proclaimed Tote Bag. 

*****

There’s this sweater, too. I can’t stop thinking about this sweater that looks like it could solve several of my sweater problems. It’s a cardigan, open front, but not too long. That’s the mistake I’ve been making with cardigans. I buy them too long and I look unbalanced. The length on this cardigan is just right and it has pockets, outside AND INSIDE. On the other hand, it only comes in gray, and I’m not a huge fan of gray. But the shape is just right and those pockets keep calling me. I imagine slipping my phone into one of the inside pockets and then shoving my hands into the outside pockets and going about my business. 

The thing is, though, that I can also go about my business without that sweater. Witness - I’m doing it right now. 

*****

Not long ago, I was part of a conversation about work clothes. One of us said that she needed skirts and pants for the office. Another person had plenty of work clothes but she needed workout wear. Yet another person was searching for a perfect rain jacket. The oldest woman in the group waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I have enough clothes. I just need to repair a few things." This woman is probably about 70 or so and it occurred to me that when she said that she had enough clothes, she meant forever. Is that not a thing to aspire to? Is that not #goals, as they say on the social media? When I’m 70 or so, I hope to be in a similar conversation with young (or at least younger) women, and then to drop the mic with a casual “Oh, I have enough clothes. Forever.” 

And that woman was right, by the way - she really doesn’t need any clothes. I see her almost every day, and she always looks nice. 

*****

The thing about early spring, much like early fall, is that the weather is much more changeable and less predictable than usual, even for Maryland. And that is why I couldn’t figure out what to pack for a weekend trip last week. We went to Virginia Tech to see my son swim in a big-deal swim meet, and I drove myself darn-near crazy with t-shirts and leggings and shorts and pants and a nice top and a sweater and jeans and maybe a dress and one pair of sneakers or two and flip flops or not and a rain jacket for sure because it was supposed to rain all weekend (it didn’t) but what about another jacket? Do I need another jacket? I didn’t bring another non-rain jacket - a mistake - and I also brought clothes that were almost 100 percent wrong. I was unhappy with almost every single possible outfit combination that I could possibly assemble from the collection of way too darn much stuff that I brought with me, except for one dress and sweater, and a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I should have brought those things and only those things.

I read this French fashion book once, a long time ago, when I was young and thought that the French knew everything. I remember almost nothing about this book except for its distinctly bossy and dictatorial French tone, and a quote: “You can’t dress well if you have too many clothes.” I have too many clothes. This is why I feel like I never have anything to wear. This is why I can never figure out what to pack for a 2-night trip and so I pack it all, ending up with too many clothes and nothing to wear. To a swim meet, for crying out loud! 

*****

Seasonal changes and packing for a trip - those are the two situations that always make me want to replace everything I own, and just start the heck over. During these wardrobe crises,  I’m very susceptible to marketing pitches. 

The “capsule wardrobe,” for example. If you're on the internet at all, then you have heard of this new idea, which is first of all completely bogus and second of all not even remotely new. Back in the 80s and 90s, fashion magazines ran pictorial spreads of "mix and match wardrobe essentials" or whatever they called them. It was always a jacket and pants and skirt with a sweater or two, a blouse or two and maybe a t-shirt. By mixing and matching these key pieces you were supposed to be able to assemble an almost limitless number of outfits. The difference between those magazine spreads and the capsule wardrobe (why “capsule"? I don't know) is that the items in the magazines were from lots of different labels. The 2023 internet capsule wardrobe consists of a single label's pieces. Buy them all with one click, and you’re done. 

So why is this bogus? Setting aside the sustainability issue and the sheer ridiculousness of simplifying your life by BUYING MORE STUFF, it’s just impossible for one small collection of clothes - 15 pieces or so - to fulfill every clothing need a person could have, even a normal person who can get through the day without overthinking every conceivable course of action (and by the way, it’s also ridiculous to even think about weaning the same gosh-darn dress for 100 straight days). But wouldn’t it be nice if you could find the ONE perfect dress, the ONE perfect sweater and shirt and t-shirt and pants, and then just maybe buy a few of each in different colors and then never buy anything again? 

*****

I didn’t buy the merino dress but I bought another dress from a company whose dresses I really like, and I wasn’t disappointed. I now have three of these dresses, all very similar in cut and fabrication, in three different patterns. I’m probably set for dresses for the summer. Those three dresses will form the core of my summer work wardrobe. People will get sick of seeing me in those dresses. “There she goes again,” they’ll say. “Didn’t she just wear that one two days ago?” Count your blessings, imaginary colleagues - at least I’m not wearing the same merino wool dress every day for three months. 

And I kept checking on that gray sweater, too. I put it into my virtual cart a few times, and then closed the browser tab and walked away. Then the silly thing went on sale, so I just went ahead and bought it. Now I just have to plan another weekend trip. This time, I’ll know exactly what to pack. Or maybe I’ll just never leave the house again. 

Open House

I’m getting close to finishing the essay that I’ve been working on, on and off, for several weeks. I keep visiting it, like it’s an open house. I look around for a while, and I move a piece of furniture a bit to the left or the right. I stopped in yesterday and hung a whole bunch of pictures on the wall, and I was pleased with my work. It really popped, I thought. Lots of color and texture; lots of different shapes and images. Today, though, the light changed quite a bit, and what looked charming and eclectic and artistic yesterday looks like an explosion today. Cluttered. Disorganized. No unifying theme. Maybe I should just empty out the whole place, slap a coat of neutral paint (Swiss Coffee! Parchment! Eggshell! Sand!) paint on the walls, and start the hell over. 

That doesn’t make any sense, does it? Because why would I redecorate a house that I don’t own? I don’t know why I bother trying to get fancy with the metaphors. It seldom works. 

*****

My annual spring anxiety and panic is back to its pre-pandemic intensity so at least something is returning to normal. Yesterday on Twitter, I found that a certain right wing white supremacist Trumpy internet dope who is quite popular among the Tucker Carlson-watching public was trending because he was opining on the subject of anxiety as a mental illness, which it isn’t, according to the Trumpy trolling internet dope. Slow news day, I suppose. This is a person who is well known for talking directly out of his ass, so after a quick visit to see why the topic of anxiety was trending along with the internet dope’s name, I muted the whole thing and moved on. How’s that for mental health? 

Anxiety and its place in the DSM-IV aside, I am really just stalling. I did make some progress on the thing that I was writing, enough that I now feel compelled to finish it but not enough that I can easily do so in one sitting. So why not write about something else, even if “something else” means imaginary real estate and online dumbasses? What with the state of the housing market, the former might be the only kind or real estate available for purchase right now; and the latter? Well, they’re everywhere, so that’s an of-the-moment topic if I ever heard of one. 

I have some renovations to do. Sigh. 

I feel better already

It's Friday morning, and I'm sitting on the examining table at the doctor's office, waiting. The nurse just took my blood pressure and vital signs and then I laid down on the table wearing nothing but paper, while she attached electrodes to multiple points on my body, and silently read the results on a monitor. At least, I think she was reading results. She could have been watching Netflix for all I know. I didn't ask her what she was seeing. I knew that she'd tell me that I'd have to wait for the doctor. 

It's been a very long time since I had a full physical exam. I go to the OB-GYN more or less annually, and I see the dentist every six months, but I avoid the medical profession otherwise. But I have not been well recently and I decided to try something different from my usual health care approach, which is to ignore all symptoms until they go away. I've gotten away with this for a long time, but my luck can't last forever. So here I am. 

Fortunately, I was allowed to put my clothes back on after the electrode exam or whatever the hell it was. I'll look it up and see. Meanwhile, I wait in this tiny spotless clinical space that looks and smells like every other doctor's office everywhere. A chair for my stuff, a rolling stool for the doctor, who gets to have all the fun; the paper-covered table for the paper-clothed patient, posters and brochures offering helpful advice and handwashing instructions, cotton balls and tongue depressors in glass jars, a rack that holds a thermometer and a stethoscope and the little pulse oximeter thing that clips onto your index finger, and the monitor that displays the output from all of these devices. All of that in a shiny-floored brightly lit room no bigger than 8 by 10 feet. 

*****

I’m a person who knows what she knows. What I don’t know is considerable, and there’s no field of knowledge in which my ignorance is more abysmal than medicine. It turns out that the electrode thing was an EKG. Duh. I’m 55 years old and I’ve never had an EKG in my entire life. And thankfully, my heart is just fine, and everything else is fine, too. Even my high cholesterol isn’t high enough to worry about. I don’t really know why I have been feeling so bad, because apparently, I am in perfect health. A little part of me wanted some kind of bad news, just because I need things to make sense. I need some sort of physical cause for the pain and exhaustion. But overall, I’m very, very relieved that I don’t have a dread disease. 

*****

For the rest of the day on Friday, I felt absolutely marvelous. I worked with great focus and purpose, and I accomplished more than I expected to. I had to cut my walk a bit short thanks to a weird early April thunderstorm, so I prepped dinner and did more work and then the sun came out and I resumed my walk and I could have run the whole way. I didn’t run even a step because let’s not get carried away, but after months of malaise and fatigue, I felt like a bottomless pit of energy. Maybe it’s the warm weather and longer days. Or maybe I just needed a medical authority to tell me that there’s not a damn thing wrong with me. Maybe I’ve been wrong about the medical profession all along.

Stupid is as stupid does

OK, so I did buy another handbag. I know, it's ridiculous, but I really did need it, believe it or not. Crazily enough, I didn’t actually have a black handbag, unless you count my tiny Coach camera bag, which is really lovely but far too small to use as anything except an evening bag; or the very nice Coach leather bag that my husband bought me for Christmas last year, which is very large and very fancy-looking, and it was perfect for work, back in the long-ago days when I left the house to go to work. I like that bag very much, actually--not only is it really pretty, but it also holds two computers and notebooks and pens and a water bottle and a charger and a wireless mouse--but it’s too big and heavy to carry for everyday use. 

So now I have my favorite Longchamps Le Pliage nylon tote in black, and I really have no reason to ever buy another handbag, ever again. Really. 

*****

Well, never say never. When it comes to doing stupid things, I never say never. 

Psych. It’s not always about a handbag. Sometimes it’s about something even stupider, if that is even possible. And I assure you that it is. 

The stupidity started with Facebook, as it so often does. I deactivated my account this summer because it was all a little bit too much--the politics, and the rancor, and the us vs. them. It was enough. 

And I didn’t miss it, not for a while. But then I started to wonder how people were doing; the people I see only online, that is (which is most people, these days). I felt bad that I was missing people’s birthdays. Two high school friends celebrated their 30th wedding anniversaries, and I forgot all about them. If I’d been on Facebook, I’d have had a reminder. So I started thinking about returning to Facebook. 

But then I posted something stupid on another social media platform. And I felt bad about it. And although there weren’t any recriminations, there was a deafening silence that made clear that I’d offended people. So I took it down. I’m not a big enough fish that anyone would have screenshotted my stupid post with my stupid funny funny comment, so that’s the end of that, I suppose. Except that I do wish that I had better sense. I wish that I could consistently remember that not every funny funny joke that pops into my head is hilarious enough to share. I guess I also wish that I could stop buying handbags, but that’s just crazy talk. One self-improvement at a time is enough. A person needs a few quirks and flaws and failings. And a few bags, to carry stuff around in. 

Proliferation

Do you know what I just did? I just bought another handbag. This might seem like a thing that is not even worthy of mention; and in and of itself, it is not. But if you’re not doing anything and you have all the time in the world, feel free to search this blog for the words “handbag,” “tote bag,” “purse,” “pocketbook,” or “reticule.” 

Not the last one, of course, because it’s not 1893. It’s 2020, and I have far too many handbags, as your careful search of these keywords will have made manifestly and abundantly clear. Not only did I buy another handbag, but I bought a whole bunch of other random stuff that I don’t need. And even though I know that I don’t need these things (in fact, I won’t even WANT some of them when they finally arrive), I just keep yielding to the impulse to add something to my electronic cart and then to finally push the “place order” button. There’s always a momentary thrill just as you push that button, isn’t there? And then of course, there’s the fun of anticipation, the frisson of excitement as the mail truck or the UPS truck rumble down your street, slowing until they stop right in front of your house. Nothing else sounds like a delivery truck arriving at your front door. 

*****

Do you have any particular rage triggers? I’m not an angry outburst kind of person, liberal use of the f-word notwithstanding. But I do have a few things that provoke unreasonable, blinding, furious rage. A wrong turn, especially at night, is one of those things. Last night, I turned the wrong way on a now-unfamiliar road (I say “now-unfamiliar” because it’s a road that I used to drive on nearly every day; but I no longer live in that neighborhood and the street and the neighborhood look very different now because of twenty years of construction and development) and the result was a 15-minute detour in the dark and a near collision (entirely my fault) with a person who was trying to make a perfectly legal left turn as I tried to blithely sail straight through an intersection from the other left-turn-only lane. I was furious. Not my finest moment. 

And drawers! How I hate it when a drawer gets stuck closed or (much worse, because it looks sloppy) stuck open. I have to walk away from a jammed drawer. Thank goodness I’ve never had a hammer nearby when a drawer was stuck because I’d turn the whole cabinet or desk or chest into kindling. 

The worst thing about a drawer that’s stuck is that I almost always know that it’s going to happen when I put in that one extra thing that’s just too much for the drawer, but I do it anyway because I can’t stand to have things laying around uncontained and because I can’t let the drawer win. Me and a dresser drawer are like Donald Trump and the coronavirus. I’m not going to let it dominate me. I’m just going to call in a Navy helicopter and a team of Secret Service agents and Army doctors and then stand back and let them show that drawer who’s boss. 

*****

So I followed my own instructions, and I did a search of this blog using the recommended terms. It turns out that I have written about having too many handbags more times than other people actually have handbags. Does that make sense? I’m talking about sheer numbers, a subject about which I am not qualified to write, but just try to stop me. 

I like to think of myself as a person who is not a collector, but that’s self-delusion of the highest order, because I have more than enough handbags to form a collection; not to mention hundreds of books, dozens of t-shirts, a shitpile of notebooks, and Bic four-color pens distributed everywhere I might need them to take a four-color note. It’s not reasonable. And it occurs to me, with my razor-sharp intellect and unparalleled deductive reasoning skills, that there might be a connection between a proliferation of stuff such as I describe here, and drawers that won’t close (or open). 

The moratorium begins now. No more handbags. No more non-electronic books. No more four-color pens, except to replace one when the ink runs dry. No promises on the t-shirts. I do love t-shirts; and in my defense, I accumulate them, but I seldom actually buy them. 

*****

And now it also occurs to me, with my steel-trap mind, that t-shirts are the only thing on this list that I actually store in drawers, so a handbag and book and pen moratorium won’t solve my drawer-rage problem AT ALL. As for bad night driving? That’s only going to get worse, I’m afraid. It’s all downhill from here. 

It's all your fault

It’s the virtual first day of school, or the first day of virtual school, or whatever you want to call it, here in Maryland. My older son started his second year of college with a 9 AM Zoom session, and my younger son started his second year of high school with another 9 AM Zoom session; and thankfully, our Wi-Fi is capable of supporting all of this simultaneous activity because I also had a call at 9 o’clock, but on Teams rather than Zoom. 

Because we’re back to starting before Labor Day (make up your mind, Maryland), the first day of school doesn’t make me feel like summer is over. The weather is doing that--it’s raining and cool today, more like the end of September than the last day of August. So far, only two of my Instagram friends have posted first-day-of-school pictures. I suppose there’s no point, but I do like first-day-of-school pictures. Is there nothing that the damn ‘rona won’t take away? Now I don’t even get to scroll through a feed full of smiling faces and first-day outfits and new backpacks? You’re a bitch, 2020. I said what I said. 

*****

Now it’s the second day of school. Just like that, the routine that I have become accustomed to during the last few months is over, and I have to adjust to a new one. Another test of my well-honed change management skills. 

I blame 2020 for a lot of shit, but I can’t blame it for my time-wasting indecisiveness, because that long out-dates this terrible year. I’m almost finished working for the day, and I’m just about paralyzed with indecision about what to do for the rest of the day. Or more accurately, when and how to do what I’m going to do, because I know exactly what I need to do for the rest of the day; it’s just that I can’t decide when to do what, and I’m going to fritter away at least 30 minutes while I weigh pros and cons and compare approaches and consider possible outcomes. Maddening, I tell you. 

I want to exercise outside. I’d always rather swim, but I know that the water will be much colder than I like. But time is running out for outdoor swimming, and it might be better to suffer a few minutes of cold than to lose one of the few remaining pool days. But I also have to shop for my old lady today, and swimming will take longer than walking because I’ll have to take a shower afterward. And dinner--what am I supposed to do about dinner? People expect to eat every day, several times a day; and they all look to me to make that happen. And they’re not wrong, because someone has to be responsible and it might as well be me. Why not me? 

The cold water will be invigorating. It will clear my mind. It might be a new season but I will still cling to the vestiges of the old one while I can. Suck it, 2020. 

*****

Yes, I know that I said that I wasn’t blaming 2020, but a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. There’s nothing bad that 2020 can’t make worse, including my decision-making skills. 

Who knew hair weighed so much?

Have you ever cut your own hair? If not, you should probably try it at least once, just to see if you can. During the stay-at-home order, I learned that I can cut my own hair. I can’t cut it in any particular style or anything, but I can trim the ends and take off a little excess length, and generally reshape it a bit so that it’s not unreconstructed elderly hippie hair, because no one wants that on her head. 

The first time I cut my own hair was actually in January, so nothing to do with the coronavirus. I just didn’t feel like waiting for a hair appointment. I had to have my hair cut that minute at that particular time, so I got some scissors and got to work, and was pleasantly surprised at the results. And then I promised myself that I would never do it again because that was nothing more than rank beginner’s luck, and I wasn’t going to get lucky a second time. And then March 2020 happened. After a few months on lockdown, my hair was approaching the I-was-at-Woodstock-but-I-don’t-remember-details growth stage. It was intolerable. So I got the scissors out again, and that’s how I learned that the first time wasn’t a fluke, and that I actually can cut my own hair when it gets too long, like this sentence. 

When I cut my own hair, though, what I have is hair. Which is fine, as far as it goes. I wash it, I comb it out, I pull it back into a clip, and it dries however it dries, and that’s the end of it. I missed having an actual style. So I got a real, proper haircut. And now I don’t know what the point of all this was, because I avoid conversations about hair and grooming whenever I can, and here I am halfway through about 500 words on the world’s most boring topic. But it’s a good haircut that has an actual shape and style. For at least a few weeks, I’ll be able to leave the house without a clip or a headband or a hair tie (and all three at once is not unheard-of), and that’s a nice change. It makes me feel normal again. Maybe life will resume. Maybe I’ll soon have a reason to fix my hair and put on real clothes and leave the house and join the world of purpose and energy and endeavor. If not, then this haircut should withstand a few months of growth before I have to get out the scissors again. If that happens, I’ll spare you the details. You’re welcome. 

I can see (pretty) clearly now

Our community has an emergency operations planning committee, of which I am a member. I don’t know how I ended up on an emergency operations committee. Anyone who reads this blog should know that I’m the least qualified person to handle an emergency, unless “handling” is synonymous with “panicking and breathing into a paper bag.” But there I am. They’ll realize their mistake at some point, but then it will be too late. 

Anyway, we were discussing the upcoming Annual Meeting and Board of Trustees election. Did I mention that I’m also  a candidate for the Board of Trustees? I know. I have no idea how this happened, either. I’ll have an entirely separate post about that topic. Mark your calendars. 

So anyway, we’re on this interminable Zoom call, discussing the contingency plan for the annual meeting, and all of a sudden, I was literally dying from heat, like 104-degree fever heat. Ironic, I thought. We’re discussing COVID-19 emergency workarounds, and now I myself have the ‘rona.

Actually, what I have is a super-helpful Nest thermostat, which thinks with its little Google-powered brain that what we really want is not to be cool in the summer, but to save as much energy as possible, which is why it will adjust the indoor temperature to 88 degrees the second you turn your back on it. A thermostat set at 88 in August and an hour and a half with a computer on my lap and I felt like I had Ebola. I got off the call, turned off the computer, turned down the temperature, and was miraculously restored to health. 

*****

I worked today, because it’s Thursday, and everybody works on Thursday. I am part of a pilot test group for a new software application, and I found the testing process harder to understand than usual. Normally, I just follow the instructions, and I get the expected results (or I don’t, but not because of user error) and I submit my completed test script, and that’s the end of it. 

This application is less straightforward than others that I have tested, and the engineers created a video to go along with the instructions and test script. Even with the video, though, I struggled a bit to follow the steps. I had to keep stopping the video and switching back to the application to see what step I missed, because I kept missing steps. Finally, I finished testing, submitted the results, and crossed “pilot test” off my list of things to do. But I didn’t feel the normal list-crossing-off satisfaction. The whole job had been such a mental struggle that I wasn’t confident that I’d done everything correctly; and if the job isn’t done correctly, it isn’t done at all, and then where do I get off crossing it off a list? That is a clear and distinct violation of the to-do list EULA. (Look it up). 

Not only that, but this was the second time in as many days that I had a hard time following directions. I do not now, or ever, claim to be the proverbial sharpest knife in the drawer, but I can usually follow simple written instructions without any difficulty. So not only am I a viral plague vector, but I’m also suffering from early dementia. Or just dementia, because I’m almost 55 and it’s not too early for me to suffer the infirmities of old age.

*****

It’s Friday now. I don’t have coronavirus, and I got things done today. I’m pretty sharp, cognitively speaking. And you know what else? I’m not going blind, either. I finally replaced my Fitbit, when the charger broke. The screen on the old one had gotten very dim; and being me, I naturally thought that my eyesight was failing. So in just a few short days, I recovered from coronavirus, reversed a decline into dementia, and regained my sight. One miracle after another. 

New skills

I’m turning a corner, I tell you what. Last week, when the dreaded password change prompt popped up on my screen, I stopped what I was doing, changed my password, and cached the new password so that my password and smart card logins would sync. I do this every two months or so, but I usually wait until the last possible minute, when the old password is either about to expire or (God forbid) when it has already expired. I told myself that I was a no-drama, no-nonsense person who just takes care of minor shit when it needs taking care of, rather than panicking and procrastinating and avoiding until doom is inevitable; and I believed myself for a minute. 

I don’t know if this post looks different or not from the reader’s end, but the text editor and back end are different because I also switched to the new Blogger while I still had a choice, rather than waiting for Google to force my hand. This is an unprecedented level of reason and good sense. Who knows what I will do next? Call a doctor when I’m sick? Clean in response to the presence of dirt rather than as a compulsion? The sky is the limit. Anything is possible. 

*****

You know what I can’t do? I can’t stop trying to tell my son what to do. At 19, he should be starting to manage his own life but he is struggling with this; struggling with how to manage school and work and getting out of bed at a reasonable time of day. I can’t stop hovering over him, asking him about his plans for the day, reminding him about what I think he needs to do, encouraging him, exhorting him, pushing him. It’s too much and I know it’s too much but I can’t seem to shut myself up. We’re driving each other crazy. 

My sons and I are very close. We always have been. The lockdown has been hard on both of them, but in different ways. Last fall, my older son was taking classes, working part-time, and managing everything well. And he was happy. And then all of a sudden, the pools closed, so he didn’t have work; and all of his classes moved online, and that was a disaster for him. He’s retaking a class now. He’s starting to learn how to deal with the lack of hands-on instruction, but if he has to take a full semester of online classes again in the fall, it’s not going to go well. 

And I feel helpless; helpless to help him. 

*****

So it’s the next day now, and my son straightened some things out, and figured some other things out. He drove his brother to a swimming quarry near Baltimore, and so they’re both out of the house today. And that’s been a big part of the problem all along. He’s the same boy he’s always been and I’m the same obsessive-compulsive insane neurotic that I have always been, but we’ve been in each other’s faces for four months and it's too much. One or the other of us had to get out of the house for a bit. We need to be out from under one another’s feet. 

Tomorrow, I’m going to try something altogether new. I’m going to let him do what he’s going to do, figure it out on his own, without any interference or “helpful” advice from me. This approach runs counter to my instincts; this is how I know that I”m probably on to something. I’ll report back at another time. 

PSA

That's what he said!

This makes it easy, doesn’t it? If you are a Trump spokesperson who is tired (OMG, you must be tired) of trying to explain away “Russia, if you’re listening,” and “You can grab them by the pussy,” and “I could shoot someone right in the middle of Fifth Avenue,” and “I wish my people respected me like that” (regarding the North Korean people’s “respect” for Kim Jong Un) and all of the other funny, funny jokes, now you can take a rest. He wasn’t kidding.

He doesn’t kid. He just told you. He just made it clear. I'm glad I could help.

Fog

It's game night, Capitals vs. Hurricanes, and we're on our way to Capital One Center. The puck drops in a little more than an hour.

I love game night. Even on a Monday night, even after ignominious losses in two straight games, Capital One Center is a happy place. We celebrate when our team wins and we share the pain when they lose. It's all good, either way.

But winning is better. They need to beat these bitches.

*****
We're here now, waiting for this Metropolitan Division match-up between the Carolina Hurricanes and YOUR Washington Capitals. Thanks, Wes Johnson. I like being here early and I love having an end seat. I don't mind having people climb over me, but I hate climbing over other people. It's a thing.

Slapshot is skating out with his giant flag. It's his 25th anniversary, and it's Tom Wilson's 500th game. A night of milestones.

*****
You know who I feel sorry for? Well, a lot of people; but today, I’m feeling sorry for Londoners during the Blitz.

It’s Tuesday now. I worked from home today and although it’s not really that cold outside (mid 40s), it’s foggy and misty and damp. All day long, I couldn’t get the chill out of my bones. I have heat and hot water and plenty of tea, and no one is dropping bombs on me, but I’m still miserable. January. Who needs it?

The Capitals did win last night, snapping their two-game losing streak. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? A two-game losing streak? Almost as ridiculous as me comparing myself to bombing victims living out World War II under near-famine conditions. I like to think of myself as not a complainer, not prone to drama, but that’s clearly ridiculous. It’s a dreary day and I feel dreary.

*****
You know, if I’d had to live through the Blitz, I’d be so dirty. I can’t stand taking my clothes off in the winter, even in a central heat-equipped house with a reasonable supply of hot running water. What if I was living in a cold-water bed-sit with a tiny coal stove for heat? I don’t even want to think about it.

*****
It’s Wednesday morning now, 7:15, with fog so dense and heavy that I can barely see my neighbor’s house across the street. The gas lamp is glowing softly, leaving a hazy golden halo hovering in mid-air. Postwar London.

Normally, I write in the evenings but my husband drove my son to school today, leaving me a few extra minutes. I made eggs; two fried eggs, to be exact. Postwar Londoners had to make do with one egg a week and I can have two in a day if I want to. I read somewhere that it’s not safe to put your broken eggshells back in the egg carton, but I do it anyway. If London could withstand the Blitz, then I can probably resist a few wandering salmonella germs. My immune system is pretty tough. Bulletproof is not too strong a word. Come at me, salmonella. Come at me, bro.

The fog has begun to lift and thin a bit. I can see the grass in my backyard now, and I can see across the fence into the neighbor’s yard. It’s 7:30 now, and I want to get to work before 8, so it’s time to stop and not a moment too soon. I mean really.

*****
I’ve never been to Atlanta. I’ve been over it and through it but never in it. But that will change next month because apparently, I’m going to Atlanta. I woke up this morning with absolutely no plans to visit Atlanta (no offense, of course, because I’m sure it’s a wonderful city) and now I’m making a packing list. It’s all good. I’m always happy to see a new place, though I’m not always so happy to get on the plane that will take me there.

In any event, it’ll probably be warmer there than it is here. It feels like winter again today; appropriate because it is winter, but I don’t have to like it.

*****
It’s Friday, WFH day. That’s work from home, of course. I finished a little before 4 and went out to walk and run in the sunshine, which didn’t warm the even a little bit. And I didn’t even hate it. There was almost no wind; the bare trees barely rustled, and the stillness made the cold feel not quite so cold.

In recent days, my thinking has been muddled and foggy. I thought I’d mention that just in case this ridiculous post doesn’t adequately demonstrate the cobwebby state of the inside of my brain. It’s a mess in there. Like an episode of Hoarders, Extreme Cases, if that exists. But just one pretty fast walk in the sunshine and the sharp, clear air, and some of the cobwebs are gone. The pistons are firing again, if that’s what pistons do. I’m not a mechanic.

A week of fog outside and a week of fog inside. But the fog has lifted for now. Just for now.

Autumn authentication

It’s November 22, and I had a good day; such a good day, in fact, that I was going to spend several paragraphs writing about the beauty of the light this afternoon. For just a few days in late November, right around Thanksgiving, the afternoon light has a clear and golden quality that is only present for a few precious days of the year. The sun is almost as far away from Earth as it gets and the trees are almost but not quite bare and the remaining canopy is a golden orange that colors the sunlight, and the sky when it’s clear is the palest pearl gray with only a barely visible hint of blue and twilight comes so suddenly and so early.

So I was going to write all about that, all about the elegiac beauty of the fading autumn and winter approaching and blah blah blah-bitty blah blah blah. And then I came home and tried to log in to online banking to pay my bills and forgot that I had changed my password and now my account is disabled; and with the realization that I have no choice but to call the bank to have my access restored, I felt my will to live exit my body with a great rushing noise. Plus it’s dark now, anyway. Bloody hell. Bloody fucking hell.

*****
So now it’s Saturday. I went to the bank to get my account number because I couldn’t bear the thought of calling on the phone to ask for it because I knew that they'd ask me fifty-seven questions for my own security. Now I just have to go through the 50-step re-authentication process that will restore my online access to my own money. I’m not so much writing right now as avoiding. After I finish here, maybe there’s a toilet that I can scrub. Maybe there’s some goo at the bottom of the refrigerator that I can clean up. Maybe I can have root canal or something.

You know, I work in an IT organization, and the problem of authentication is one that we discuss quite often. By “we” I mean other people who are technically capable and qualified, of course. I listen, though. And that's how I know that log-ins and passwords are intrinsically insecure because we are people and we like shortcuts. We’re also idiots who forget the passwords that we create and then we either write them down (as I should have and as I normally do), leaving them vulnerable to detection by malefactors (how I love that word); or we end up locked out of our accounts and we have to start over again (as I’m avoiding doing right now).

And you know what else? “Pay bills” was on my to-do list for this week. But “restore access to online banking” was not. So not only have I not crossed off a critical to-do item; but now I also have to do a much more painful and onerous task and I don’t get to cross it off the list because it wasn’t on there in the first place. And no, I can’t just add it to the list and then cross it off. That’s not cricket. It’s just not done.

*****
OK, disregard most of the previous, because that was nothing! So easy! I recovered my account number, followed the prompts, verified my security code, reset my password, confirmed my reset password, did that again because the passwords didn't match, and here we are. My bills are paid, my list is crossed off, and equilibrium is restored. Such a big fuss about nothing at all. I feel rather silly. All is quite well. Except that it's November 25. The light was extraordinary this afternoon, but we will have it for only a few more days.

Red October

I was writing something for work on Tuesday. It was a very simple thing, but I just couldn’t get it right. I couldn’t summon the right words. But all writing is re-writing; and after a few minutes of fighting with words and sentences and semi-colons, I had a draft that I could live with.

*****
Earlier that same morning, I had wondered why it was still so dark when I was getting ready for work. With the return to Eastern time and the earlier sunset, I thought to myself, we should have had an earlier sunrise and thus earlier daylight. I left the house with my son at 7:15 and it was still almost dark. What’s happening, I wondered? Is there some environmental phenomenon that’s causing extended darkness following the time change? Have the world’s latitudes shifted in some way?

By now, you’re probably looking at a calendar and seeing what it took me two days to figure out, which is that the fall time change didn’t actually happen last Sunday at all. It happens this coming Sunday.

I worry about myself sometimes. The left side of my face is a little bit droopy and I’m apparently also a little bit of an idiot. Maybe I had a stroke and and I didn’t know it.  Maybe I’ve had a series of transient ischemic attacks and the after-effects have left me unable to tell the difference between one week and the next.

*****
The rest of that day and the following day proceeded without incident. I finished my work without undue mental strain, and I didn’t confuse one day or one week for the next, and I collected myself. I got a grip. A stroke, for crying out loud. I mean, really.

*****
Still, I should have figured out the time change thing a lot faster than I did. If the morning darkness didn’t clue me in, then the ride to work should have. On the morning after the time change, my husband normally goes through the house and sets all of the analog clocks, and the digital ones reset themselves automatically. But he doesn’t reset my car clock unless he happens to ride in my car. And left to me, of course, that clock will stay on Daylight Savings Time for the next six months. Two very big clues--the morning darkness and the car clock--not to mention that not one single person or news report or social media post had said a word about re-setting clocks. I don’t know what I was thinking.

******
Yesterday, we had a training class, on a semi-technical topic. And I finished my practice exercises--correctly--before almost anyone else in the class. So maybe I’m not the sharpest proverbial knife in the proverbial drawer, but I’m not an irredeemable idiot just yet.

Wait, is irredeemable a word?

What is happening to me?

*****
OK, it’s Thursday now, a very quiet Halloween. Normally, we have lots of trick-or-treaters, but the weather’s not good, so traffic is light. The kids who show up are making bank, candy-wise. I’m throwing huge handfuls out there, scattering candy largesse like there’s no tomorrow. I’m making it rain. It’s a damn free-for-all.

The Washington Nationals won the World Series last night, and we’re watching a replay of Game 7 as we wait for the next doorbell ring. This was one of the most intense, high-drama World Series I’ve ever seen and it’s fun to watch again when we know that it ends happily. The 2019 Nationals are one of the all-time great teams. It won’t be the same next year. We might lose Anthony Rendon or Stephen Strasburg (my favorite player). Ryan Zimmerman might retire. Gerardo Parra might change his walk-up song. They’ll still be a great team, but they won’t be the very same team that won the first World Series in Washington in over 90 years. It’s been a great pleasure to watch them.

*****
Almost 9 PM, and we still have a lot of candy to give away. The next kid who shows up is going home with untold candy riches. And I’m going to bed early. I’ve been up late watching baseball; and of course, I never did get the extra hour of sleep.

A handful of total nonsense

It’s a Tuesday night and I’m watching Capitals hockey, my ever-present proof that October isn’t all bad. It’s not that good, but it’s not all bad. I was just reading my backlog of drafts. I have so many that I forgot about some of them. They’re like handbags. They’re like eggs or milk or strawberries--I get more than I need and then some end up going bad. Some of those old drafts are no longer relevant to anything in either my life or the world at large. OBE, as the Feds say--overcome by events.

Ten million (give or take) drafts in progress, but nothing to write about today. It’s OK. Even the most brilliant creative minds only have a few ideas at any one time, and I’m not a brilliant creative mind. I’m just a girl with a cluttered pile of Google Docs drafts, sitting in front of a keyboard, hoping that a post will finish writing itself.

*****
It must have been about two weeks ago when I wrote that.

Actually, it was just over two weeks. October 8, to be exact. Today is October 24. I realized, because I’m just that brilliant, that Google Docs must have some way to track versioning; and after I realized this, it was but the work of a moment to figure out how to do it. And so I did, and now I know exactly when I started writing this. My literary executors will need this information .

I’ve published three posts since October 8, including one from my draft backlog. Of course, I also started another draft, so I’m still overstocked with drafts. Maybe I’ll have a sale.

It turns out that there’s another good thing about October; that is, when your favorite baseball team is playing in the World Series. I love the World Series no matter who is playing as long as they’re not in New York or Boston. But I love it so much more when my team is playing. And it’s too early to say anything more about that.

*****
It’s Friday night now and we’re watching game 3. That’s not a prediction or anything, just a statement. It’s OK to mention that we’re watching a game; it’s just not OK to speculate on the outcome.

If I’m being honest, which I always am, I’m not 150 percent sober right now. I’ve only had a glass and a half of wine, but my tolerance is not what it was. I just registered my son for his first year of high school swimming, completing an online form that makes the FAFSA look like an Amazon order. I’ll recover my will to live, I”m sure, but it will take days. I should have taken screenshots. I’ll need to document the entire process so that I’ll be able to repeat it in the spring when I have to register him for baseball. I’ll have to remain clear-headed and sober. I’ll have to train. Maybe a few days of fasting and meditation first. Or maybe I’ll make my husband do it next time.

*****
Now it’s Saturday morning. I have some plans today but right now, I’m the only person in the house who’s awake, so I’m reading and writing and watching old movies. Yes, you can do all three at once.

I have always disliked Woody Allen movies rather intensely. Even before poor Dylan Farrow (who I am sure is telling the truth) told the world about her childhood sexual abuse, I found his movies annoying and self-indulgent. But “Match Point” might be the exception to my no Woody Allen ever rule.

Right after “Match Point” ended, “A Handful of Dust” came on. I didn’t watch it because I love the book, and because it was time to get off the couch and do something. I mean really. But “Match Point” seemed very much like what Evelyn Waugh (who wrote the novel A Handful of Dust) would see in 21st-century life, especially among the English upper classes, and especially in the relationships between men and women. I’m pretty sure that Woody Allen wouldn't expect anyone to compare him to Evelyn Waugh, but there it is.

Waugh was smart enough that he would have known that once abortion is available as a choice, then it’s not long before the choice is no longer in the hands of the pregnant woman but instead in the hands of the unwilling father of her baby. He would also have known that a man who demands that a woman abort his own child would have no problem killing her when she fails to cooperate.

The murderer in "Match Point" gets away with it and the viewer has no reason to think that he’ll ever pay for his crimes, but I still think that Waugh would have approved. He was smart enough to know that bad people get away with things all the time. He also knew that there are always consequences; if not in this life, then in the next.

*****
So that’s what happens when you let me get mixed up with movie reviews and theology. I’m competent at neither. I just know what I know.

It’s the last Tuesday in October now, and I’m still not making any World Series predictions (though it’s do or die tonight). I’ll say only that this weekend didn’t go quite as we expected. Much like this blog post, in fact. Maybe it did write itself.

Shopping

We’re buying a car for my son today. His very old car’s last legs are wearing out, and it’s probably better for us to bite the bullet and hand over our savings for a new car than to keep sinking money into the old one.

My son is very excited, as well he should be. My husband and I grew up poor and I don't know what we find most amazing: that an 18-year-old will be pretty much handed a new(ish) car (he's contributing $1000), or that we are now the kind of people who can go out on a Sunday afternoon and buy our child a car. Amazing.

*****
Now we're test-driving; rather, he is test-driving, and I’m sitting in the back. He's a good driver, enough that the salesman complimented him. Getting into cars with strangers all day long must be the hardest thing about selling cars for a living.

*****
Car buying is much faster than it used to be. We walked in to Carmax about 2.5 hours ago, and now we have paperwork in hand, and we're just waiting for the staff to put the tags on the new car and to make it even cleaner than it already was. We bought a 2016 Nissan Rogue, black exterior and interior. It's very nice looking. My son loves it and if he's happy, then I'm happy.

He looks happy, doesn't he? 

*****
That was Sunday, and today is Monday. It’s actually my birthday. It feels like a slightly more festive than normal regular day. And that’s pretty good.

I went clothes-shopping on Saturday, and I bought some things. There are fashion moments when the prevailing look matches my aesthetic and my body type and my idea of how to live in clothes, and when those moments arise, I stock up. It might be too soon to tell, though, if this is really one of those moments. Because I’m going out to dinner soon, as nice middle-aged ladies tend to do on their birthdays; and I just perused my very well-stocked closet, but I can’t find anything to wear. It’s partly a weather thing. I’m terrible at the dreaded “transitional” seasons, when you have to balance the appropriate seasonal mood with the actual temperature. But it’s partly because I’m very bad at shopping and I keep buying the wrong things. I should stick with handbags.

Most of my clothes come from one store. I had a bad experience there on Saturday and instead of just letting it go, I told the company’s customer service department that I’d never shop there again. I know. I’m ridiculous. In my defense, it was a really bad experience and it’s their fault and they were utterly indifferent to my very valid concerns. But now I’m committed to this thing and I have to either find a new store, or find a way to shop there without them ever finding out. All cash, I suppose. Completely ridiculous, that's what I am. Fortunately, I have lots of company in the rest of the entire human race.

*****
It was a good birthday. I'm a year older. That’s better, as they say, than the alternative

Meanwhile it's going to be hot for another week or so, and the transitional clothing dilemma persists. The store that so upset me has my favorite kind of mid-calf length print rayon skirts because it’s apparently 1995 again. Those skirts will be just the thing to carry me through the warm days of the final transition from summer to fall. So I borrowed my husband’s Visa, set up a new online account with the store, and had the skirts shipped to my mother-in-law’s house. I get my skirts, and my boycott continues, as far as they know. Everyone wins.

I used to think that car-shopping was difficult, It’s nothing compared to buying a skirt.

Rhetoric

It's 10:15 on Saturday night and I worked all day today. And I mean all day. ALLL day.

It's Saturday, for crying out loud, but it was actually a good day for me to work. I've been out of sorts, and having to work gave me a good excuse to not go out and enjoy the beautiful May weather. But still, it's Saturday, and now I'm completely exhausted, and my eyes are shot for the day. So I'm going to go and take out my contact lenses, and make some tea, and watch TV for a little while, and go to bed. I'm watching "Broadchurch" on Netflix. I'm obsessed with Olivia Colman's character.

*****
Now it's Sunday. I'm working again and I'm a little salty, wondering just who writes "work to ensure that risks are identified and mitigated," rather than "identify and mitigate risks." And that's not the worst of it. Oh, not even close.

*****

It's Wednesday evening and I'm sitting outside watching my son's baseball game, and freezing. It's May. Did I mention that? Why am I freezing in the middle of May?

I didn't wear my beloved sweater tonight because I don't want to wear it out. So the sweater is warm and comfortable at home while I sit shivering in an entirely inadequate nylon pullover. Poor planning on my part. Poor decision making.

I used to say that Maryland's climate was changing but now I think that it has already changed. This is probably the fourth consecutive year that we've had chilly gray March-like conditions in May, almost right up to Memorial Day weekend, when summer miraculously returns. I suppose I can live with the once-unseasonable chill, as long as we get the miracle. But I still wish that I had worn my sweater.

*****
It's Thursday now. I took a rare weekday day off and spent it shopping, another rare event. And strangely enough, it was lovely. And successful, too. I bought some things.

I'm sitting in church as I write this. My younger son's Confirmation is in 30 minutes or so, so we're just waiting for the procession to begin. I suppose I should be praying.

In fact, maybe I should pray for my few remaining brain cells. When my sons were getting dressed, I asked my older son if it was strictly necessary to drop his shorts and t-shirt on the floor or if it might have been possible for him to drop them in the laundry hamper five feet away. "That's a hypothetical question," I said. "Don't answer it." 

Even as I said this, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't remember the right word. And I always remember the right words. Remembering the right words is all I know how to do. Fast typing, compulsive housecleaning, and words. Take away any one of the three and I'm all but unemployable. 

Rhetorical question. That's what it was. A rhetorical question, not a hypothetical question. And there is always an upside because my son has grown in wisdom enough that he knew better than to correct me. 

*****

It's Friday night now, 9:30 PM. Today I wrote a really good nomination for an award that my company would like to win, so I think that my mental acuity has recovered a bit from yesterday's aphasia episode. Thanks, Holy Spirit. I'll stop blogging in church now. It's the least I can do.

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. 

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.