Tuesday: It's very very hot today and unusually, I am not happy about the tropical heat because the pool is closed.
Yes, let that sink in for a moment. The pool is closed. THE POOL IS CLOSED.
It's the day after Memorial Day and I came home from work and folded laundry and put away groceries and put on a bathing suit and walked to the pool, only to learn that a pump malfunction had necessitated an early closure. I'm a little devastated.
Honestly, I wasn't even really looking forward to getting in the water, because overnight rain that persisted through the morning likely meant that the already-cold water would be even colder. But I was looking forward to BEING in the water. Getting in and being in? Two entirely different things.
So, here I am. Instead of swimming laps, I'm writing about not swimming laps.
*****
It's Wednesday now, and I'm still not swimming laps because the pool remains closed. It's supposed to re-open tomorrow. Hope springs eternal.
Pool status notwithstanding, it's swim team season--season of early Saturday mornings and Friday night pasta parties and weekly emails. And officiating, of course. I was born to wear a whistle and carry a clipboard. My authori-tay will not be questioned.
*****
Thursday, and the first world problems continue to pile up. Yes, the pool is open finally, but it's a terrible swimming day, and so I went walking instead. And then I yelled at my kids because they are both infected with an end-of-the-school-year laziness virus that I had to nip in the bud. I don't yell at my kids very often. I don't even really raise my voice to them. So on the rare occasions when I do need to read the proverbial riot act, it makes an impression. They're tiptoeing around me right now as though I might bite. And you never know. I might.
*****
Friday afternoon, and I'm finished with work and trying to decide if I should grocery shop or do swim team work or just hang around.
Do you see this? I can't even just hang around without stopping to write about it.
My husband and kids are better than I am at just hanging around. During the lovely few days when we had no FiOS, they started on a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, which is about 80% finished. As a person with absolutely no spatial relations ability, I find jigsaw puzzles to be among the least fun things that a person can do. I'd no sooner choose to do a jigsaw puzzle than dig ditches or mine coal.
OK, I guess that's an exaggeration. But I'm really terrible at puzzles. The very sight of all of those tiny pieces, all of which look alike to me; and the very idea of trying to distinguish one from another and then trying to fit them together, just stresses me out. So as much as I'd like to have this mess off my dining room table, I'm not going to actually try to put the rest of it together.
Actually, it's not a mess at all. It looks rather nice. Nonetheless, I am ruling out puzzle-doing as an option for the rest of the afternoon. The house is clean, but it could always be cleaner. And I really should go grocery shopping. But the sun is out and the pool is open. I think I'll go swimming instead.
Friday, May 31, 2019
Monday, May 27, 2019
Freedom
It’s Friday afternoon, and Memorial Day weekend is here, and I have few problems that summer can’t solve. Few problems but not no problems. No problems is too much to ask for in a fallen world, especially a fallen world in which Verizon exists.
I worked from home today, and fortunately, I started quite early, because my FiOS went down at 2:45 PM and Verizon can’t fix it until Sunday. I finished almost a whole day, so I don’t have to take any PTO, but I started early for a reason, that reason being that I have a ton of work to do and I wanted to work a bit longer today so I’d have things under control on Tuesday; and so that I wouldn’t have to work during the holiday weekend.
When it became quite apparent that the WiFi was really and truly down for the count, I forced myself to do the thing that I hate to do almost more than any other task in life. I called Verizon, and the moment the chatbot come on the line to try to helpfully help me route my call to the helpfulest agent, I wished I hadn’t. For “security reasons” (“security” meaning “we want to make dealing with us as miserable as possible”) they insisted that they could not and would not speak to me until they could verify my identity with the owner of the account, that owner being my husband, who was of course at work. As was I, but I couldn’t do my work, because thanks Verizon. After they sent my husband a text message, and he forwarded it to me and I read them the number that established my identity, I asked the super helpful agent to add my number to the account so that we wouldn’t have to go through this process again. And he said “Of course—I’ll be happy to. I’ll just replace his number with yours.”
And I said “No, please don’t replace his number. Just add mine.”
I will spare you the rest of this conversation. But the upshot is that Verizon’s customer management system has room for only one phone number. Just one. It seems not to have occurred to this giant tech company that it might be possible to add a form field that would allow a service agent to store an additional phone number; nor that many of the households that their company serves might include more than one person. They’re sending a technician out on Sunday.
****
Saturday: I’m not good at being free. I know no better way to explain this, but I’ll try. No matter what I am doing, I always feel that I should be doing something else. No matter how I might like to sleep a little later or relax on the couch or take an afternoon off to just be a person, I can’t seem to do it. This is partly circumstance-related, because I’m a person with a demanding job and a family and responsibilities. But it’s much more a function of my nature. I’m wound pretty tightly. I know this about myself.
Every so often, though, the door opens a bit, and I let myself walk outside it and I look at my computer and walk right past it, and I walk right through the kitchen and don’t stop to prep dinner or wash a dish, and I walk right through the laundry room, ignoring the pile of folded laundry that needs to be put away, and then I walk right out the door to freedom. It’s Saturday, and it’s Memorial Day weekend, and I just finished swimming my first outdoor laps of 2019. The water was freezing, and it wasn’t fine once you got used to it, and an hour later, I’m still a little numb around the toes. It’s pretty glorious.
*****
So it’s Sunday, the day that Verizon is supposed to come, and of course they’re going to stretch their two-hour arrival window to its limit because they wouldn’t be Verizon if they didn’t suck. They’re supposed to arrive between 12 and 2, and it’s 12:59 now, and I’m guessing that my doorbell will ring at 1:57. Then I’ll wait around while the extremely polite technician analyzes the problem. And then he will either very politely explain why he can’t fix it today under any circumstances; or, he will tell me that he CAN fix it but the problem is our fault and not theirs and fixing it will cost us even more money than the ridiculous sum that we already hand over every month.
Truthfully, I don’t even care that much. Other than not being able to work at home until the FiOS is restored (well, that is kind of a pain), I don’t miss it. My son and I played Scrabble yesterday. Last night, we watched an old Star Wars movie on DVD. I can write without distractions. No one can play Fortnite. NO ONE CAN PLAY FORTNITE! And hockey season, at least as far as I care about it, is over. So I don’t need FiOS. I just want to get out of the house.
*****
It’s Monday now, Memorial Day. Verizon finally showed up at 2:05 and they were finished by 2:30 and I was out the door at 2:45. And it was a lovely rest of the day of sorting t-shirts for our annual 5K and swimming laps and reading books and celebrating a six-year-old’s birthday and going to sleep early and waking up even earlier. It’s 3 PM, and it’s time to go swimming again. Happy Memorial Day, and happy summer.
I worked from home today, and fortunately, I started quite early, because my FiOS went down at 2:45 PM and Verizon can’t fix it until Sunday. I finished almost a whole day, so I don’t have to take any PTO, but I started early for a reason, that reason being that I have a ton of work to do and I wanted to work a bit longer today so I’d have things under control on Tuesday; and so that I wouldn’t have to work during the holiday weekend.
When it became quite apparent that the WiFi was really and truly down for the count, I forced myself to do the thing that I hate to do almost more than any other task in life. I called Verizon, and the moment the chatbot come on the line to try to helpfully help me route my call to the helpfulest agent, I wished I hadn’t. For “security reasons” (“security” meaning “we want to make dealing with us as miserable as possible”) they insisted that they could not and would not speak to me until they could verify my identity with the owner of the account, that owner being my husband, who was of course at work. As was I, but I couldn’t do my work, because thanks Verizon. After they sent my husband a text message, and he forwarded it to me and I read them the number that established my identity, I asked the super helpful agent to add my number to the account so that we wouldn’t have to go through this process again. And he said “Of course—I’ll be happy to. I’ll just replace his number with yours.”
And I said “No, please don’t replace his number. Just add mine.”
I will spare you the rest of this conversation. But the upshot is that Verizon’s customer management system has room for only one phone number. Just one. It seems not to have occurred to this giant tech company that it might be possible to add a form field that would allow a service agent to store an additional phone number; nor that many of the households that their company serves might include more than one person. They’re sending a technician out on Sunday.
****
Saturday: I’m not good at being free. I know no better way to explain this, but I’ll try. No matter what I am doing, I always feel that I should be doing something else. No matter how I might like to sleep a little later or relax on the couch or take an afternoon off to just be a person, I can’t seem to do it. This is partly circumstance-related, because I’m a person with a demanding job and a family and responsibilities. But it’s much more a function of my nature. I’m wound pretty tightly. I know this about myself.
Every so often, though, the door opens a bit, and I let myself walk outside it and I look at my computer and walk right past it, and I walk right through the kitchen and don’t stop to prep dinner or wash a dish, and I walk right through the laundry room, ignoring the pile of folded laundry that needs to be put away, and then I walk right out the door to freedom. It’s Saturday, and it’s Memorial Day weekend, and I just finished swimming my first outdoor laps of 2019. The water was freezing, and it wasn’t fine once you got used to it, and an hour later, I’m still a little numb around the toes. It’s pretty glorious.
*****
So it’s Sunday, the day that Verizon is supposed to come, and of course they’re going to stretch their two-hour arrival window to its limit because they wouldn’t be Verizon if they didn’t suck. They’re supposed to arrive between 12 and 2, and it’s 12:59 now, and I’m guessing that my doorbell will ring at 1:57. Then I’ll wait around while the extremely polite technician analyzes the problem. And then he will either very politely explain why he can’t fix it today under any circumstances; or, he will tell me that he CAN fix it but the problem is our fault and not theirs and fixing it will cost us even more money than the ridiculous sum that we already hand over every month.
Truthfully, I don’t even care that much. Other than not being able to work at home until the FiOS is restored (well, that is kind of a pain), I don’t miss it. My son and I played Scrabble yesterday. Last night, we watched an old Star Wars movie on DVD. I can write without distractions. No one can play Fortnite. NO ONE CAN PLAY FORTNITE! And hockey season, at least as far as I care about it, is over. So I don’t need FiOS. I just want to get out of the house.
*****
It’s Monday now, Memorial Day. Verizon finally showed up at 2:05 and they were finished by 2:30 and I was out the door at 2:45. And it was a lovely rest of the day of sorting t-shirts for our annual 5K and swimming laps and reading books and celebrating a six-year-old’s birthday and going to sleep early and waking up even earlier. It’s 3 PM, and it’s time to go swimming again. Happy Memorial Day, and happy summer.
Saturday, May 18, 2019
On Wednesday, I might wear pink. I might just wear pink
Thursday: I woke up this morning and I just couldn't. I know that could (and by association couldn't) is an auxiliary verb, usually accompanied by another verb. But I just couldn't. Anything, at all. Full stop.
Of course I did anyway. I did the things I had to do starting with the hardest, which was to get out of bed. It's 9 PM now and so I can stop. Until tomorrow.
*****
Friday: You know those little separator things that they have at the grocery store checkout line? And you get in line and the person ahead of you takes one and places it behind their order, and you always say thank you to that person? I used to wonder why people said thank you, because it seemed that that person was only making sure that they didn't inadvertently pay for your groceries. But saying thank you is what you do in that situation. So much is this ingrained in my code of etiquette that I would be slightly offended if the person behind me in the checkout line failed to say thank you when I placed the divider between our orders.
This morning, I felt so despairingly wretchedly awful. I wrote all about it. And then I erased it, sparing you my dark night of the soul. You don't have to thank me.
*****
Saturday: That was fun, wasn't it?
My son's senior prom was last night. He had a good time. Prom isn't what it was when I was young, and in many ways, that's a good thing. I grew up in the city, and only a handful of my classmates could drive. Most of us didn't learn to drive until college or even after. In the suburbs, though, kids drive at age 16 (age 16 and six months in Maryland). When I first moved here, it seemed that every May and June would bring terrible news of late-night car crashes that would kill high school seniors days before or after their high school graduations. And this still happens but maybe not as much as it did 20 years ago thanks in part to school-sponsored after-prom parties.
At Rockville High School, kids aren't even allowed to drive to the prom. They meet at the local rec center, where buses take them to the prom. It's a great equalizer. After the prom, the buses drop them off at the same rec center for the after-prom party.
I'll spare you all the details surrounding security and calls to parents when kids leave the party early. Just know that it's a huge volunteer effort, with over a hundred parents arriving at 6:30 or so to decorate and get the food set up, then work at the party itself from 11:30 to 3, and then clean up the rec center beginning at 3 AM. Senior parents are not supposed to be at the party, and I didn't feel like being part of the cheerful set-up crowd, so I volunteered for graveyard duty, and arrived at the rec center at 3 AM.
I'm not part of the in crowd at my son's high school. That's not a complaint or anything. They're all very lovely people, and I have made friends with a few band and swim team parents. But most of them have known each other since their children were in kindergarten. For safety reasons associated with my husband's police work, we had to move our children from our neighborhood high school to another nearby high school, so he started as a freshman surrounded by kids who had already been in school together for nine years. It's hard for introverted people to break into a new crowd, and we are introverted people.
Another senior parent was leading the clean-up crew. I know her to speak to. She's lived in this neighborhood for her whole life, and is always at the center of every crowd and every conversation. She's pretty and outgoing and stylish and has beautiful hair. And when she greeted me by name last night, and started the usual "can you believe our babies are graduating" conversation with me, I felt like the walliest of wallflowers, welcomed into the royal court by the reigning prom queen.
via GIPHY
It's all high school, isn't it?
Anyway, we were finished cleaning up by 4:30; and by 5:00, I was back in bed, where I stayed until 9:30. And everything seems almost fine again. Grool.
Of course I did anyway. I did the things I had to do starting with the hardest, which was to get out of bed. It's 9 PM now and so I can stop. Until tomorrow.
*****
Friday: You know those little separator things that they have at the grocery store checkout line? And you get in line and the person ahead of you takes one and places it behind their order, and you always say thank you to that person? I used to wonder why people said thank you, because it seemed that that person was only making sure that they didn't inadvertently pay for your groceries. But saying thank you is what you do in that situation. So much is this ingrained in my code of etiquette that I would be slightly offended if the person behind me in the checkout line failed to say thank you when I placed the divider between our orders.
This morning, I felt so despairingly wretchedly awful. I wrote all about it. And then I erased it, sparing you my dark night of the soul. You don't have to thank me.
*****
Saturday: That was fun, wasn't it?
My son's senior prom was last night. He had a good time. Prom isn't what it was when I was young, and in many ways, that's a good thing. I grew up in the city, and only a handful of my classmates could drive. Most of us didn't learn to drive until college or even after. In the suburbs, though, kids drive at age 16 (age 16 and six months in Maryland). When I first moved here, it seemed that every May and June would bring terrible news of late-night car crashes that would kill high school seniors days before or after their high school graduations. And this still happens but maybe not as much as it did 20 years ago thanks in part to school-sponsored after-prom parties.
At Rockville High School, kids aren't even allowed to drive to the prom. They meet at the local rec center, where buses take them to the prom. It's a great equalizer. After the prom, the buses drop them off at the same rec center for the after-prom party.
I'll spare you all the details surrounding security and calls to parents when kids leave the party early. Just know that it's a huge volunteer effort, with over a hundred parents arriving at 6:30 or so to decorate and get the food set up, then work at the party itself from 11:30 to 3, and then clean up the rec center beginning at 3 AM. Senior parents are not supposed to be at the party, and I didn't feel like being part of the cheerful set-up crowd, so I volunteered for graveyard duty, and arrived at the rec center at 3 AM.
I'm not part of the in crowd at my son's high school. That's not a complaint or anything. They're all very lovely people, and I have made friends with a few band and swim team parents. But most of them have known each other since their children were in kindergarten. For safety reasons associated with my husband's police work, we had to move our children from our neighborhood high school to another nearby high school, so he started as a freshman surrounded by kids who had already been in school together for nine years. It's hard for introverted people to break into a new crowd, and we are introverted people.
Another senior parent was leading the clean-up crew. I know her to speak to. She's lived in this neighborhood for her whole life, and is always at the center of every crowd and every conversation. She's pretty and outgoing and stylish and has beautiful hair. And when she greeted me by name last night, and started the usual "can you believe our babies are graduating" conversation with me, I felt like the walliest of wallflowers, welcomed into the royal court by the reigning prom queen.
via GIPHY
It's all high school, isn't it?
Anyway, we were finished cleaning up by 4:30; and by 5:00, I was back in bed, where I stayed until 9:30. And everything seems almost fine again. Grool.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Rainy season
There are few things better than a pair of dry socks, especially after you've had wet socks on your feet for several hours.
*****
On Monday afternoon, I visited the headquarters of the Federal government agency that I work for. I normally work in a satellite office ten minutes from my house, but we had a meeting at headquarters, so I worked at my normal office in the morning, and then took Metro from Twinbrook to Union Station, exactly one mile from the building where the meeting was to take place.
A coworker, who has been on the contract with me for just a few months, also had to attend the meeting, so we traveled together. My coworker shares my Metro-riding philosophy: If it's not on the Red Line, it's dead to me. We agreed that we'd much prefer to walk the mile from Union Station than transfer to the Blue or Green Line to Federal Center. And we both knew that it was going to rain, and that it was in fact, raining. But we decided to proceed as planned.
It had nearly stopped raining when we got on the train in Rockville. But then it started again, and a steady, though not driving, rain was falling when we exited Union Station. For some inexplicable reason, my coworker had worn high-heeled sandals, and she seemed considerably dismayed by the rain. I offered to take a taxi with her, but she wanted to stick with our original plan, so we walked through Columbus Circle and then around the Capitol building to Independence and our destination.
It was colder than it should be in May, but not freezing, and there was no wind, so the rain fell vertically, the way it's supposed to. I took some nice pictures of the Capitol building, which disappears behind overgrown spring foliage as you approach it, and then appears again through breaks in the trees. We had rain jackets and umbrellas; and despite wet socks and slightly wet pants from the knees down, a good time was had by me.
My coworker, unfortunately, did not like the brisk one-mile walk through the rain nearly as much as I did. But she was actually quite nice about the whole thing, and I felt a little guilty about how much I enjoyed what was obviously just a step up from the Bataan Death March for her.
****
So dry socks and hot soup--those are the two things that can fix everything. I arrived to our meeting with wet socks (the dry socks had to wait until I got home), but thanks to the cafeteria in the building (how I love office building cafeterias), we had the soup. In a few minutes we were both--wait for it--right as rain.
*****
It's Wednesday now. After days of rain and March-cold temperatures, it's finally sunny and dry and almost warm. I'm hoping that it will be a long time before I need dry socks and hot soup and a sturdy umbrella, all on the same day. Still, it's nice that they were all there when I needed them.
*****
On Monday afternoon, I visited the headquarters of the Federal government agency that I work for. I normally work in a satellite office ten minutes from my house, but we had a meeting at headquarters, so I worked at my normal office in the morning, and then took Metro from Twinbrook to Union Station, exactly one mile from the building where the meeting was to take place.
A coworker, who has been on the contract with me for just a few months, also had to attend the meeting, so we traveled together. My coworker shares my Metro-riding philosophy: If it's not on the Red Line, it's dead to me. We agreed that we'd much prefer to walk the mile from Union Station than transfer to the Blue or Green Line to Federal Center. And we both knew that it was going to rain, and that it was in fact, raining. But we decided to proceed as planned.
It had nearly stopped raining when we got on the train in Rockville. But then it started again, and a steady, though not driving, rain was falling when we exited Union Station. For some inexplicable reason, my coworker had worn high-heeled sandals, and she seemed considerably dismayed by the rain. I offered to take a taxi with her, but she wanted to stick with our original plan, so we walked through Columbus Circle and then around the Capitol building to Independence and our destination.
It was colder than it should be in May, but not freezing, and there was no wind, so the rain fell vertically, the way it's supposed to. I took some nice pictures of the Capitol building, which disappears behind overgrown spring foliage as you approach it, and then appears again through breaks in the trees. We had rain jackets and umbrellas; and despite wet socks and slightly wet pants from the knees down, a good time was had by me.
 |
| There it is! |
My coworker, unfortunately, did not like the brisk one-mile walk through the rain nearly as much as I did. But she was actually quite nice about the whole thing, and I felt a little guilty about how much I enjoyed what was obviously just a step up from the Bataan Death March for her.
****
So dry socks and hot soup--those are the two things that can fix everything. I arrived to our meeting with wet socks (the dry socks had to wait until I got home), but thanks to the cafeteria in the building (how I love office building cafeterias), we had the soup. In a few minutes we were both--wait for it--right as rain.
*****
It's Wednesday now. After days of rain and March-cold temperatures, it's finally sunny and dry and almost warm. I'm hoping that it will be a long time before I need dry socks and hot soup and a sturdy umbrella, all on the same day. Still, it's nice that they were all there when I needed them.
Friday, May 10, 2019
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?
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 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."
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.
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.
Monday, May 6, 2019
Almost perfect
I was at work one day last week, and I happened to look over at the side of my cubicle where my handbag was hanging, and I spent a minute just looking at that handbag, thinking about how much I like it and how perfectly it suits my purposes.
It's a bag that I normally carry on the weekend or while traveling, and so I guess I associate it with freedom and leisure. But it also has a near-perfect combination of beauty and practicality that make carrying my daily necessities both easy and pleasing.
*****
When I was in Ireland in March, I bought an Aran sweater. It's not a traditional fisherman-style pullover sweater; it's a hooded cardigan with a zipper, cable-knit merino wool in a beautiful dark wine color. It is not only my favorite sweater, it's my favorite article of clothing of any type. When I put it on, I feel like a turtle, safe and comfortable in its neat and perfectly fitting shell. I wish I could wear that sweater every day; but soon it will be too warm, and I'll have to put it away until next fall.
*****
Here's how much I love this sweater. I'm actually happy that today is about 15 degrees colder than the weather forecast predicted, because I can wear it again. I'm wearing it right now. My son had a baseball game and I multi-tasked my way through it, writing several newsletter articles in record time. I thought for a moment that the game and the surrounding activity had helped me to concentrate, in some counter-intuitive distraction-as-a-tool-of-focus way. Then I realized that it was probably the sweater.
*****
Whenever I find a piece of clothing or an accessory that I really love, I try to find another--or more than another--just like it. I think how nice it would be to feel safely shelled like a turtle, every day; or to carry my things every day in a never-leave-home-without-it go bag that makes me feel like Queen Elizabeth II on casual Friday. I looked at some more Aran sweaters online, but I don't want another one--I just one a dozen more of the very one that I have, so that I always have the perfect sweater. My bag is also still available online, in six other colors, but I only really love the one I have. So why do I keep thinking about another sweater, or another bag?
*****
I always tell my sons that, contrary to what the world might tell them, that we're not necessarily meant to feel good and healthy and confident and capable every minute of every day. We're not meant to feel our best all the time. That's the point--you still have to do whatever it is you do. You still have to get up out of bed and do your job or go to school or take care of your family or maybe all of the above and more, no matter how good or bad or indifferent you might feel.
Most of the world doesn't feel so great most of the time. Most of the people in the world, I would guess, are wearing clothes that aren't quite right. Or they're having a bad hair day. Or they feel too fat or too skinny or too old or too not-right in whatever way. But they still put one foot in front of the other, they do what they have to do, and they get up and do it again the next day.
And what exactly is the point of all of that? What does that have to do with a sweater or a handbag or the price of tea in China?
I guess it's that a quest for the perfect sweater, the perfect thing to wear every day in every circumstance, or the bag that will carry everything you could ever possibly need, is really just a hedge against feeling bad. It's a way to avoid the truth, that it's a fallen world and that sometimes, we're supposed to feel bad.
But sometimes, we're supposed to feel good. Sometimes, everything is supposed to come together. Sometimes, after days of rain and gloom and too much work and too little sleep and zero fun, you sleep through the night and the sun comes out and you finish your work for the day and you walk in the sunshine and everything seems right. Like a turtle in its shell. Like the Queen and her handbag, with everything she needs, just when she needs it. Like exactly the right sweater.
*****
When I was in Ireland in March, I bought an Aran sweater. It's not a traditional fisherman-style pullover sweater; it's a hooded cardigan with a zipper, cable-knit merino wool in a beautiful dark wine color. It is not only my favorite sweater, it's my favorite article of clothing of any type. When I put it on, I feel like a turtle, safe and comfortable in its neat and perfectly fitting shell. I wish I could wear that sweater every day; but soon it will be too warm, and I'll have to put it away until next fall.
*****
Here's how much I love this sweater. I'm actually happy that today is about 15 degrees colder than the weather forecast predicted, because I can wear it again. I'm wearing it right now. My son had a baseball game and I multi-tasked my way through it, writing several newsletter articles in record time. I thought for a moment that the game and the surrounding activity had helped me to concentrate, in some counter-intuitive distraction-as-a-tool-of-focus way. Then I realized that it was probably the sweater.
*****
Whenever I find a piece of clothing or an accessory that I really love, I try to find another--or more than another--just like it. I think how nice it would be to feel safely shelled like a turtle, every day; or to carry my things every day in a never-leave-home-without-it go bag that makes me feel like Queen Elizabeth II on casual Friday. I looked at some more Aran sweaters online, but I don't want another one--I just one a dozen more of the very one that I have, so that I always have the perfect sweater. My bag is also still available online, in six other colors, but I only really love the one I have. So why do I keep thinking about another sweater, or another bag?
*****
I always tell my sons that, contrary to what the world might tell them, that we're not necessarily meant to feel good and healthy and confident and capable every minute of every day. We're not meant to feel our best all the time. That's the point--you still have to do whatever it is you do. You still have to get up out of bed and do your job or go to school or take care of your family or maybe all of the above and more, no matter how good or bad or indifferent you might feel.
Most of the world doesn't feel so great most of the time. Most of the people in the world, I would guess, are wearing clothes that aren't quite right. Or they're having a bad hair day. Or they feel too fat or too skinny or too old or too not-right in whatever way. But they still put one foot in front of the other, they do what they have to do, and they get up and do it again the next day.
And what exactly is the point of all of that? What does that have to do with a sweater or a handbag or the price of tea in China?
I guess it's that a quest for the perfect sweater, the perfect thing to wear every day in every circumstance, or the bag that will carry everything you could ever possibly need, is really just a hedge against feeling bad. It's a way to avoid the truth, that it's a fallen world and that sometimes, we're supposed to feel bad.
But sometimes, we're supposed to feel good. Sometimes, everything is supposed to come together. Sometimes, after days of rain and gloom and too much work and too little sleep and zero fun, you sleep through the night and the sun comes out and you finish your work for the day and you walk in the sunshine and everything seems right. Like a turtle in its shell. Like the Queen and her handbag, with everything she needs, just when she needs it. Like exactly the right sweater.
Monday, April 29, 2019
Documentation
It's Friday and I'm working from home, from an interior room in my house, waiting out the second tornado warning in seven days. The first one scared me a bit. This is suburban Maryland, not Tornado Alley, and we don't see a lot of Wizard of Oz action around here. Or we didn't used to, because again--second time in a week. Climate change is real. And I'm jaded already. Other than moving a little farther away from the windows, I didn't do a darn thing to prepare for a tornado hit.
Well, that was quick. The tornado warning ended after 15 minutes. The roof is still attached to the house, and we're not in theoretical Kansas anymore. Onward.
*****
Saturday morning. My son was supposed to have a baseball game this morning, which the league cancelled because of field conditions, then reinstated because the field dried quickly in this morning's bright sun and chilly wind, then cancelled again because they had already told the officials not to show up and those officials, busy men apparently, were no longer available.
I was also supposed to have some work to do this weekend, and now apparently I don't have work to do.
It would appear that I'm using the word "apparently" a lot.
Do you see what I did there?
Anyway. From having what I felt was too much to do in too short a time, I have all of a sudden ended up with more free time than I expected and as always, this is a source of panic rather than relief. Because if I don't figure out what to do then I'll feel that the day has gotten away from me, escaped me like a slippery fish, which is really what you get for trying to fish without a hook.
Anyway. It's feast or famine. I feel either overwhelmed or desolate, and there's no in-between. I think I'd like an in-between.
I'm a fun girl, aren't I?
*****
It's Sunday now. Yesterday was actually a pretty good day. I planned and organized a bit. I wrote some things down. I manage stuff better when it's written down. Writing about something makes it real. There's a saying: If it's not documented, then it didn't happen. For me, if it's not documented, then it won't happen. So I documented the next month or so, and now I feel like it will happen, one way or another.
And do you see what happened? Yesterday was an in-between day. I wrote that I needed an in-between day, and voila. The pen really is mightier than the sword.
*****
Speaking of writing, I am watching Season 2 of "The Crown" on Netflix. It's 1956, and Queen Elizabeth II is making last-minute changes to her Christmas speech after having listened to Prince Philip's speech from the royal yacht Britannia. It's an incredibly moving scene, as two people separated by thousands of miles and the breadth of the British Commonwealth and the weight of the Crown declare their love for one another--in a quiet and understated, but unmistakably clear way--in front of millions of listeners from all over the world.
*****
April is almost over and not a second too soon. With May comes a pre-summer onslaught of last high school things and last middle school things, and I don't feel quite ready but I have a plan and it's in writing. It's documented, so it will happen.
Well, that was quick. The tornado warning ended after 15 minutes. The roof is still attached to the house, and we're not in theoretical Kansas anymore. Onward.
*****
Saturday morning. My son was supposed to have a baseball game this morning, which the league cancelled because of field conditions, then reinstated because the field dried quickly in this morning's bright sun and chilly wind, then cancelled again because they had already told the officials not to show up and those officials, busy men apparently, were no longer available.
I was also supposed to have some work to do this weekend, and now apparently I don't have work to do.
It would appear that I'm using the word "apparently" a lot.
Do you see what I did there?
Anyway. From having what I felt was too much to do in too short a time, I have all of a sudden ended up with more free time than I expected and as always, this is a source of panic rather than relief. Because if I don't figure out what to do then I'll feel that the day has gotten away from me, escaped me like a slippery fish, which is really what you get for trying to fish without a hook.
Anyway. It's feast or famine. I feel either overwhelmed or desolate, and there's no in-between. I think I'd like an in-between.
I'm a fun girl, aren't I?
*****
It's Sunday now. Yesterday was actually a pretty good day. I planned and organized a bit. I wrote some things down. I manage stuff better when it's written down. Writing about something makes it real. There's a saying: If it's not documented, then it didn't happen. For me, if it's not documented, then it won't happen. So I documented the next month or so, and now I feel like it will happen, one way or another.
And do you see what happened? Yesterday was an in-between day. I wrote that I needed an in-between day, and voila. The pen really is mightier than the sword.
*****
Speaking of writing, I am watching Season 2 of "The Crown" on Netflix. It's 1956, and Queen Elizabeth II is making last-minute changes to her Christmas speech after having listened to Prince Philip's speech from the royal yacht Britannia. It's an incredibly moving scene, as two people separated by thousands of miles and the breadth of the British Commonwealth and the weight of the Crown declare their love for one another--in a quiet and understated, but unmistakably clear way--in front of millions of listeners from all over the world.
*****
April is almost over and not a second too soon. With May comes a pre-summer onslaught of last high school things and last middle school things, and I don't feel quite ready but I have a plan and it's in writing. It's documented, so it will happen.
Thursday, April 25, 2019
Round 1
It's Easter Sunday, 8:15 PM. I'm glad that Easter is over. Spring is the worst.
*****
It doesn't make any sense that spring would provoke such anxiety and dread for someone who loves summer as much as I do. But it does, and I don't know why. Actually I do know why, but I don't want to talk about it. Or write about it.
*****
I just finished Sandra Tsing Loh's The Madwoman in the Volvo. Years ago, I read Depth Takes a Holiday and A Year in Van Nuys, which were very funny. And then I forgot about Sandra Tsing Loh, until I found this memoir, which she wrote in 2014. A memoir of near-breakdown depression and anxiety was probably not the best reading choice for me right now. And that's probably all I have to say about this book. Except that it's possible for a writer to be too honest.
So now I'm reading Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate. Personal writing by Asian-American women writers who had difficult childhoods was not necessarily a literary theme that I chose, but here I am. A long time ago, I read The Joy-Luck Club and The Kitchen God's Wife, both of which (especially the former) I liked a lot. And then I just kind of forgot about Amy Tan. I'm glad I found this one.
The Opposite of Fate was published in 2001. It's a series of short essays, many of them about her work or the aspects of her life that fed her work. In one very funny piece, Tan breaks down the fallacies and errors that have crept into analysis of her work and her life, all the result of careless Internet research. This piece reads as very contemporary (not that 2001 was ancient history), and serves as a reminder that even after the 2016 election, we still tend to rely heavily on the Internet and to believe much of what we read online. By "we," of course, I mean people other than me, because I am automatically and reflexively skeptical of every word I see online. But lots of people I know, even the smart ones, still share political memes and tweets that scream "Russian Troll Factory" to anyone with ears to hear, so to speak.
*****
In the foreword of The Opposite of Fate, Amy Tan describes the pieces as "vignettes" or sketches or something less structured, less serious and purposeful than an essay. Sketch isn't right because these are very well-crafted little pieces of writing, but I get why she doesn't consider them essays. They're less outward-facing than an essay normally is, a little more personal, but not directly personal--she approaches her own life from a slight angle. It's very meta. Anyway, she's much better company than Sandra Tsing-Loh. I finished that book a few days ago and I'm still trying to recover my will to live.
*****
Well, that was harsh. It's Wednesday morning now, 6:45, and I'm writing when I should be waking people up and making lunches and generally preparing for the day. And I'll do all of that, in a minute.
It's do-or-die day for the Washington Capitals, game 7 of the first round of the playoffs against the Carolina Hurricanes. My son and I can't stop quoting the David Pastrnak Dunkin' Donuts commercial: "Hey ref--check your voicemail. I think you missed some calls." As an official myself, I am usually loath to criticize referees and linesmen, but I'll make an exception for Monday night's egregious failure to see what was plainly a good goal.
And that was a lie anyway. I'm not at all loath to criticize NHL officials. I'm the opposite of loath.
*****
It's Thursday now. I'm ready to start my own personal summer right now, but I was hoping that the Washington Capitals wouldn't be starting their summer until mid-June. I don't have enough to do, and now I have to figure out which of the remaining teams to root for.
On January 22, 2017, the words "Tonight's attendance: 1.5 million" scrolled across the Jumbotron at American Airlines Center, home arena of the Dallas Stars. Dallas happened to be playing Washington that night, and so I happened to see it; and for trolling Donald Trump, the Stars earned a special place in my heart forever. They are still standing, so they're my team until next October. I still get to watch hockey, but it won't be the same. At least I have a good book to read.
The Opposite of Fate was published in 2001. It's a series of short essays, many of them about her work or the aspects of her life that fed her work. In one very funny piece, Tan breaks down the fallacies and errors that have crept into analysis of her work and her life, all the result of careless Internet research. This piece reads as very contemporary (not that 2001 was ancient history), and serves as a reminder that even after the 2016 election, we still tend to rely heavily on the Internet and to believe much of what we read online. By "we," of course, I mean people other than me, because I am automatically and reflexively skeptical of every word I see online. But lots of people I know, even the smart ones, still share political memes and tweets that scream "Russian Troll Factory" to anyone with ears to hear, so to speak.
*****
In the foreword of The Opposite of Fate, Amy Tan describes the pieces as "vignettes" or sketches or something less structured, less serious and purposeful than an essay. Sketch isn't right because these are very well-crafted little pieces of writing, but I get why she doesn't consider them essays. They're less outward-facing than an essay normally is, a little more personal, but not directly personal--she approaches her own life from a slight angle. It's very meta. Anyway, she's much better company than Sandra Tsing-Loh. I finished that book a few days ago and I'm still trying to recover my will to live.
*****
Well, that was harsh. It's Wednesday morning now, 6:45, and I'm writing when I should be waking people up and making lunches and generally preparing for the day. And I'll do all of that, in a minute.
It's do-or-die day for the Washington Capitals, game 7 of the first round of the playoffs against the Carolina Hurricanes. My son and I can't stop quoting the David Pastrnak Dunkin' Donuts commercial: "Hey ref--check your voicemail. I think you missed some calls." As an official myself, I am usually loath to criticize referees and linesmen, but I'll make an exception for Monday night's egregious failure to see what was plainly a good goal.
And that was a lie anyway. I'm not at all loath to criticize NHL officials. I'm the opposite of loath.
*****
It's Thursday now. I'm ready to start my own personal summer right now, but I was hoping that the Washington Capitals wouldn't be starting their summer until mid-June. I don't have enough to do, and now I have to figure out which of the remaining teams to root for.
On January 22, 2017, the words "Tonight's attendance: 1.5 million" scrolled across the Jumbotron at American Airlines Center, home arena of the Dallas Stars. Dallas happened to be playing Washington that night, and so I happened to see it; and for trolling Donald Trump, the Stars earned a special place in my heart forever. They are still standing, so they're my team until next October. I still get to watch hockey, but it won't be the same. At least I have a good book to read.
Sunday, April 21, 2019
Charm City
It's 6:30 Saturday night and I'm in a car on 95 North, halfway between Washington and Baltimore, just like Meg Ryan in fucking Sleepless in Seattle. Crusty today, that's what I am. Crusty.
We're on our way to watch the Baltimore Orioles play the Minnesota Twins. I don't care much about baseball anymore, and I really don't care about American League baseball, especially during the Stanley Cup playoffs. But it's a beautiful night and we have free tickets, so here we are.
I like Baltimore. It's a little rough around the edges right now but it'll be back. I like the harbor and the industrial brick buildings and the Domino Sugar sign and the Bromo Seltzer tower and Fort McHenry and of course, Camden Yards. Camden Yards is a great ballpark, even if you're not an Orioles fan.
We're in our seats now, waiting for the second game of a twi-night doubleheader. It's still light out at 7:45 and the sky is almost perfectly clear and it's starting to get a tiny bit cold but I'm wearing a warm sweater and I'm perfectly comfortable, halfway through a very lovely draft beer and surrounded by happy Baltimoreans on a holiday weekend.
*****
We don't come to Orioles games very often, but when we do, they tend to be memorable. I visited Camden Yards for the first time on September 19, 1998. It just so happened that Cal Ripken Jr. had started to feel a little tired, and had decided to end the famous streak, on that very night.
Ripken’s absence from the starting lineup didn't attract much attention. At that point in his career, he had begun to slow down a bit, and he wasn't playing all nine innings of every game. But the stadium began to buzz a bit when the sixth inning came and went with no Cal. By the eighth inning, all of Oriole Park was on its feet. No other player has come anywhere close to breaking that streak, and it's not likely that any player ever will.
In 2015, Baltimore exploded in fury in the aftermath of Freddie Gray's death. On April 25, my husband and sons and a friend were at an Orioles game. It was another Saturday night in spring, this one much colder. I'd been outside all day at my older son's track meet, and I gave up my ticket because I couldn't bear the thought of sitting out in the cold for three more hours. I watched the game on TV, hoping to see my family in the stands, so I was watching as the non-violent protests turned non non-violent, and the Baltimore PD shut down the stadium and surrounding neighborhoods, preventing fans from leaving the ballpark. They were allowed to leave 30 minutes later, and everyone made it home safely.
*****
Oh my God. The Old Bay fumes are killing me. Welcome to Baltimore.
Oh my God. The Old Bay fumes are killing me. Welcome to Baltimore.
*****
So one more game, on September 11, 2015. The Orioles scored 10 runs in one inning, including two grand slams, against a Kansas City Royals team that didn't know what hit them. That's two grand slams in one inning, not one game. BTW, I looked it up and that has happened a lot more than you'd probably guess. The Orioles won that night.
So one more game, on September 11, 2015. The Orioles scored 10 runs in one inning, including two grand slams, against a Kansas City Royals team that didn't know what hit them. That's two grand slams in one inning, not one game. BTW, I looked it up and that has happened a lot more than you'd probably guess. The Orioles won that night.
 |
| Still one of my favorite pictures-- it's actually my lock screen photo. |
*****
4-0, Twins, after 2 innings. We might not stay for the whole game. But this is an enthusiastic crowd.
Wait, did they just score 6 more in the very same third inning? Because it's 10-0 now.
*****
When it comes to American League baseball, we are the fairest of fair-weather fans. At 14-0 in the fourth inning, we packed up and drove home, with the windows open to the breeze and the radio playing top 40 until we were close enough to DC to find the radio broadcast of the Capitals game. It's nice to get out of town once in a while, but it's nicer to be home.
When it comes to American League baseball, we are the fairest of fair-weather fans. At 14-0 in the fourth inning, we packed up and drove home, with the windows open to the breeze and the radio playing top 40 until we were close enough to DC to find the radio broadcast of the Capitals game. It's nice to get out of town once in a while, but it's nicer to be home.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
Transient
When it comes to the physical world, I tend not to notice things. I can drive past the same bench for years, and have no idea what it looks like. (Still.) And it doesn't matter how many times I drive to a place; I can still find a way to get lost. I don't know why this is. Faces stay with me, and I'm very good at matching colors, but geographical landmarks fade into the background and I don't notice them until they change, very dramatically.
Right next door to where I work. a whole building just came down and I barely noticed it. I'm lucky enough to sit by a window; and a few weeks ago, I looked outside and noticed a backhoe moving back and forth, rhythmically gathering piles of debris from one spot on the site where the building once stood, and moving them to another spot. I understand now why 4-year old boys like to watch the action at a construction site. It's very entertaining.
But now a building that's been there for the whole almost year that I worked next door to it (and presumably much longer), is just gone, shoveled away like piles of dirty snow.
I don't really care about the building at all. I have no idea what it contained and I don't even remember what my office view looked like when it was still standing. And I'm not worried about what's going to take its place. Things change.
Last year, I read Maeve Brennan's The Long-Winded Lady. Maeve Brennan moved from place to place when she lived in New York. She lived in hotels and efficiency apartments, and she went out for dinner almost every night, eating at the same restaurants over and over. She never seemed to stay in one apartment or hotel for more than a few months at a time, but she still complained about the pace of change in New York. Every time she looked out a window, or walked around a corner, an old building was coming down, replaced by a high-rise office or apartment building. Brennan herself moved constantly, but she wanted New York to stay the same; that is to say, the same as it was when she found it.
*****
I've never been to Paris, so I've never seen Notre Dame. All of the Americans I know who are mourning its near-destruction are attached to a building that they saw only a handful of times. But I understand. There are lots of places, important and obscure, that I love as much as Parisians love Notre Dame. And they're all temporary--the 800-year-old cathedral, and the 100-year-old beach town, and the neighborhood pool and the who-knows-what-it-was building outside my office window. Nothing man-made is permanent. Nothing.
Right next door to where I work. a whole building just came down and I barely noticed it. I'm lucky enough to sit by a window; and a few weeks ago, I looked outside and noticed a backhoe moving back and forth, rhythmically gathering piles of debris from one spot on the site where the building once stood, and moving them to another spot. I understand now why 4-year old boys like to watch the action at a construction site. It's very entertaining.
I don't really care about the building at all. I have no idea what it contained and I don't even remember what my office view looked like when it was still standing. And I'm not worried about what's going to take its place. Things change.
Last year, I read Maeve Brennan's The Long-Winded Lady. Maeve Brennan moved from place to place when she lived in New York. She lived in hotels and efficiency apartments, and she went out for dinner almost every night, eating at the same restaurants over and over. She never seemed to stay in one apartment or hotel for more than a few months at a time, but she still complained about the pace of change in New York. Every time she looked out a window, or walked around a corner, an old building was coming down, replaced by a high-rise office or apartment building. Brennan herself moved constantly, but she wanted New York to stay the same; that is to say, the same as it was when she found it.
*****
I've never been to Paris, so I've never seen Notre Dame. All of the Americans I know who are mourning its near-destruction are attached to a building that they saw only a handful of times. But I understand. There are lots of places, important and obscure, that I love as much as Parisians love Notre Dame. And they're all temporary--the 800-year-old cathedral, and the 100-year-old beach town, and the neighborhood pool and the who-knows-what-it-was building outside my office window. Nothing man-made is permanent. Nothing.
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
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.
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.
Sunday, April 7, 2019
College ruled
A day or so ago, I was sitting in a meeting. I could write that sentence almost any day of the week and it would be true; but in this case, it's actually true and I really was sitting in a meeting. The person sitting next to me was writing in a brand-new notebook. And I could tell from the neatly underlined dates and the careful way that she turned the page that she was in the new-notebook honeymoon phase, which I know well. I have terrible handwriting, but when I have a new notebook, I make an effort, for at least a few pages, to write clearly and legibly, and to keep things organized. For posterity's sake, of course.
Two days later, I was in another meeting, sitting next to another person, writing in another notebook. She wrote in large, neat, squarish cursive that marched diagonally upward across the page, blithely disregarding the horizontal ruled lines. She drew little boxes and shapes, crisp arrows that pointed sharply from one word to another, as if to remind herself of a connection between the two words that wouldn't be apparent otherwise. I had to stop myself from staring over her shoulder to study her notes.
*****
My son had an accepted students day at a small, private, liberal arts college in Maryland. It's a beautiful place, and the swim coach is recruiting him heavily, much to our surprise. He's a good swimmer, but not college-recruit good, even in a Division III school. Division III schools, of course, do not offer athletic scholarships, and this is a very expensive school. My son was offered a partial academic scholarship, and we have some money saved for his education, but not enough to cover four years of tuition and room and board. And I keep thinking that we have time to sort it all out, but he graduates from high school in about 60 days or so, so the proverbial clock is ticking.
Accepted students' day was lovely. I am a pretty typical college-educated suburban middle-class mother but I grew up in a working-class inner-city family, and my sisters and I were the first in our family to graduate from college. When I'm at high school band concerts and swim meets and college visits, I nod along and act like I know. But I feel like an impostor, surrounded by people who were born into the educated middle class and have never questioned their right to be there, and know with utter certainty that their only path is upward. But they're all very friendly and kind, and I won't mind leaving my son among their children. I'll just need to remind him occasionally not to take anything for granted, not to assume that his presence in college is an entitlement nor that his middle class good fortune is a lifetime sinecure.
*****
Didn't I start this thing with notebooks? I think I did. I think I did. And I almost bought a new notebook today, at the bookstore of my son's possible college. It was a small leather-bound notebook, its dark-blue cover embossed with the college logo. The leather cover was stiff enough to keep the pages clean and flat, but flexible enough that it would have softened in time. The whole thing fastened neatly with an elastic band. I imagined that it would be nice to write in.
It was also $24.95, and I have three more notebooks that I haven't touched yet. We haven't decided yet where my son will go to school, but if he wants to go to the private school, then we'll have to make some lifestyle adjustments. I might have to stop buying things, just because I like them, just because I'm a bona-fide member of the middle class and I can. I might have to write in regular notebooks, like everyone else.
*****
My son had an accepted students day at a small, private, liberal arts college in Maryland. It's a beautiful place, and the swim coach is recruiting him heavily, much to our surprise. He's a good swimmer, but not college-recruit good, even in a Division III school. Division III schools, of course, do not offer athletic scholarships, and this is a very expensive school. My son was offered a partial academic scholarship, and we have some money saved for his education, but not enough to cover four years of tuition and room and board. And I keep thinking that we have time to sort it all out, but he graduates from high school in about 60 days or so, so the proverbial clock is ticking.
Accepted students' day was lovely. I am a pretty typical college-educated suburban middle-class mother but I grew up in a working-class inner-city family, and my sisters and I were the first in our family to graduate from college. When I'm at high school band concerts and swim meets and college visits, I nod along and act like I know. But I feel like an impostor, surrounded by people who were born into the educated middle class and have never questioned their right to be there, and know with utter certainty that their only path is upward. But they're all very friendly and kind, and I won't mind leaving my son among their children. I'll just need to remind him occasionally not to take anything for granted, not to assume that his presence in college is an entitlement nor that his middle class good fortune is a lifetime sinecure.
*****
Didn't I start this thing with notebooks? I think I did. I think I did. And I almost bought a new notebook today, at the bookstore of my son's possible college. It was a small leather-bound notebook, its dark-blue cover embossed with the college logo. The leather cover was stiff enough to keep the pages clean and flat, but flexible enough that it would have softened in time. The whole thing fastened neatly with an elastic band. I imagined that it would be nice to write in.
It was also $24.95, and I have three more notebooks that I haven't touched yet. We haven't decided yet where my son will go to school, but if he wants to go to the private school, then we'll have to make some lifestyle adjustments. I might have to stop buying things, just because I like them, just because I'm a bona-fide member of the middle class and I can. I might have to write in regular notebooks, like everyone else.
Thursday, April 4, 2019
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.
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.
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.
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.
*****
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.
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