So, earlier this month I made a decision that it was high time for me to learn how to play the saxophone. I (sort of jokingly) reached out to my friend Phil who plays and he's offered (perhaps jokingly) to go with me to rent one and show me the ropes in exchange for dinner.
Lots of flutists are sax doublers, and it's because of some similarities in fingering, but I've been uninterested, until now, in giving it a try for a couple of reasons:
1. I'm concerned for my embouchure. The one thing I can count on in my flute playing, especially when I lack the time for consistent practicing is my clear, sweet tone. Lack of practice means everything else (fingers, confidence, ability to sight-read) goes to hell but since I usually sound okay, it keeps me from committing suicide (or, putting the flute away forever; you decide which is reality). I've heard things about what happens to a flutist's tone who picks up the sax, and let's just say, they're not always nice things.
2. I'm lazy. See above: I don't have a lot of time to practice the flute, when the hell do I think I'm going to be able to sit down and figure out a new instrument?
3. The reeds and the mouthpiece. WTF is this shit? I don't know anything about these items, and frankly, they bother me. I have to do what to a reed before I can use it? Get it all wet with my spit? Is that gross or is it just me? I mean, I'm sure I'll get over it, and some Reeds 101 would probably include hygienic advice but for now, I don't feel good about this part. And then I know that the number of your reed can be a status-y thing for some players, and jeez, do I need that pressure?
On the other hand, I have (misguided, probably) confidence that I will be able to pick this up fairly quickly (due to my inherent musicality and superior genes, musically speaking. Fine: I can't parallel park, but I can be hot shit on occasion, when it comes to music. Man. I'm a brat, aren't I?), and will be playing the sax solos from "Careless Whisper" and Fishbone tunes in no time. And, I bet I would look good in a bowler hat. Check this one out, too. Seriously, is this going to be a problem?
Come on.
Or maybe this is my destiny.
Cuing up the English Beat now.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
No.
While at work, I don't want to have to "overhear" anyone's conversation that includes the words, "It's because you're a Cancer, honey, it's your hard shell..."
I'm just saying.
If your daily conversational style requires that you constantly use terms like "the bottom line is," "the point is" and "the idea here is," doesn't that mean that you need to improve and simplify your communication skills? I mean, if you have to constantly ask for confirmation that your listener understands what it is you're telling them, couldn't you do a better job of making the prime point, whatever it is?
Or is this just the sign of rampant condescension?
Or is this just the sign of rampant condescension?
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Feels like the (cough! cough!) first time
I've been hearing commercials on the radio for a new product called "Enjoy" Electric Cigarettes. I haven't done much (any) research, so all I know is what they tell you in the commercials (and then only the bits I can remember), which is that you can't buy them if you're a minor (that's got to be a good thing), that nicotine is addictive, and that they are some sort of "electric" cigarette. What the hell that means, I have no idea. Do you plug it in or are they battery powered? Then they have Foreigner's "classic" "Feels Like the First Time" playing in the background.
I did do a little half-assed research into Foreigner, and I had no idea that some guy in the band used to be in King Crimson. Shocking! And I found out that "Head Games" (one of my favorite dirty little secret songs) was a Foreigner song! I had no idea. Also, Foreigner seems to take themselves very seriously.
Anyway, my point is, I think that's a funny song to use in this commercial, because, as I remember it, my "first time" smoking a cigarette wasn't anything to brag about or remember fondly. It involved a soft pack of Pall Malls (I've told this story before; I chose Pall Malls because some dumbass kid, who my life would be a lot better had he never crossed my path, told me "Kurt Vonnegut smokes Pall Malls"), the dirt behind my neighbor's shed (they were out of town and I was supposed to be watering their eggplant), and a shitload of coughing. It was not a pleasant (or very smart) experience. Unless I'm significantly lamer than the rest of the world (and it's definitely a possibility), I'm not sure that anybody who smokes is looking back to their first time lighting up through rose-colored glasses with Foreigner in the background. It was around 1987, the chances are very high that I was listening to U2 or Billy Idol.
Anyway, I wasn't a huge smoker, and I finally quit about 10 years ago (because it was literally making me sick, and starting to feel very gross to me, and because I worried about my husband, who smoked more than I did, and when I would relapse, he relapsed even harder; and because there's nothing more stupid than a woodwind player smoking a cigarette), and of that I am proud.
If you're a smoker and you need help quitting, there is LOTS of information and help out there for you. Try starting here: http://www.cdc.gov/tobacco/quit_smoking/, and please, do it for yourself. You deserve a long, healthy, smoke free life.
I did do a little half-assed research into Foreigner, and I had no idea that some guy in the band used to be in King Crimson. Shocking! And I found out that "Head Games" (one of my favorite dirty little secret songs) was a Foreigner song! I had no idea. Also, Foreigner seems to take themselves very seriously.
Anyway, my point is, I think that's a funny song to use in this commercial, because, as I remember it, my "first time" smoking a cigarette wasn't anything to brag about or remember fondly. It involved a soft pack of Pall Malls (I've told this story before; I chose Pall Malls because some dumbass kid, who my life would be a lot better had he never crossed my path, told me "Kurt Vonnegut smokes Pall Malls"), the dirt behind my neighbor's shed (they were out of town and I was supposed to be watering their eggplant), and a shitload of coughing. It was not a pleasant (or very smart) experience. Unless I'm significantly lamer than the rest of the world (and it's definitely a possibility), I'm not sure that anybody who smokes is looking back to their first time lighting up through rose-colored glasses with Foreigner in the background. It was around 1987, the chances are very high that I was listening to U2 or Billy Idol.
Anyway, I wasn't a huge smoker, and I finally quit about 10 years ago (because it was literally making me sick, and starting to feel very gross to me, and because I worried about my husband, who smoked more than I did, and when I would relapse, he relapsed even harder; and because there's nothing more stupid than a woodwind player smoking a cigarette), and of that I am proud.
If you're a smoker and you need help quitting, there is LOTS of information and help out there for you. Try starting here: http://www.cdc.gov/tobacco/quit_smoking/, and please, do it for yourself. You deserve a long, healthy, smoke free life.
Monday, May 6, 2013
"I love the smell of bookstores in the morning."
Over the weekend, Patrick and I took Jules to a local Long Beach bookstore where our friend Jeff was playing with one of the ensembles he's in. We'd never been to this bookstore, which is crazy, because it's about 1.5 miles away from our house (and next to the bike store, which we both have been many times). It's a little funky used bookstore, apparently small enough for one employee at a time. That one employee, when we first got there, resembled Ernst from the movie "The Hotel New Hampshire," blond, handsome, with a thin little mustache. The guy who came in after him had dirty fingernails and a bit of a tremor.
As a long-time, former bookstore employee, I think I've pretty much seen it all, at least as far as the type of people who work in bookstores goes.
While we were waiting for the band to get ready, I wandered around the bookstore a little bit. They sell used books, and the space is pretty small, so it was easy to see everything in a short amount of time. The book I picked up rather haphazardly at first was Rob Lowe's autobiography. What can I say? I knew I didn't have a lot of time. Sort of magically, I turned, at random, to the chapters where he writes about "The Outsiders." I'd forgotten he had been in that movie, which is one of the very few instances I can think of where the movie was as good as the book. I'm in no way commenting on his performance as an actor. I didn't read the whole story he wrote about that movie, because Jules wanted to be held. Maybe I'll find it at the library. Then, I discovered (in a box) Anne Rice's "Sleeping Beauty" trilogy, and just the sight of those quality paperbacks, with the original (as I remember) covers, took me straight back to 1991, when I was working at Crown Books in Culver City.
Everyone is (or was) all excited about the book "50 Shades of Grey," which I haven't read, and don't intend to read. I haven't read a lot of erotica, but the shitty reviews (or, I should say, the reviews that reveal that it's a shitty book) of "50 Shades" are enough to keep me from checking it out. Not one person has told me to read the book because it's well-written, and I don't have a lot of time for books as it is: why would I waste my time on one that's terrible? Anyway, I had read the Anne Rice books, or at least the first one, back in 1991, while working at Crown, hiding in the corner to the right of the cash registers.
So here's the thing about working in a bookstore, or at least, a bookstore with a corporate headquarters: you really aren't supposed to read the books. At least, not on the floor. This was the rule at all the bookstores I ever worked in, and, aside from not being on time for work very often, the rule I broke the most. Truly, I almost got written up at Rizzoli (or was threatened with it, though, I don't think anyone ever got written up at Rizzoli) for it. I wish he'd done it, because what the hell, right? There are worse things I could've done (and were surely done by my co-workers, some of whom were blatant drug users and outright thieves).
Here's another thing you should know about working in bookstores, should you be looking for that kind of job (and good luck to you, because there sure aren't many bookstores left): people who profess to "love the smell of bookstores" almost never get hired. That type of person, who has a romanticized notion about a building that most likely hasn't been properly vacuumed in years, where the smell of the "books" is more likely a moldy carpet or the other employees, is probably a little bit crazy. We know that, those of us who work in bookstores. We know that "old book" smell is probably the receiving clerk's lunch. From two weeks ago.
Yes, books are awesome. Yes, buying, selling, handling, talking about books, opening the new shipments up for the first time: that's pretty fucking rad. But we didn't wear those aprons at Crown for nothing: it's a dirty business sometimes, and you need to know that you're going to be crawling around on your hands and knees, rearringing the travel section a lot of the time. But the thing that's truly wonderful about bookstores is the people, and that's what I miss the most. I'm pretty introverted: I'm not very outgoing with strangers, and I can be a little awkward, but I loved ringing up people and handling their books and the act of the sale itself, the sound of the cash register, or the credit card machine, and then packing their books up, and wondering about the person buying them (what made them pick these two books?), asking if the writer was any good if I didn't know, supressing a chortle if I did know that the writer sucked. I loved all that, I love straightening a section (I used to say, "I'm inflicting the alphabet on this section!") and cleaning it up.
So, I walked past the used copies of the Sleeping Beauty trilogy a few times. I thought about how much I enjoyed Anne Rice's other books (not all of them!!!!), and how I thought she did vampires so much better, with way better writing than anything I've seen since, and I thought, I should check these out (again). I remember being young when I read the first one, and feeling shocked at the things she was writing, but now that I know about her (and life) a little more, I wonder if there's a hidden value in that, if there's something in reading these books beyond the initial, secret thrill. Somebody out there, probably lots of somebodies, has figured it out already, because there are so many smart people in the world, and I'm not necessarily one of them. Still, I think they'll be fun to read. Anyway, the books were cheap. They were practically giving them away.
I'll let you know if I figure it out.
As a long-time, former bookstore employee, I think I've pretty much seen it all, at least as far as the type of people who work in bookstores goes.
While we were waiting for the band to get ready, I wandered around the bookstore a little bit. They sell used books, and the space is pretty small, so it was easy to see everything in a short amount of time. The book I picked up rather haphazardly at first was Rob Lowe's autobiography. What can I say? I knew I didn't have a lot of time. Sort of magically, I turned, at random, to the chapters where he writes about "The Outsiders." I'd forgotten he had been in that movie, which is one of the very few instances I can think of where the movie was as good as the book. I'm in no way commenting on his performance as an actor. I didn't read the whole story he wrote about that movie, because Jules wanted to be held. Maybe I'll find it at the library. Then, I discovered (in a box) Anne Rice's "Sleeping Beauty" trilogy, and just the sight of those quality paperbacks, with the original (as I remember) covers, took me straight back to 1991, when I was working at Crown Books in Culver City.
Everyone is (or was) all excited about the book "50 Shades of Grey," which I haven't read, and don't intend to read. I haven't read a lot of erotica, but the shitty reviews (or, I should say, the reviews that reveal that it's a shitty book) of "50 Shades" are enough to keep me from checking it out. Not one person has told me to read the book because it's well-written, and I don't have a lot of time for books as it is: why would I waste my time on one that's terrible? Anyway, I had read the Anne Rice books, or at least the first one, back in 1991, while working at Crown, hiding in the corner to the right of the cash registers.
So here's the thing about working in a bookstore, or at least, a bookstore with a corporate headquarters: you really aren't supposed to read the books. At least, not on the floor. This was the rule at all the bookstores I ever worked in, and, aside from not being on time for work very often, the rule I broke the most. Truly, I almost got written up at Rizzoli (or was threatened with it, though, I don't think anyone ever got written up at Rizzoli) for it. I wish he'd done it, because what the hell, right? There are worse things I could've done (and were surely done by my co-workers, some of whom were blatant drug users and outright thieves).
Here's another thing you should know about working in bookstores, should you be looking for that kind of job (and good luck to you, because there sure aren't many bookstores left): people who profess to "love the smell of bookstores" almost never get hired. That type of person, who has a romanticized notion about a building that most likely hasn't been properly vacuumed in years, where the smell of the "books" is more likely a moldy carpet or the other employees, is probably a little bit crazy. We know that, those of us who work in bookstores. We know that "old book" smell is probably the receiving clerk's lunch. From two weeks ago.
Yes, books are awesome. Yes, buying, selling, handling, talking about books, opening the new shipments up for the first time: that's pretty fucking rad. But we didn't wear those aprons at Crown for nothing: it's a dirty business sometimes, and you need to know that you're going to be crawling around on your hands and knees, rearringing the travel section a lot of the time. But the thing that's truly wonderful about bookstores is the people, and that's what I miss the most. I'm pretty introverted: I'm not very outgoing with strangers, and I can be a little awkward, but I loved ringing up people and handling their books and the act of the sale itself, the sound of the cash register, or the credit card machine, and then packing their books up, and wondering about the person buying them (what made them pick these two books?), asking if the writer was any good if I didn't know, supressing a chortle if I did know that the writer sucked. I loved all that, I love straightening a section (I used to say, "I'm inflicting the alphabet on this section!") and cleaning it up.
So, I walked past the used copies of the Sleeping Beauty trilogy a few times. I thought about how much I enjoyed Anne Rice's other books (not all of them!!!!), and how I thought she did vampires so much better, with way better writing than anything I've seen since, and I thought, I should check these out (again). I remember being young when I read the first one, and feeling shocked at the things she was writing, but now that I know about her (and life) a little more, I wonder if there's a hidden value in that, if there's something in reading these books beyond the initial, secret thrill. Somebody out there, probably lots of somebodies, has figured it out already, because there are so many smart people in the world, and I'm not necessarily one of them. Still, I think they'll be fun to read. Anyway, the books were cheap. They were practically giving them away.
I'll let you know if I figure it out.
What do you mean, probably?
I was just now helping my co-worker print something (personal), and trying to be careful not to cough or breathe on her, but then I put my hand down on her mouse, and felt something sticky on the left mouse button.
"What is that?" I said.
"What?" she asked.
"There's something sticky on your mouse."
"Oh, it's probably just coke," she said.
"What do you mean, 'probably'?" I thought.
And then I felt that feeling of absolute revulsion that comes over you sometimes, and I went back to my cubicle and practically emersed my hands in hand sanitizer.
She may find an anonymous gift of Lysol disinfectant wipes on her desk later today.
"What is that?" I said.
"What?" she asked.
"There's something sticky on your mouse."
"Oh, it's probably just coke," she said.
"What do you mean, 'probably'?" I thought.
And then I felt that feeling of absolute revulsion that comes over you sometimes, and I went back to my cubicle and practically emersed my hands in hand sanitizer.
She may find an anonymous gift of Lysol disinfectant wipes on her desk later today.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Stairwell A vs. Stairwell B: Who will be the winner? You? Or me? Or something like that.
"In North America tens of people die and tens of thousand people get injured every year from the falls on stairs." From Canadian Center for Occupational Health and Safety
(I'm sure I could've found a more relevant, and/or dramatically stated, U.S.-centric quote, but whatever. You get the point.)
The building I work in has two stairwells. Stairwell A is located at the main entrance of the building, and is next to the elevators. Stairwell B is located near the parking lot.
Each floor has 24 steps per stairwell, but Stairwell B divides the 24 steps into 3 sets of 8. It's a circular stairwell, with a small landing at the top of each 8. Stairwell A has is divided in 2, with 2 sets of 12 steps.
I was talking to someone in my office the other day about my trick for walking more: I try to take the stairs as often as possible, and I've even started using the basement level restroom so that I get an extra trip.
I prefer Stairwell B for a couple of reasons: 1) it's closer to my office 2) there are windows in that stairwell 3) I get to go outside for a few feet before reentering our building (our building is built into a hill; the basement level is half stuck in the side of the hill). I like the way the stairs are broken up into chunks of 8. For slower people or if you're carrying something, it seems safer to me to have a landing there. Again, I'm sure I could've found something relevant to this topic that bears out my theory, but somewhere in the back of my grew-up-watching-This-Old-House-and-other-various-construction-related shows, I feel like I've heard it said before by people with knowledge on this topic, that fewer steps in a row is safer stair desig. So without corroborating evidence, I believe in it. Yes, I believe! I am a believer in the concept of breaking up a flight of stairs into more manageable, shorter chunks. Hallelujah, I believe.
Why am I telling you this? Because when I suggested that this person take the stairs (she was complaining about not walking enough and missing the sunshine, two issues that a simple walk down the stairs could fix), she freaked out on me.
Yes, she literally freaked out. I guess she saw someone fall down in Stairwell B (I haven't seen the accident report yet, and yes, those do come through my hands, so I'm not sure what the exact circumstances were. Maybe that person was looking at their cell phone, or their shoe was untied, or they had low blood sugar, or maybe they were pushed!), and she seems to have an unnatural fear now of that happening to her. And THEN she had the audacity to suggest the Stairwell A is safer for exactly the opposite reason I think the other one is safe! (Wait. Did I get that right? Oh, use your own logic and work it out, the point is, SHE'S WRONG.)
Anyway, did I mention that this person, without fail, drives me up the wall several times a day, EVERY DAY? Don't you think that for this reason alone I am justified in my deep and undiluted annoyance with her? I mean, right?
...
To all my friends advocating peace, love, charity and kindness:
I try.
No really, I do.
Okay, fine: I tried.
For a little while, I did. I tried. But then her she had an idiotic computer question, and another issue, and then she stuck her nose in my business, and then she talked to me like I was her child, and then she had more computer problems that an 8 year old could solve and then...
Oh.
Okay, fine.
I will try harder to be kind in the face of rampant idiocy.
Wait.
No, I mean, I will try harder to be kind.
I will be kind.
Starting now, I will be kind.
I will.
(I'm sure I could've found a more relevant, and/or dramatically stated, U.S.-centric quote, but whatever. You get the point.)
The building I work in has two stairwells. Stairwell A is located at the main entrance of the building, and is next to the elevators. Stairwell B is located near the parking lot.
Each floor has 24 steps per stairwell, but Stairwell B divides the 24 steps into 3 sets of 8. It's a circular stairwell, with a small landing at the top of each 8. Stairwell A has is divided in 2, with 2 sets of 12 steps.
I was talking to someone in my office the other day about my trick for walking more: I try to take the stairs as often as possible, and I've even started using the basement level restroom so that I get an extra trip.
I prefer Stairwell B for a couple of reasons: 1) it's closer to my office 2) there are windows in that stairwell 3) I get to go outside for a few feet before reentering our building (our building is built into a hill; the basement level is half stuck in the side of the hill). I like the way the stairs are broken up into chunks of 8. For slower people or if you're carrying something, it seems safer to me to have a landing there. Again, I'm sure I could've found something relevant to this topic that bears out my theory, but somewhere in the back of my grew-up-watching-This-Old-House-and-other-various-construction-related shows, I feel like I've heard it said before by people with knowledge on this topic, that fewer steps in a row is safer stair desig. So without corroborating evidence, I believe in it. Yes, I believe! I am a believer in the concept of breaking up a flight of stairs into more manageable, shorter chunks. Hallelujah, I believe.
Why am I telling you this? Because when I suggested that this person take the stairs (she was complaining about not walking enough and missing the sunshine, two issues that a simple walk down the stairs could fix), she freaked out on me.
Yes, she literally freaked out. I guess she saw someone fall down in Stairwell B (I haven't seen the accident report yet, and yes, those do come through my hands, so I'm not sure what the exact circumstances were. Maybe that person was looking at their cell phone, or their shoe was untied, or they had low blood sugar, or maybe they were pushed!), and she seems to have an unnatural fear now of that happening to her. And THEN she had the audacity to suggest the Stairwell A is safer for exactly the opposite reason I think the other one is safe! (Wait. Did I get that right? Oh, use your own logic and work it out, the point is, SHE'S WRONG.)
Anyway, did I mention that this person, without fail, drives me up the wall several times a day, EVERY DAY? Don't you think that for this reason alone I am justified in my deep and undiluted annoyance with her? I mean, right?
...
To all my friends advocating peace, love, charity and kindness:
I try.
No really, I do.
Okay, fine: I tried.
For a little while, I did. I tried. But then her she had an idiotic computer question, and another issue, and then she stuck her nose in my business, and then she talked to me like I was her child, and then she had more computer problems that an 8 year old could solve and then...
Oh.
Okay, fine.
I will try harder to be kind in the face of rampant idiocy.
Wait.
No, I mean, I will try harder to be kind.
I will be kind.
Starting now, I will be kind.
I will.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Today's playlist
I haven't done this is in awhile, but today required music, lots of it, and at high volume (due to concentration issues, and the loudness of various and sundry conversations in my office. Did I use "sundry" properly?). Here are some highlights, thank you, trusty iPod:
- Muzzle of Bees, Wilco
- Alabama, Neil Young
- Don’t Fade On Me, Tom Petty
- Life Wasted, Pearl Jam
- Old Enough, The Raconteurs
- I Want You, Kings of Leon
- Use Me, Love & Rockets
- Gimme the Car, Violent Femmes
- Oh! Darling, The Beatles
- Breaking Us in Two, Joe Jackson
- Personality Crisis, New York Dolls
- He'd Send in the Army, Gang of Four
- They Don't Know, Tracey Ullman ("Baby!")
- I'm Not a Punk, Descendents
- I Don't Want to Lose You, The Smithereens
- Wah-Wah, George Harrison
- All I Want is You, U2
- Let Me Lie to You, Afghan Whigs
- Bring on the Night, The Police
- Burning Down, R.E.M.
- Only Lonely, Divinyls
Red, itchy, puffy and hot
On Saturday, I got to participate in a really cool photo shoot at City Garage. My friend Justin Davanzo is a supremely talented photographer, and he gave us City Garage people the opportunity to sit with him. For the actors, I think it was a chance to get some creative headshots and professional caliber photographs taken. For me, it was for fun.
I haven't seen the photos yet, but if I like them, I'll post them here, and will probably even redo the design of this blog. Until then, you'll just have to wonder. I'll also post a link to his page later.
It was a fun experience, and involved a professional makeup artist. Since I very rarely wear makeup, and when I do, the quantity is negligible, to sit in front of a professional (not a Sephora employee) was pretty cool. She did a nice job. The photos were mainly black and white, and so she worked her magic for that specific (what? situation? utility?) _________ (fill in correct word here; I'm too lazy to complete this thought this morning). The makeup she used was MAC. I loved the way she did my eyes. She did a great job.
Afterwards, I washed as much of it off as I could, and went about the rest of my day fine. But when I woke up Sunday morning, my face was hot, puffy, red, and itchy. At first I thought it was my cat allergies, but then I figured out that no, I sleep with cats every night and never have this reaction. At around 10:30 a.m. I took a Benadryl, and almost instantly fell asleep for the next two and a half hours.
The rest of the day I still felt itchy and red and puffy, but I hoped today would be better. I can't take Benadryl while I'm working (because sleeping on the job is frowned on) but I did take a Claritin, and just now I emailed my doctor about it. He told me the Benadryl and Claritin should work, but if not, I might need to come in, and they'll give me a steroid. Not sure I want to do that, so I'm hoping the other stuff works. I feel pretty self-conscious about it but Patrick said it didn't look too bad. Then again, he's not the most observant man in the world, either.
So, I head off into the world today, red, puffy, itchy and hot. Only not in a good way.
I haven't seen the photos yet, but if I like them, I'll post them here, and will probably even redo the design of this blog. Until then, you'll just have to wonder. I'll also post a link to his page later.
It was a fun experience, and involved a professional makeup artist. Since I very rarely wear makeup, and when I do, the quantity is negligible, to sit in front of a professional (not a Sephora employee) was pretty cool. She did a nice job. The photos were mainly black and white, and so she worked her magic for that specific (what? situation? utility?) _________ (fill in correct word here; I'm too lazy to complete this thought this morning). The makeup she used was MAC. I loved the way she did my eyes. She did a great job.
Afterwards, I washed as much of it off as I could, and went about the rest of my day fine. But when I woke up Sunday morning, my face was hot, puffy, red, and itchy. At first I thought it was my cat allergies, but then I figured out that no, I sleep with cats every night and never have this reaction. At around 10:30 a.m. I took a Benadryl, and almost instantly fell asleep for the next two and a half hours.
The rest of the day I still felt itchy and red and puffy, but I hoped today would be better. I can't take Benadryl while I'm working (because sleeping on the job is frowned on) but I did take a Claritin, and just now I emailed my doctor about it. He told me the Benadryl and Claritin should work, but if not, I might need to come in, and they'll give me a steroid. Not sure I want to do that, so I'm hoping the other stuff works. I feel pretty self-conscious about it but Patrick said it didn't look too bad. Then again, he's not the most observant man in the world, either.
So, I head off into the world today, red, puffy, itchy and hot. Only not in a good way.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
How did I lose track?
I know I've written here before about growing up and spending a lot of time with my mom's friend Joy. She opened her home to me and my brothers and sister, and a lot of other kids in the neighborhood, but because I was a little younger than everybody else, I spent a lot of time with just her and her son, Guy.
Joy died back when I was in high school, in Montana, where they had moved. I was a bratty teenager and I didn't keep in touch the way I should have. And then she died. After awhile, Guy moved back to Culver City, and we saw him around - working at Target, or Pavilions. I even went to Universal Studios with him and his friend from his old street. When was that? In the early 90s, I think. But then again, I was a bratty 20-something, too, and lost track of him.
I guess you (I) think people are always going to be around. My brother and sister and I were wondering what had happened to Guy, and so Angie did a little Internet sleuthing. There's not much out there: but now we know that he died in December 2009. Almost four years ago. I've known this since Monday, and aside from the text messages back and forth between her and me and my brothers about it, I haven't talked to anybody about it, because I feel like shit.
So if you've been interacting with me in the last couple of days, wondering what my problem was, well. I've had this on my mind.
We don't even know how he died. In 2009, he was only 41.
This is actually somebody I knew, and spent a lot of time with growing up. We went to Dodger Stadium and rode around with his mom and played catch and Atari games and Monopoly. He loved dogs and I thought he was kind of weird, like an older brother to me. I'm sure he considered me a pest and a nuisance. He loved teasing me because I was so terrible at playing catch. He was a "nudge." I don't really know what he was like as a grown up.
At this point I don't really know what else to say about this. Guy was a friend from my childhood; it was definitely shocking to find out that he was dead. I just thought I'd hear from him again one day. There are all the cliches about telling people how you feel about them because you never know what will happen when that person is out of your sight... I'm not sure that's the note I want to end this on, but it's all I got. If you care about someone, make sure they know it.
Joy died back when I was in high school, in Montana, where they had moved. I was a bratty teenager and I didn't keep in touch the way I should have. And then she died. After awhile, Guy moved back to Culver City, and we saw him around - working at Target, or Pavilions. I even went to Universal Studios with him and his friend from his old street. When was that? In the early 90s, I think. But then again, I was a bratty 20-something, too, and lost track of him.
I guess you (I) think people are always going to be around. My brother and sister and I were wondering what had happened to Guy, and so Angie did a little Internet sleuthing. There's not much out there: but now we know that he died in December 2009. Almost four years ago. I've known this since Monday, and aside from the text messages back and forth between her and me and my brothers about it, I haven't talked to anybody about it, because I feel like shit.
So if you've been interacting with me in the last couple of days, wondering what my problem was, well. I've had this on my mind.
We don't even know how he died. In 2009, he was only 41.
This is actually somebody I knew, and spent a lot of time with growing up. We went to Dodger Stadium and rode around with his mom and played catch and Atari games and Monopoly. He loved dogs and I thought he was kind of weird, like an older brother to me. I'm sure he considered me a pest and a nuisance. He loved teasing me because I was so terrible at playing catch. He was a "nudge." I don't really know what he was like as a grown up.
At this point I don't really know what else to say about this. Guy was a friend from my childhood; it was definitely shocking to find out that he was dead. I just thought I'd hear from him again one day. There are all the cliches about telling people how you feel about them because you never know what will happen when that person is out of your sight... I'm not sure that's the note I want to end this on, but it's all I got. If you care about someone, make sure they know it.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Girl! You make the rainclouds disappear!
(I've been listening to Weezer's "Miss Sweeney" for the past few days. I'm kind of falling in love with Miss Sweeney, myself.)
So... a couple of months ago I took a couple of exams. Work-related. One was for a promotion, one was for a demotion. Kind of weird career planning, I admit... but see, but I don't really have those kinds of "gotta get ahead" goals. I'm pretty satisfied with things as they are (or, I was, until my three major projects all went poop on me), EXCEPT for the distance from work to home (correction, not the distance, the time it takes to travel the distance, which is only something like 16 miles). I'm just not ambitious. I like to do what I do for as long as it takes for me to get good at it, and then I like to sit around and savor that feeling of adequacy.
I'm being a little facetious here, but whatever, just because I have a blog, that doesn't entitle you to all my self-analyzing.
Anyway, so I took these two exams. And I felt pretty good about them, because they were kind of easier than I expected them to be. At least, I thought they were. Then my results came, both on Mondays when I wasn't home. Patrick texted me and asked if he could open the envelopes, and I of course said Yes.
He was shocked at how poorly I did. Not because he thinks I'm a genius (or maybe he does, he's just never come right out and said that... but I doubt it), but because I've usually done well on exams in the past. I was more accepting of my results because I kind of had a yeah, whatever attitude about this for awhile now. I think I mentioned that I lack ambition? And my reasons for taking those exams were merely to get on some lists so that I might be eligible for other opportunities - closer to home opportunities.
Anyway, he was sweet about it, and said things like "You were robbed!" and "This is an outrage!"... and then he ruined all that good feeling by saying, "Do you think you got these scores because I didn't nag you about the exam like I used to?"
Again: just because I have a blog doesn't entitle you to know everything, so we'll just leave that story there.
So it's been awhile, and I've avoided telling my co-worker, who took the same exam (the secretary one, the one that would be a demotion for me), and who keeps asking me how I did... until now.
On Thursday of last week, the staff assistant for one of the divisions here at my current department called me, and asked if I was interested in an interview. I turned it down because the job location is the same as I have now. I would be pretty stupid to take a demotion just to incur the same commute; I mean, I may not be very ambitious, but I'm not interested in actually sabotaging my career. This woman and I have worked together on some projects so we know each professionally, but we've never spoken about anything personal. I asked her where the job is located, and after she told me it's in the same location, thanked her and explained to her that what she was offering would be a demotion, and that I was looking for something closer to home. Of course she knew my current job title, and she made a comment to that effect. I said, "I have a small child, and I want to be closer to home." And then she told me her story, which is similar to mine, except she's a single mother. And then she told me she lives about a half mile from my house.
I thought that was pretty cool. It was nice to talk to her. Maybe we'll run into each other one day. The only problem is, I have no idea what she looks like, since all our communication has either been through email or on the telephone.
I told Patrick the story this way: "Hey, my score on that sec exam must not have been too bad because I just got a call!" But then, doing that thing I always do that those of you who are smarter than I am will totally recognize for what it is, I said, "But I bet they only called me because she recognized my name and she wanted to get the scoop."
Anyway, today, just now, mere moments ago, that woman's boss, a Division Manager (big deal) just called me. He said, "I have so-and-so [another Division Manager] on speaker, and while I know you already spoke to my assistant, I just want to confirm that you are truly turning down the position?" I asked him to confirm that the job location was in the same building as I am currently working, and he did.
I thanked him profusely for taking the time to call me himself, I mean, they don't usually do that!, and then, as politely and professionally as I could, I said Thank you, but no.
My co-worker, who would probably love to have that job, because for her it would be a promotion, heard the whole conversation, and was kind of amazed. She said, "Wow!" When I told Patrick, he said, "You're a hot commodity!" (This, dear friends, is what passes for a complimentary statement from my husband.) He also said I must have a good reputation. I laughed about it a bit more with my co-worker, and then I said, "That's doing pretty good things for my confidence level." Seriously, the timing couldn't be better.
What would Weezer say? They'd say, "The sun always shines when you're near!"
So... a couple of months ago I took a couple of exams. Work-related. One was for a promotion, one was for a demotion. Kind of weird career planning, I admit... but see, but I don't really have those kinds of "gotta get ahead" goals. I'm pretty satisfied with things as they are (or, I was, until my three major projects all went poop on me), EXCEPT for the distance from work to home (correction, not the distance, the time it takes to travel the distance, which is only something like 16 miles). I'm just not ambitious. I like to do what I do for as long as it takes for me to get good at it, and then I like to sit around and savor that feeling of adequacy.
I'm being a little facetious here, but whatever, just because I have a blog, that doesn't entitle you to all my self-analyzing.
Anyway, so I took these two exams. And I felt pretty good about them, because they were kind of easier than I expected them to be. At least, I thought they were. Then my results came, both on Mondays when I wasn't home. Patrick texted me and asked if he could open the envelopes, and I of course said Yes.
He was shocked at how poorly I did. Not because he thinks I'm a genius (or maybe he does, he's just never come right out and said that... but I doubt it), but because I've usually done well on exams in the past. I was more accepting of my results because I kind of had a yeah, whatever attitude about this for awhile now. I think I mentioned that I lack ambition? And my reasons for taking those exams were merely to get on some lists so that I might be eligible for other opportunities - closer to home opportunities.
Anyway, he was sweet about it, and said things like "You were robbed!" and "This is an outrage!"... and then he ruined all that good feeling by saying, "Do you think you got these scores because I didn't nag you about the exam like I used to?"
Again: just because I have a blog doesn't entitle you to know everything, so we'll just leave that story there.
So it's been awhile, and I've avoided telling my co-worker, who took the same exam (the secretary one, the one that would be a demotion for me), and who keeps asking me how I did... until now.
On Thursday of last week, the staff assistant for one of the divisions here at my current department called me, and asked if I was interested in an interview. I turned it down because the job location is the same as I have now. I would be pretty stupid to take a demotion just to incur the same commute; I mean, I may not be very ambitious, but I'm not interested in actually sabotaging my career. This woman and I have worked together on some projects so we know each professionally, but we've never spoken about anything personal. I asked her where the job is located, and after she told me it's in the same location, thanked her and explained to her that what she was offering would be a demotion, and that I was looking for something closer to home. Of course she knew my current job title, and she made a comment to that effect. I said, "I have a small child, and I want to be closer to home." And then she told me her story, which is similar to mine, except she's a single mother. And then she told me she lives about a half mile from my house.
I thought that was pretty cool. It was nice to talk to her. Maybe we'll run into each other one day. The only problem is, I have no idea what she looks like, since all our communication has either been through email or on the telephone.
I told Patrick the story this way: "Hey, my score on that sec exam must not have been too bad because I just got a call!" But then, doing that thing I always do that those of you who are smarter than I am will totally recognize for what it is, I said, "But I bet they only called me because she recognized my name and she wanted to get the scoop."
Anyway, today, just now, mere moments ago, that woman's boss, a Division Manager (big deal) just called me. He said, "I have so-and-so [another Division Manager] on speaker, and while I know you already spoke to my assistant, I just want to confirm that you are truly turning down the position?" I asked him to confirm that the job location was in the same building as I am currently working, and he did.
I thanked him profusely for taking the time to call me himself, I mean, they don't usually do that!, and then, as politely and professionally as I could, I said Thank you, but no.
My co-worker, who would probably love to have that job, because for her it would be a promotion, heard the whole conversation, and was kind of amazed. She said, "Wow!" When I told Patrick, he said, "You're a hot commodity!" (This, dear friends, is what passes for a complimentary statement from my husband.) He also said I must have a good reputation. I laughed about it a bit more with my co-worker, and then I said, "That's doing pretty good things for my confidence level." Seriously, the timing couldn't be better.
What would Weezer say? They'd say, "The sun always shines when you're near!"
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Actual conversation
Me: (______) doesn't know what they're doing!
My boss: [Eyes wide]
Me: I mean, I'm not trying to say they're idiots. But it's like they were given a space ship, and no instruction manual!
My boss: [Laughing]
Me: And not only that, it's like the space ship wasn't even built by earthlings!
My boss: [Eyes wide]
Me: I mean, I'm not trying to say they're idiots. But it's like they were given a space ship, and no instruction manual!
My boss: [Laughing]
Me: And not only that, it's like the space ship wasn't even built by earthlings!
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
My home remodel will not be televised.
Like a lot of people, I grew up watching episode after episode of "This Old House." My dad is good at that stuff, and can pretty much make anything (surely I told you about the replacement power/volume knob he crafted for my old Toyota Celica?), and he can watch shows like that for hours. As it turns out, so can I. I not only know how to pronounce "Trethewey," I know how to spell it. I've learned a few things from TOH, such as valuing traditional design and workmanship; and though I may not be capable of doing that sort of work myself, I do understand that when you see the words "Master Craftsman" in somebody's title, you're getting somebody a little better than the dude hanging out in front of Home Depot.
(Bob Vila was my idea of the perfect man for a few years there, and might explain my attraction to guys with beards.)
It seemed like a natural transition, then, to shows like "Trading Spaces" or "Design on a Dime," right? I mean, I think that's what the geniuses at HGTV were hoping. Except, no.
It took me a little while but eventually I got tired of those shows (everybody else finally did, too, because I don't think either one is on anymore). For one thing, I'm really not interested in having things (other than edible things) in my home that were homemade by anyone other than my two-year old. Or my grandma. The projects that are created on HGTV shows look like somebody had a lot of extra balsa wood, a $50 gift card to Ikea, and a hot glue gun. This teaches me nothing except that a lot of people have really, really bad taste. The guy who paints you a painting with every remodel? Um. Thanks, but no. And I really don't think that every kitchen needs granite countertops or stainless steel appliances. More than lessons about remodeling or design, we learn that everybody thinks they know what it means to have "made it" in life. A big-ass Viking stove or walk-in closets: I have arrived!
Then, it finally dawned on me that these shows all follow the same script. Nothing new ever happens. For awhile I was really enjoying "Love It or List It" but then the same old storyline about how the designer screwed up started really pissing me off. Hey, lady! Get it together! Or the homeowners would be walking around with such a huge case of "I deserve an en suite bathroom even though my budget doesn't really stretch that far in the market I'm shopping." And that feeling of indignation, every time I watched the show, started building up in me. Wait a minute, I thought. THIS HAPPENED LAST TIME! Look, I don't get to watch a lot of TV time anymore. It takes awhile for things to crack my exhausted shell. But now that I'm thinking about it, every show is a bore.
And man, whoever is preparing those homeowner's for their home inspections is totally dropping the ball! How could you not know that the house needs a new roof, or that there's asbestos in the attic? Doesn't HGTV have any liability? Don't these people work with an experienced real estate agent? Doesn't anybody have a clue?
See, that's what makes me mad, because you don't know if they're really stupid, or if they just think I am.
And now I've been reading that most of these shows are faked - that a lot of the work you think is being done by the homeowners is actually being done by professionals, or that the homes you think they're readying for the market are actually... not for sale. I guess what I don't like is that HGTV tries to sell itself as a channel for people interested in "do it yourself" (or used to, before the actual DIY Channel came along), but none of the stuff they actually show is based in actual reality. I hate relationship-based reality shows (you'll never catch me watching the Bachelor), now that feeling is moving over to home improvement shows.
See, if I ever get the opportunity to remodel my home, my feeling is that I want to create a space that works better for us than the tiny 1940s L-shape we purchased 13 years ago. That doesn't necessarily mean more space, but it does mean, better space. Improving existing fixtures and the floors in every room. Making my horrible bathroom a distant memory. What I would love is a second bathroom and a dining room - or a greatroom that can hold a dining area. These are basic desires for a home that now houses three people and two cats, and someday, I hope, a dog. I want our family to be able to be in the same room at the same time, all while holding forks in our hands, and to be at least 10 feet away from the television. I want to work with the design of my home, which I actually love: a flat-roof, open to the yard (almost none of the rooms have windows that look to the street. Well, the bathroom does). I love the idea of modernizing my kitchen without losing the sort of "grandma" feeling it has. It took me years to figure out that I like old things, and color. I'm not thrilled with the cracked tile countertops, but what would the person who chose those in 1940 pick today? I love the windows in the living room, I love the angles of the roofline. But when it's time for us to do this, I hope we don't go into it thinking we know everything about design, because we don't. That's why you hire a designer, and you let that person educate you.
HGTV doesn't educate you. Well, I know what I don't like, so that's something. It just seems like it would be so simple to show a project from start to finish without any shenanigans in the editing room, but I guess not.
I actually think that "Income Property" is an entertaining show, and not just because I have a crush on the host (Patrick loves to mock his exceptionally white teeth, but come on, that guy has a nice body, and his face isn't bad, either). Then again, I couldn't tell you his name if you paid me, so what kind of crush is this, anyway? At least it feels a little more realistic (using the actual real definition, and not the TV definition), and though I do think the designs are very generic, at least they keep clean lines and seem to do a professional job.
I think it's a shame that a lot of their shows are filmed in Canada, not that I have anything against Canadians, but because (especially the real estate shows) you can't get an idea for comparable prices. And Canada doesn't seem real to me, sometimes, which I know is dumb. But then, anyplace with universal health care seems a bit like heaven.
In closing, I'd just like to say, that if I were on an HGTV show, I like to think that I wouldn't be the person who, in shopping for a new home, gets hung up on inconsequential items like the ugly carpeting or lack of granite countertops. I wouldn't get angry at the TV realtor who shows me homes that don't satisfy my need for grandiosity. I'd hope that we made sure the home was below budget, and that we worked it out with a reputable contractor to make the changes we needed.
But what do I know? Maybe an en suite bathroom would solve all my problems. I might be a better person if I had a laundry room in the house instead of the garage.
(Bob Vila was my idea of the perfect man for a few years there, and might explain my attraction to guys with beards.)
It seemed like a natural transition, then, to shows like "Trading Spaces" or "Design on a Dime," right? I mean, I think that's what the geniuses at HGTV were hoping. Except, no.
It took me a little while but eventually I got tired of those shows (everybody else finally did, too, because I don't think either one is on anymore). For one thing, I'm really not interested in having things (other than edible things) in my home that were homemade by anyone other than my two-year old. Or my grandma. The projects that are created on HGTV shows look like somebody had a lot of extra balsa wood, a $50 gift card to Ikea, and a hot glue gun. This teaches me nothing except that a lot of people have really, really bad taste. The guy who paints you a painting with every remodel? Um. Thanks, but no. And I really don't think that every kitchen needs granite countertops or stainless steel appliances. More than lessons about remodeling or design, we learn that everybody thinks they know what it means to have "made it" in life. A big-ass Viking stove or walk-in closets: I have arrived!
Then, it finally dawned on me that these shows all follow the same script. Nothing new ever happens. For awhile I was really enjoying "Love It or List It" but then the same old storyline about how the designer screwed up started really pissing me off. Hey, lady! Get it together! Or the homeowners would be walking around with such a huge case of "I deserve an en suite bathroom even though my budget doesn't really stretch that far in the market I'm shopping." And that feeling of indignation, every time I watched the show, started building up in me. Wait a minute, I thought. THIS HAPPENED LAST TIME! Look, I don't get to watch a lot of TV time anymore. It takes awhile for things to crack my exhausted shell. But now that I'm thinking about it, every show is a bore.
And man, whoever is preparing those homeowner's for their home inspections is totally dropping the ball! How could you not know that the house needs a new roof, or that there's asbestos in the attic? Doesn't HGTV have any liability? Don't these people work with an experienced real estate agent? Doesn't anybody have a clue?
See, that's what makes me mad, because you don't know if they're really stupid, or if they just think I am.
And now I've been reading that most of these shows are faked - that a lot of the work you think is being done by the homeowners is actually being done by professionals, or that the homes you think they're readying for the market are actually... not for sale. I guess what I don't like is that HGTV tries to sell itself as a channel for people interested in "do it yourself" (or used to, before the actual DIY Channel came along), but none of the stuff they actually show is based in actual reality. I hate relationship-based reality shows (you'll never catch me watching the Bachelor), now that feeling is moving over to home improvement shows.
See, if I ever get the opportunity to remodel my home, my feeling is that I want to create a space that works better for us than the tiny 1940s L-shape we purchased 13 years ago. That doesn't necessarily mean more space, but it does mean, better space. Improving existing fixtures and the floors in every room. Making my horrible bathroom a distant memory. What I would love is a second bathroom and a dining room - or a greatroom that can hold a dining area. These are basic desires for a home that now houses three people and two cats, and someday, I hope, a dog. I want our family to be able to be in the same room at the same time, all while holding forks in our hands, and to be at least 10 feet away from the television. I want to work with the design of my home, which I actually love: a flat-roof, open to the yard (almost none of the rooms have windows that look to the street. Well, the bathroom does). I love the idea of modernizing my kitchen without losing the sort of "grandma" feeling it has. It took me years to figure out that I like old things, and color. I'm not thrilled with the cracked tile countertops, but what would the person who chose those in 1940 pick today? I love the windows in the living room, I love the angles of the roofline. But when it's time for us to do this, I hope we don't go into it thinking we know everything about design, because we don't. That's why you hire a designer, and you let that person educate you.
HGTV doesn't educate you. Well, I know what I don't like, so that's something. It just seems like it would be so simple to show a project from start to finish without any shenanigans in the editing room, but I guess not.
I actually think that "Income Property" is an entertaining show, and not just because I have a crush on the host (Patrick loves to mock his exceptionally white teeth, but come on, that guy has a nice body, and his face isn't bad, either). Then again, I couldn't tell you his name if you paid me, so what kind of crush is this, anyway? At least it feels a little more realistic (using the actual real definition, and not the TV definition), and though I do think the designs are very generic, at least they keep clean lines and seem to do a professional job.
I think it's a shame that a lot of their shows are filmed in Canada, not that I have anything against Canadians, but because (especially the real estate shows) you can't get an idea for comparable prices. And Canada doesn't seem real to me, sometimes, which I know is dumb. But then, anyplace with universal health care seems a bit like heaven.
In closing, I'd just like to say, that if I were on an HGTV show, I like to think that I wouldn't be the person who, in shopping for a new home, gets hung up on inconsequential items like the ugly carpeting or lack of granite countertops. I wouldn't get angry at the TV realtor who shows me homes that don't satisfy my need for grandiosity. I'd hope that we made sure the home was below budget, and that we worked it out with a reputable contractor to make the changes we needed.
But what do I know? Maybe an en suite bathroom would solve all my problems. I might be a better person if I had a laundry room in the house instead of the garage.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Perspective? Kindness? Patience? Yes, please
I think I've posted before about my annoyance with my office situation. We've had some new additions to the workplace, and some of them possess that opinionated, loud personality that almost always rubs me the wrong way. Look, I don't care if you know everything, I just don't want to hear about it. Endlessly. At high volume.
Anyway, I've been talking about it to some of my old friends in the Safety Office, and on Thursday, I went on an errand with one of them. His name is Danny.
Danny said something to me that kind of made me think.
He's a nice guy, younger than me, with a new little baby at home. We talk a lot about our kids. He did the "investigation" on me after I fell and after I reported that I was having problems with my finger. He's not the guy who helped me get my new mouse (I know Alex a little better; we sometimes go get lunch together). Both these people, though, are really sweet, easy to talk to, fun guys. And, it turns out that Danny, along with being a new dad and a surfer, is also a born-again Christian.
He and I talked about that a little, and he told me his story while we waited in line. It's nice, actually, to hear someone who is my age (sort of; I don't think he's even 30 yet; I'm a hundred) talk about Christianity in a logical way. Don't get me wrong: he's totally, head first, COMPLETELY in it. Normally when people want to talk to me about Christianity I break out in a spiritual rash. He told me that his only goal in life is to get to know Jesus and the teachings of Christianity. Somehow, though, maybe because of his funny and sweet personality, I was able to not feel the usual sort of complete desire to be somewhere else when he started talking about it. And, he's a great listener. I was complaining about the people in my office (they were particularly obnoxious Thursday morning), and then he told me something that I've actually heard before. He said, I just don't let that stuff bother me. He said, It doesn't matter in the long run, and I just don't care. He said, I probably do things that annoy other people! He said, I just try to be nice to everybody. He said: I have bigger things to think about (this one's not an exact quote).
You know what? Me too. Maybe not the same bigger things, but I'm going to try very hard to be nicer to these people. When I go home, I'm sure they don't think about me, and I don't think about them, but while we're all here in this office, I'm going to try to ignore the things that annoy me and be more patient. It might make me feel better.
You know, I know that when I write these kinds of things, it probably sounds like I'm an idiot. I mean, this seems so simple, and Danny's not the first person to tell me something like this. When I worked at the Rizzoli in Beverly Hills, I had a lot of the same sort of frustration. My friend Bo told me the exact thing. Bo's no Christian, nor is he particularly spiritual: that's not the point. The point is that these guys have some sort of thing inside that allows them to not worry about what other people are doing. I just don't. I'd like to acquire it, though. Is it wisdom? Confidence? Simple patience? I'm going to start by being kind. Maybe I'll be faking it a little at first. I'll just have to grow into it.
Wish me luck.
Anyway, I've been talking about it to some of my old friends in the Safety Office, and on Thursday, I went on an errand with one of them. His name is Danny.
Danny said something to me that kind of made me think.
He's a nice guy, younger than me, with a new little baby at home. We talk a lot about our kids. He did the "investigation" on me after I fell and after I reported that I was having problems with my finger. He's not the guy who helped me get my new mouse (I know Alex a little better; we sometimes go get lunch together). Both these people, though, are really sweet, easy to talk to, fun guys. And, it turns out that Danny, along with being a new dad and a surfer, is also a born-again Christian.
He and I talked about that a little, and he told me his story while we waited in line. It's nice, actually, to hear someone who is my age (sort of; I don't think he's even 30 yet; I'm a hundred) talk about Christianity in a logical way. Don't get me wrong: he's totally, head first, COMPLETELY in it. Normally when people want to talk to me about Christianity I break out in a spiritual rash. He told me that his only goal in life is to get to know Jesus and the teachings of Christianity. Somehow, though, maybe because of his funny and sweet personality, I was able to not feel the usual sort of complete desire to be somewhere else when he started talking about it. And, he's a great listener. I was complaining about the people in my office (they were particularly obnoxious Thursday morning), and then he told me something that I've actually heard before. He said, I just don't let that stuff bother me. He said, It doesn't matter in the long run, and I just don't care. He said, I probably do things that annoy other people! He said, I just try to be nice to everybody. He said: I have bigger things to think about (this one's not an exact quote).
You know what? Me too. Maybe not the same bigger things, but I'm going to try very hard to be nicer to these people. When I go home, I'm sure they don't think about me, and I don't think about them, but while we're all here in this office, I'm going to try to ignore the things that annoy me and be more patient. It might make me feel better.
You know, I know that when I write these kinds of things, it probably sounds like I'm an idiot. I mean, this seems so simple, and Danny's not the first person to tell me something like this. When I worked at the Rizzoli in Beverly Hills, I had a lot of the same sort of frustration. My friend Bo told me the exact thing. Bo's no Christian, nor is he particularly spiritual: that's not the point. The point is that these guys have some sort of thing inside that allows them to not worry about what other people are doing. I just don't. I'd like to acquire it, though. Is it wisdom? Confidence? Simple patience? I'm going to start by being kind. Maybe I'll be faking it a little at first. I'll just have to grow into it.
Wish me luck.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Ouch.
Sometime in early January of this year, I was sitting at my desk at work. My job involves a lot of sitting. And typing. I was sitting there, working, typing, possibly rocking out to Radiohead on my earphones, when I realized that my hand was hurting me.
My right hand.
I started rubbing it, and felt something strange. At the base of my right hand ring finger, where the finger meets the palm, I felt a bump.
I didn't panic, but I did wonder what it was. So I called Kaiser and made an appointment with my doctor, who couldn't see me until the end of the the month.
I went to see Dr. Reid, and he looked at it, felt my finger, and got me a referral to see an orthopedic hand specialist. He thought maybe it was a cyst but he wasn't sure.
When I went back to work, I started wondering if it was work-related, and put through the paperwork to get that business started. I thought perhaps it was a repetitive movement issue or possibly an ergonomics issue. My friend Claris in the Safety Office came out and checked my space out, and then she and another Safety person, my friend Alex, hooked me up with a new mouse to try. Since we didn't know what was causing the bump, it seemed like it could be possible that something I was doing while using the mouse was the problem.
When I finally saw the ortho, he also felt my finger. He was not as gentle (or cute) as Dr. Reid, and after his 30 second examination, my hand hurt more than ever. He then called for an x-ray.
It turns out that I have a ganglion cyst.
I did a bit of reading, and I'm lucky - some people get these on the other side of their hand, in pretty prominent places. They're not pretty, and they look like they hurt. Mine is pea-sized and not visible, but it does cause some soreness.
And since I've been trying to make an effort to practice my flute more, that's becoming an issue.
I've always had a bit of trouble with my right hand, especially when I'm out of practice. Now is one of those times. Somehow my right hand just doesn't always do what I want it to do, in the way I want it to work. It can't keep up sometimes, and notes get sloppy. The worst thing is when I'm practicing and I get bogged down because I can't play something as fast as I think I should. Or as cleanly. Being clean is a huge thing for me: it's so important. Feeling the rhythm and the beat: I always feel like that, the hardest thing for me sometimes, is the most obvious sign of a good musician. I got a chance one night in the summer to practice for about an hour (rare!!!!), and I was being really obsessive about a certain passage in one of the Muczynski flute duets, and I had the hand position and finger control all totally synched up... but that was months ago.
I remember watching the Winter Olympics figure skating one year and the announces kept referring to a certain move (a lutz) as a "flutz" because the skater made some technical error related to the edge of their blade and the way they take off for the jump. I don't know much about figure skating, and even when watching the slowed down up close video, can't tell if the skater is on the outside edge or what-have-you. However, the word is totally evocative of the way I feel about what happens when the notes aren't clean. It seems to be the worst on things that involve F#, which, coincidentally, involves the right hand ring finger.
On Saturday, I had a little time to play and I spent the time on chromatic scales and the loop pattern. I did a lot of work in the key of G, and F# (fun scale!). I only ended up with about 15-20 minutes to play, but that was fine, because afterwards my hand was sore.
It worries me.
My doctor is recommending surgery. I have an appointment next week with the orthopedic surgeon. I have a lot of questions! It sucks that this is coming up now when I'm trying to get more involved with my flute playing. Our flute choir group is enormous this quarter and there are so many talented flutists. I need to work hard to keep up.
Anyway, it's not a big deal, really, and it could be much worse, so I don't want to make a big deal out of it. Maybe just more practice will help work it out. And some Advil.
My right hand.
I started rubbing it, and felt something strange. At the base of my right hand ring finger, where the finger meets the palm, I felt a bump.
I didn't panic, but I did wonder what it was. So I called Kaiser and made an appointment with my doctor, who couldn't see me until the end of the the month.
I went to see Dr. Reid, and he looked at it, felt my finger, and got me a referral to see an orthopedic hand specialist. He thought maybe it was a cyst but he wasn't sure.
When I went back to work, I started wondering if it was work-related, and put through the paperwork to get that business started. I thought perhaps it was a repetitive movement issue or possibly an ergonomics issue. My friend Claris in the Safety Office came out and checked my space out, and then she and another Safety person, my friend Alex, hooked me up with a new mouse to try. Since we didn't know what was causing the bump, it seemed like it could be possible that something I was doing while using the mouse was the problem.
When I finally saw the ortho, he also felt my finger. He was not as gentle (or cute) as Dr. Reid, and after his 30 second examination, my hand hurt more than ever. He then called for an x-ray.
It turns out that I have a ganglion cyst.
I did a bit of reading, and I'm lucky - some people get these on the other side of their hand, in pretty prominent places. They're not pretty, and they look like they hurt. Mine is pea-sized and not visible, but it does cause some soreness.
And since I've been trying to make an effort to practice my flute more, that's becoming an issue.
I've always had a bit of trouble with my right hand, especially when I'm out of practice. Now is one of those times. Somehow my right hand just doesn't always do what I want it to do, in the way I want it to work. It can't keep up sometimes, and notes get sloppy. The worst thing is when I'm practicing and I get bogged down because I can't play something as fast as I think I should. Or as cleanly. Being clean is a huge thing for me: it's so important. Feeling the rhythm and the beat: I always feel like that, the hardest thing for me sometimes, is the most obvious sign of a good musician. I got a chance one night in the summer to practice for about an hour (rare!!!!), and I was being really obsessive about a certain passage in one of the Muczynski flute duets, and I had the hand position and finger control all totally synched up... but that was months ago.
I remember watching the Winter Olympics figure skating one year and the announces kept referring to a certain move (a lutz) as a "flutz" because the skater made some technical error related to the edge of their blade and the way they take off for the jump. I don't know much about figure skating, and even when watching the slowed down up close video, can't tell if the skater is on the outside edge or what-have-you. However, the word is totally evocative of the way I feel about what happens when the notes aren't clean. It seems to be the worst on things that involve F#, which, coincidentally, involves the right hand ring finger.
On Saturday, I had a little time to play and I spent the time on chromatic scales and the loop pattern. I did a lot of work in the key of G, and F# (fun scale!). I only ended up with about 15-20 minutes to play, but that was fine, because afterwards my hand was sore.
It worries me.
My doctor is recommending surgery. I have an appointment next week with the orthopedic surgeon. I have a lot of questions! It sucks that this is coming up now when I'm trying to get more involved with my flute playing. Our flute choir group is enormous this quarter and there are so many talented flutists. I need to work hard to keep up.
Anyway, it's not a big deal, really, and it could be much worse, so I don't want to make a big deal out of it. Maybe just more practice will help work it out. And some Advil.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Count to 20
So, Jules has continued to night nurse all this time. It's down to two times a night, which I guess is way better than three times a night, but it's still rough on me. I can't sleep and nurse him, and sometimes it's hard to go back to sleep, and sometimes he wants to nurse for an hour.
Yesterday I was reading some of the forums over at La Leche League's website, and I read this tip: when baby wakes up to nurse, tell him that he can only do it until you count to ten, and then you have to go back to sleep.
He went to sleep last night around 8:45, and slept in his bed until around 10 o'clock, when he came into our bed, but then he went right back to sleep. He woke up around 12:30, and I let him nurse as usual. He didn't take very long and we both went back to sleep. But when he woke up at 2, I was ready to try it. I didn't think counting to ten was going to fly, so instead I counted to twenty.
Boob 1: I counted to twenty, and then told him it was time to switch. We switched.
Boob 2: I counted to twenty, could tell that he was not ready, and added another ten. Then we stopped.
He cried a little, but I rubbed his back and talked to him and after awhile, he cuddled up to his daddy. I kept rubbing his back and telling him it was OK, and then he came back over to me, which was sweet. We talked about how mama is tired and needs to go night night. He kind of held onto my arm for awhile. It took him some time to get comfortable, but eventually he did fall asleep.
I'm not sure if I did. My alarm went off at 4:45, but it's entirely possible that I was still awake. I got up and out of bed around 5:15, and he's still in there sleeping with Patrick.
Maybe we can get this night nursing down to once a night. I'd really love that. We'll see.
Yesterday I was reading some of the forums over at La Leche League's website, and I read this tip: when baby wakes up to nurse, tell him that he can only do it until you count to ten, and then you have to go back to sleep.
He went to sleep last night around 8:45, and slept in his bed until around 10 o'clock, when he came into our bed, but then he went right back to sleep. He woke up around 12:30, and I let him nurse as usual. He didn't take very long and we both went back to sleep. But when he woke up at 2, I was ready to try it. I didn't think counting to ten was going to fly, so instead I counted to twenty.
Boob 1: I counted to twenty, and then told him it was time to switch. We switched.
Boob 2: I counted to twenty, could tell that he was not ready, and added another ten. Then we stopped.
He cried a little, but I rubbed his back and talked to him and after awhile, he cuddled up to his daddy. I kept rubbing his back and telling him it was OK, and then he came back over to me, which was sweet. We talked about how mama is tired and needs to go night night. He kind of held onto my arm for awhile. It took him some time to get comfortable, but eventually he did fall asleep.
I'm not sure if I did. My alarm went off at 4:45, but it's entirely possible that I was still awake. I got up and out of bed around 5:15, and he's still in there sleeping with Patrick.
Maybe we can get this night nursing down to once a night. I'd really love that. We'll see.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
A dream (updated)
Last night I dreamed that Joy Bloch was alive and living in her old house on Orville Street, alone. In my dream she had become one of those people who refuses to pay for any services or utilities, and in fact, had no water heater or functioning appliances. No electricity or anything. She explained her reasoning for doing this, in the same calm voice that taught me how to cook a steak, or make chocolate chip cookies. I don't remember exactly what it was she was doing but it all sounded vaguely political. She was sick, too, and had a wheelchair. I don't think I ever saw her in a wheelchair. The house was trashed.
She was basically camping in her own home.
It was weird to hear her voice and see her old cluttered house again, in a dream, but to be me now, and not me, then. The last time I saw her I was a skinny little girl. I tried to convince her to clean up and buy a water heater but she wouldn't do it.
I have no idea why my brain turned her into some kind of urban survivalist. She wasn't like that at all. She was funny and smart and creative, and spent a lot of time with me, which I have always appreciated.
...
I posted this when I woke up this morning, at about 5:15 a.m., using the Blogger text message feature. Now it's around 10:40, and I've had some time to think about it some more. Being able to update my blog via text is pretty cool. For some reason I can't really get Blogger to work right on my iPad or iPhone, but text messaging is really easy.
Anyway, I've been thinking about this dream all morning, and trying to remember more details.
I've probably written about Joy before. I hope I remember things from one time to another the same way? I mean, I hope I don't make details up, every time I write about her. I hope my imagination and my memory have things right. On the other hand, what does it matter?
Sometimes when I visit my mom and dad, and I take Jules to the park or for a walk in the stroller, I like to wander around on the streets in my old neighborhood. Orville is just a couple blocks down from my parents' house. The people who live in Joy's old house cleaned up the yard and painted, but otherwise, it pretty much looks (on the outside) the same way it did when she and her son Guy lived there. When was that? I think it must've been the late 80s. I can see her little two-door orange Honda Civic in the driveway, or the really old blue Buick convertible she had before they got the Civic. I remember helping her to pop the top on the convertible. I remember the Go Big Blue! Dodgers stickers that were on both cars.
I can see the living room in my mind, with the small dining room on the right, near the front door. All the rooms in their house were painted white. There were two windows in the living room. One looked to the front of the house, the other to the side of the neighbor's house. Their dining room table was round, and had an early Apple computer on it. They were definitely early computer users. She did a lot of work from home and I'm sure knew all sorts of things about the early days of computing. Remember the green text on the screens of those old computers? That's what I remember. And the noisy old printers. Dot matrix. I don't remember exactly what she did. She worked at Culver Park for awhile, the local high school for the kids who for one reason or another couldn't make it with the general population over at the main high school, but I think before she did that she was some kind of bookkeeper or something. I can't remember. She had professional stationery, I seem to remember.
We used to paint Christmas scenes on the living room windows with some kind of washable paint. Every year she'd do that, and let me help, and include all her dogs in the pictures. They always had more than one. When we first met her, they had Schnauzers. Later, it was those big English setters, I think.
From the dining room you could walk into the kitchen, where we spent a lot of our time. The sink was set in at an angle, and looked out into the back yard. I think the tile was pale yellow. She had a double oven, in the wall to the left of the doorway from the dining room. In my dream, the oven doors had come off and were being held up off the floor with belts. I'm not sure that's how someone would really do it. The back door to the yard was in a little utility room where the washer and dryer were. I think she also had a little bathroom there, with just a toilet and a sink. What's that kind of bathroom called? That's where the space for the water heater was, in the utility room, I think. In my dream, it was totally missing. It was just an empty space with marks on the wall and spiderwebs.
In real life, she had a bunch of magnets and things on her refrigerator. One was a drawing of a mouse clinging to some string. The caption read something like, "When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on!" She showed me how to make cookies in that kitchen, and once, a chocolate cake that was so amazing and decadent. I don't remember why we were making the cake, but I remember the recipe called for sour cream and some sort of liqueur. We made ganache. We melted the chocolate in a double boiler. She was a messy Martha Stewart, Ina Garten.
Even though her house was always kind of a mess, full of dogs and cats and crafts projects all over the place, she had beautiful china plates. She often would let me stay for dinner. We'd sit on the couch and eat our medium rare steaks and creamed corn that she made from scratch on her pretty plates while sitting on the couch, using TV trays and watching the Dodger game or old Disney movies on VHS tapes. Dogs everywhere. Creamed corn is one of my favorite things in the whole world. And I was just thinking the other day that it's been a long time since I had a steak. Maybe I'll make one.
She's the one who taught me how to eat a steak, how to sew, how to bake, to appreciate real butter and real ingredients, to watch a baseball game, to play Monopoly, to not be a crybaby.
Every Christmas we would make huge quantities of chocolate chip cookies and English toffee and package them all in these adorable paper houses she would buy from somewhere and we assembled. I wish I had her English toffee recipe. I wish I had kept in touch with her better when she and her son moved away, before she died.
The bedrooms were all on the south side of the house. Guy's room faced the street and was a total disaster. I don't think I went in there very much. The middle bedroom was also full of stuff. It was just packed with boxes and things. I don't think I ever went in there. Joy's bedroom was at the back of the house, and usually full of light. We didn't go there often but I remember her showing me her record collection. She had a copy of Spike Jones doing "You Always Hurt the One You Love." She played it for me. It was the only room in the house not totally full of junk. They had a lot of stuff.
She was kind of heavy, and wore her super straight brown hair in a bob. Sometimes she'd pin it back behind her ear with a bobby pin. She was pretty. She wore polyester suits for work, or the big cotton muumuus she made for herself and my mom and their friends, at home.
I think the last time I saw her, before she and Guy moved away to Montana, I was probably around 12 or 13. My mother is 32 years older than me, and Joy was probably close in age to her... so when I was 13, they were both only 45. That seems so young to me now, yet was so old to me, then.
I'm kind of obsessed with real estate in my home town right now; maybe because I can't afford it. Her home, according to Zillow, sold in 1988 for $287k. The value listed now is about $596k. Zillow only lists one bathroom, so maybe I'm making the little powder room in the back up. I hope not. For some reason it feels important.
She was basically camping in her own home.
It was weird to hear her voice and see her old cluttered house again, in a dream, but to be me now, and not me, then. The last time I saw her I was a skinny little girl. I tried to convince her to clean up and buy a water heater but she wouldn't do it.
I have no idea why my brain turned her into some kind of urban survivalist. She wasn't like that at all. She was funny and smart and creative, and spent a lot of time with me, which I have always appreciated.
...
I posted this when I woke up this morning, at about 5:15 a.m., using the Blogger text message feature. Now it's around 10:40, and I've had some time to think about it some more. Being able to update my blog via text is pretty cool. For some reason I can't really get Blogger to work right on my iPad or iPhone, but text messaging is really easy.
Anyway, I've been thinking about this dream all morning, and trying to remember more details.
I've probably written about Joy before. I hope I remember things from one time to another the same way? I mean, I hope I don't make details up, every time I write about her. I hope my imagination and my memory have things right. On the other hand, what does it matter?
Sometimes when I visit my mom and dad, and I take Jules to the park or for a walk in the stroller, I like to wander around on the streets in my old neighborhood. Orville is just a couple blocks down from my parents' house. The people who live in Joy's old house cleaned up the yard and painted, but otherwise, it pretty much looks (on the outside) the same way it did when she and her son Guy lived there. When was that? I think it must've been the late 80s. I can see her little two-door orange Honda Civic in the driveway, or the really old blue Buick convertible she had before they got the Civic. I remember helping her to pop the top on the convertible. I remember the Go Big Blue! Dodgers stickers that were on both cars.
I can see the living room in my mind, with the small dining room on the right, near the front door. All the rooms in their house were painted white. There were two windows in the living room. One looked to the front of the house, the other to the side of the neighbor's house. Their dining room table was round, and had an early Apple computer on it. They were definitely early computer users. She did a lot of work from home and I'm sure knew all sorts of things about the early days of computing. Remember the green text on the screens of those old computers? That's what I remember. And the noisy old printers. Dot matrix. I don't remember exactly what she did. She worked at Culver Park for awhile, the local high school for the kids who for one reason or another couldn't make it with the general population over at the main high school, but I think before she did that she was some kind of bookkeeper or something. I can't remember. She had professional stationery, I seem to remember.
We used to paint Christmas scenes on the living room windows with some kind of washable paint. Every year she'd do that, and let me help, and include all her dogs in the pictures. They always had more than one. When we first met her, they had Schnauzers. Later, it was those big English setters, I think.
From the dining room you could walk into the kitchen, where we spent a lot of our time. The sink was set in at an angle, and looked out into the back yard. I think the tile was pale yellow. She had a double oven, in the wall to the left of the doorway from the dining room. In my dream, the oven doors had come off and were being held up off the floor with belts. I'm not sure that's how someone would really do it. The back door to the yard was in a little utility room where the washer and dryer were. I think she also had a little bathroom there, with just a toilet and a sink. What's that kind of bathroom called? That's where the space for the water heater was, in the utility room, I think. In my dream, it was totally missing. It was just an empty space with marks on the wall and spiderwebs.
In real life, she had a bunch of magnets and things on her refrigerator. One was a drawing of a mouse clinging to some string. The caption read something like, "When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on!" She showed me how to make cookies in that kitchen, and once, a chocolate cake that was so amazing and decadent. I don't remember why we were making the cake, but I remember the recipe called for sour cream and some sort of liqueur. We made ganache. We melted the chocolate in a double boiler. She was a messy Martha Stewart, Ina Garten.
Even though her house was always kind of a mess, full of dogs and cats and crafts projects all over the place, she had beautiful china plates. She often would let me stay for dinner. We'd sit on the couch and eat our medium rare steaks and creamed corn that she made from scratch on her pretty plates while sitting on the couch, using TV trays and watching the Dodger game or old Disney movies on VHS tapes. Dogs everywhere. Creamed corn is one of my favorite things in the whole world. And I was just thinking the other day that it's been a long time since I had a steak. Maybe I'll make one.
She's the one who taught me how to eat a steak, how to sew, how to bake, to appreciate real butter and real ingredients, to watch a baseball game, to play Monopoly, to not be a crybaby.
Every Christmas we would make huge quantities of chocolate chip cookies and English toffee and package them all in these adorable paper houses she would buy from somewhere and we assembled. I wish I had her English toffee recipe. I wish I had kept in touch with her better when she and her son moved away, before she died.
The bedrooms were all on the south side of the house. Guy's room faced the street and was a total disaster. I don't think I went in there very much. The middle bedroom was also full of stuff. It was just packed with boxes and things. I don't think I ever went in there. Joy's bedroom was at the back of the house, and usually full of light. We didn't go there often but I remember her showing me her record collection. She had a copy of Spike Jones doing "You Always Hurt the One You Love." She played it for me. It was the only room in the house not totally full of junk. They had a lot of stuff.
She was kind of heavy, and wore her super straight brown hair in a bob. Sometimes she'd pin it back behind her ear with a bobby pin. She was pretty. She wore polyester suits for work, or the big cotton muumuus she made for herself and my mom and their friends, at home.
I think the last time I saw her, before she and Guy moved away to Montana, I was probably around 12 or 13. My mother is 32 years older than me, and Joy was probably close in age to her... so when I was 13, they were both only 45. That seems so young to me now, yet was so old to me, then.
I'm kind of obsessed with real estate in my home town right now; maybe because I can't afford it. Her home, according to Zillow, sold in 1988 for $287k. The value listed now is about $596k. Zillow only lists one bathroom, so maybe I'm making the little powder room in the back up. I hope not. For some reason it feels important.
Monday, February 25, 2013
An exercise (sort of) in futility
Last week I took my section's Toyota Prius in for its annual service. It's about a quarter of a mile across campus to the warehouse where our fleet services people are. This is the same place we pick up a vehicle if you need to go somewhere and the Prius isn't available. The distance means nothing: it takes about 5 minutes to get there. No problem, except when it's a wasted trip.
This morning, I called them up to find out if the Prius was ready to pick up. It was, I was told.
So I walked on down there, in heels, and when I got to the counter, was told that they couldn't find my keys.
Okay...
Then I was told that they had my keys, but that the Prius was blocked by three other vehicles... and they couldn't find those keys.
County restrooms crack me up. They're always full of mismatched furnishings, and amusing homemade-looking signs. This one was no exception. Of course I took photos.
 |
| What was wrong with the paper towel dispenser on the left? Seriously, this is a serious question. Is this really an area where technology can make a difference? |
 |
| Can something be both sticky AND slippery? |
 |
| No. You may not have any sort of feminine hygiene product. Don't even try. Actually, go ahead and try. That's right, put your money in. I see how you are. |
 |
| There's only one toilet in this stall, but still. Flush them all please thank you! |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)