Thing 1: Sexy Code!
In addition to my build master duties, I am actually doing something at work that I went to college to do. Yes, they let me write code now. And let me tell you, I've written some sexy code lately. I told Josh that I'd written sexy code, and he asked, "What does that even mean? Efficient?" Yes, that is what I meant, but then we started discussing possibilities of actual sexy code, like erotic novels for computers. I'm resisting the urge to reproduce some of the examples I came up with. The people who don't understand code wouldn't get them, and the people who did understand code would be appalled. Trust me, it was funny.
Thing 2: Up! Up! And away!
I bought a mass-produced shirt at a retail store. Tsk, I know. I rarely buy shirts like that, both for cost reasons and the fact that I don't want to be wearing the same thing as everyone else. This is particularly true for t-shirts with slogans on them. Usually by the time a slogan makes it to a t-shirt being sold at the mall, it's no longer clever, if it ever was. So a shirt has to be really good, and really on sale. I found a shirt at an outlet store featuring Super Grover. I can resist Elmo and Oscar and even the Cookie Monster. I might, if I were feeling particularly strong, could resist plain old Grover (unless he was featured doing that Near/Far thing, then it would be all over). But I can't resist Super Grover. I cannot resist an obscure character like that. Everyone knows Elmo or Oscar. But the people that can see my proud new shirt and go "Hey! Super Grover!", those people are my kindred spirits.
As a side note, I did a little searching to see if I could find a picture of my shirt online. No dice. I did, however, find a Guy Smiley shirt, and now I am just wrought with t-shirt desire.
Thing 3: Casey and I broke up.
And that's all I have to say about that.
7.06.2005
6.27.2005
chickens lay eggs.
Martha corrected my grammar at work. Man, that is an irritating habit. I know, because I used to do it. Then I realized what an irritating habit it was when people stopped hanging out with me, and they never ever said "Thank you for correcting me, Sandra." Now I only do it to my very close friends, those who are privileged to know the real Sandra with all her irritating habits.
But anyway, apparently no one ever told Martha that correcting the grammar of others was an irritating habit. Actually, it's more likely that many people have told her, but they probably said it with an incorrect sentence structure, and then she just corrected them again. As for me, I was more embarrassed than annoyed. I was busted.
Martha asked about my weekend plans. I said, "I'm going to lay around all weekend." Martha sighed, as if my words had bitterly hurt her. I thought maybe she was going to make a comment on my wild and young single girl lifestyle. I was preparing myself for that, since I'd had a rough week and hadn't been sleeping much. But no, she said, "Chickens lay eggs."
Oh.
So I said then, quite feebly, "I'm going to lie around all weekend." I briefly considered saying, "Thank you for correcting me, Martha," but that would have only encouraged what others see as an irritating habit. I did appreciate it, in a very weird way. See, I knew there was a lie vs. lay issue, but I'd never figured it out. Now I had a little saying that I could use in my daily conversation that would save me from looking like an idiot. And if I'm talking to people who don't know the difference, well then I can just feel superior. I will resist the urge to use it except on my ever decreasing batch of very close friends. So, thank you, Martha, thank you for correcting me.
But anyway, apparently no one ever told Martha that correcting the grammar of others was an irritating habit. Actually, it's more likely that many people have told her, but they probably said it with an incorrect sentence structure, and then she just corrected them again. As for me, I was more embarrassed than annoyed. I was busted.
Martha asked about my weekend plans. I said, "I'm going to lay around all weekend." Martha sighed, as if my words had bitterly hurt her. I thought maybe she was going to make a comment on my wild and young single girl lifestyle. I was preparing myself for that, since I'd had a rough week and hadn't been sleeping much. But no, she said, "Chickens lay eggs."
Oh.
So I said then, quite feebly, "I'm going to lie around all weekend." I briefly considered saying, "Thank you for correcting me, Martha," but that would have only encouraged what others see as an irritating habit. I did appreciate it, in a very weird way. See, I knew there was a lie vs. lay issue, but I'd never figured it out. Now I had a little saying that I could use in my daily conversation that would save me from looking like an idiot. And if I'm talking to people who don't know the difference, well then I can just feel superior. I will resist the urge to use it except on my ever decreasing batch of very close friends. So, thank you, Martha, thank you for correcting me.
6.16.2005
having just one more nice day.
I quit drinking coffee last week. Actually, I quit drinking coffee six days ago. I'd been drinking coffee every day for months, and then one morning a month or two ago, I missed my morning cup. By ten o'clock, my head had split open. Apparently my body couldn't have sent me a fax or a voicemail saying, "Hey, I'd like some caffeine, please." So my body sent me the headache that Zeus must have felt right before full-grown Athena sprung from his head. That's when I realized that I had a problem. So I stood up and said, "My name is Sandra, and I'm addicted to coffee."
All say, "Hi, Sandra."
As far as addictions go, a coffee one is pretty wimpy. No one gives testimonials about how they gave up coffee. Those are saved for the crack/heroin/meth addicts. You can't buy a coffee patch. There is no coffee-quitting gum, only gum that supposedly gets the coffee stains off your teeth, which is only an abettor in your denial to your problem. Most people probably don't even understand why I would quit coffee. I'll tell you. It's a control issue. I want the freedom to not have a cup in the morning without suffering the consequences of having a headache nailed to my forehead. Simply put, I don't like the idea of being addicted to something, even if, truth be told, the addiction isn't necessarily harmful. Most reports say that coffee in moderation isn't harmful at all. Those old studies done in the 50s have been retracted, mostly because everyone who drank coffee at that time also smoked, and as it turns out, coffee does not cause lung cancer. But still, I wanted to be done with it.
The missed cup incident had taught me that I was not ready for any sort of cold turkey solution. So I opted for a "slightly more chilled turkey every day" solution. I made less coffee for myself each morning. However, this also meant that I made worse coffee for myself each morning. My regular brew involves 4 cups of water and putting enough coffee beans to meet a certain mark in the grinder. It's very inexact, so trying to decrease the amount of coffee brewed while still maintaining a consistent flavor is nigh upon impossible. I supposed I could have employed some more exact measuring device than "a certain mark in the grinder" and then let my mad fraction skills do the rest, but by the time that idea had occurred to me, so had another one: ah, screw it.
So I came in to work last Friday without my coffee in my hands. I was fully prepared to run and get a cup of company coffee in case of headache. Company coffee is punishment in itself. But I was fine. I continue to be fine. Okay, I'm a little sleepier in the mornings, but that is a small price to pay for my freedom. I'm even going to put my coffee maker and grinder away in the closet with all the other infrequently used appliances. And I guess I'll only buy half-and-half by the pint when I'm expecting people who have yet to give up their coffee demons. Considering I'd been buying it by the half-gallon, I'd call this a step up.
But now, man, I kinda want some coffee. It's not one of those I-quit-smoking-twenty-years-ago-and-I-still-want-just-one-drag kind of things. It's a hmm-coffee-would-be-tasty-right-now thing. With most addictions, once you quit, going back in even a minor way is bad news. But if I'm driving past my local independent coffee shop one day and I get to craving a vanilla latte, am I backtracking so much to give in? Caffeine is addictive, but not in such a way that once you have a drop, you're doomed to be its slave forever.
There's a short vignette in Jim Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes featuring Iggy Pop and Tom Waits. Tom Waits lights up a cigarette from a pack he's carrying, saying that he quit smoking, so he can have a cigarette now. Iggy is pretty confused by this logic, but he quit smoking, too, and he wants a cigarette, so he goes with it. My question is, now that I've quit coffee, can I have some?
All say, "Hi, Sandra."
As far as addictions go, a coffee one is pretty wimpy. No one gives testimonials about how they gave up coffee. Those are saved for the crack/heroin/meth addicts. You can't buy a coffee patch. There is no coffee-quitting gum, only gum that supposedly gets the coffee stains off your teeth, which is only an abettor in your denial to your problem. Most people probably don't even understand why I would quit coffee. I'll tell you. It's a control issue. I want the freedom to not have a cup in the morning without suffering the consequences of having a headache nailed to my forehead. Simply put, I don't like the idea of being addicted to something, even if, truth be told, the addiction isn't necessarily harmful. Most reports say that coffee in moderation isn't harmful at all. Those old studies done in the 50s have been retracted, mostly because everyone who drank coffee at that time also smoked, and as it turns out, coffee does not cause lung cancer. But still, I wanted to be done with it.
The missed cup incident had taught me that I was not ready for any sort of cold turkey solution. So I opted for a "slightly more chilled turkey every day" solution. I made less coffee for myself each morning. However, this also meant that I made worse coffee for myself each morning. My regular brew involves 4 cups of water and putting enough coffee beans to meet a certain mark in the grinder. It's very inexact, so trying to decrease the amount of coffee brewed while still maintaining a consistent flavor is nigh upon impossible. I supposed I could have employed some more exact measuring device than "a certain mark in the grinder" and then let my mad fraction skills do the rest, but by the time that idea had occurred to me, so had another one: ah, screw it.
So I came in to work last Friday without my coffee in my hands. I was fully prepared to run and get a cup of company coffee in case of headache. Company coffee is punishment in itself. But I was fine. I continue to be fine. Okay, I'm a little sleepier in the mornings, but that is a small price to pay for my freedom. I'm even going to put my coffee maker and grinder away in the closet with all the other infrequently used appliances. And I guess I'll only buy half-and-half by the pint when I'm expecting people who have yet to give up their coffee demons. Considering I'd been buying it by the half-gallon, I'd call this a step up.
But now, man, I kinda want some coffee. It's not one of those I-quit-smoking-twenty-years-ago-and-I-still-want-just-one-drag kind of things. It's a hmm-coffee-would-be-tasty-right-now thing. With most addictions, once you quit, going back in even a minor way is bad news. But if I'm driving past my local independent coffee shop one day and I get to craving a vanilla latte, am I backtracking so much to give in? Caffeine is addictive, but not in such a way that once you have a drop, you're doomed to be its slave forever.
There's a short vignette in Jim Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes featuring Iggy Pop and Tom Waits. Tom Waits lights up a cigarette from a pack he's carrying, saying that he quit smoking, so he can have a cigarette now. Iggy is pretty confused by this logic, but he quit smoking, too, and he wants a cigarette, so he goes with it. My question is, now that I've quit coffee, can I have some?
6.09.2005
pray for rain.
Josh was checking the weather report at about 2pm. This Josh is the one that works with me, not to be confused with any other Joshes who may or may not call me in the middle of the night. Apparently Joshua was a popular name about twenty-five years ago. Anyway, the one that was checking the weather report read aloud, "Heavy thunderstorms from 3pm until midnight." Josh was excited. He had a softball game that he didn't want to play. He said his team was going to get creamed. Josh can stand losing a game by 3 runs, but when he faces the prospect of losing a game by 20 runs, he'd just as soon pray for rain.
About an hour later, I heard thunder. I don't have a window in my office, so I go across the hall to Josh's to remind myself what the world outside my office looks like. I trotted over to see rain pouring not down, but sideways. The tree right outside was whipping every which way and showing us the underside of every single leaf. Small tree limbs were being washed up the hill next to the building. I asked Josh just how well he was in with God to get results like that when he didn't want to play a softball game. Mark ran down the hall past the door, crying, "I left my windows down!" Josh looked out in awe and said, "Man, I'm glad I didn't park underneath the tree." And then I said, "Oh." I always park under the tree. Then Josh leaned back, satisfied, in his chair, confident that there would be no game. He gestured proudly out the window as if he himself had created it, saying that he'd never been in a hurricane, but that this was how he imagined one would be. I have been in a hurricane, I told him. "This weather is like a hurricane. Well, a really far inland hurricane." I stared at Josh in amazement, and started thinking about things that I could get him to ask God to do for me.
Mark came back in, his inch-long hair all leaning the same way. "A tree branch fell right in between Sandra's and Lee's cars. You got lucky." We would all later find out that only I had been lucky. The tree branch fell right on Lee's car, and then rolled off to land in the empty space between our two cars.
The storm lasted only a quarter-hour or so before the window showed us a typical sunny Southern summer day again. Josh left at 4, prepared to go home and watch a movie in his pajamas, not play softball. The next morning I came in and asked him how he'd enjoyed his lazy evening completely devoid of softball.
"The game didn't get cancelled."
"What? How is that possible?"
"They called me and said the field was fine."
"Aw, man, that sucks. I'm sorry. How was the game?"
"We won."
"What? I thought you said you were going to get killed."
"I thought we were. But then we came back in the last inning and won."
"Man, God is laughing at you right now."
"Yeah, I know."
About an hour later, I heard thunder. I don't have a window in my office, so I go across the hall to Josh's to remind myself what the world outside my office looks like. I trotted over to see rain pouring not down, but sideways. The tree right outside was whipping every which way and showing us the underside of every single leaf. Small tree limbs were being washed up the hill next to the building. I asked Josh just how well he was in with God to get results like that when he didn't want to play a softball game. Mark ran down the hall past the door, crying, "I left my windows down!" Josh looked out in awe and said, "Man, I'm glad I didn't park underneath the tree." And then I said, "Oh." I always park under the tree. Then Josh leaned back, satisfied, in his chair, confident that there would be no game. He gestured proudly out the window as if he himself had created it, saying that he'd never been in a hurricane, but that this was how he imagined one would be. I have been in a hurricane, I told him. "This weather is like a hurricane. Well, a really far inland hurricane." I stared at Josh in amazement, and started thinking about things that I could get him to ask God to do for me.
Mark came back in, his inch-long hair all leaning the same way. "A tree branch fell right in between Sandra's and Lee's cars. You got lucky." We would all later find out that only I had been lucky. The tree branch fell right on Lee's car, and then rolled off to land in the empty space between our two cars.
The storm lasted only a quarter-hour or so before the window showed us a typical sunny Southern summer day again. Josh left at 4, prepared to go home and watch a movie in his pajamas, not play softball. The next morning I came in and asked him how he'd enjoyed his lazy evening completely devoid of softball.
"The game didn't get cancelled."
"What? How is that possible?"
"They called me and said the field was fine."
"Aw, man, that sucks. I'm sorry. How was the game?"
"We won."
"What? I thought you said you were going to get killed."
"I thought we were. But then we came back in the last inning and won."
"Man, God is laughing at you right now."
"Yeah, I know."
6.06.2005
not for your pet elephant.
There's always buzz when a new Star Wars comes out. I tend to ignore buzz. Actually, I tend to do the opposite of whatever the buzz says. I'm just contrary like that. But then I was in Best Buy, and on their huge TVs, they were showing The Empire Strikes Back. I became engrossed, and suddenly I wanted to see them all again. I've seen the original trilogy once, back when I was about 16. I haven't seen any of the prequels. But I figure I should refresh myself, since Episode III will be at the $2 theatre soon, and I'm planning on taking advantage of that.
I was just going to rent the trilogy. But then I realized that I work at a software company, and someone surely had the SUPER-MEGA-EXTENDED-BONUS EDITION WITH SPECIAL FEATURES FROM THE DIRECTOR'S CHOICE COLLECTION. We have a lot of dorks here. Two of my coworkers had the VHS versions, and the third led me to another, Todd. Apparently, Todd is a kind of a sci-fi nut, so he definitely had them. I asked very nicely if he would mind if I borrowed the set for a few days.
I personally have a hard time loaning out my belongings. My old roommate's friends used to borrow things from us. Maybe they would ask her, and she's an accommodating kind of girl, so she would rent out our things. Maybe they wouldn't ask, knowing she would agree, and have every intention of returning it. Maybe they were thieves. In any case, I lived in terror of my stuff being borrowed out and never returned or returned damaged. I don't like it. So I understand that when people lend things to me, they may very well be the same way. In fact, since they're my friends, they are very likely the same way.
But it's rude to not let people borrow things when they ask, and it's rude to look pained and uncomfortable and to say, "PLEASE DON'T BREAK IT AND PLEEEEEEEASE DON'T LOSE IT, AND BE EXTRA-SPECIAL CAREFUL, 'CAUSE IT IS MINE, MINE, MINE." However, that is probably a good way to get the thing back immediately and to never be asked to lend anything ever again because you are such a freak. No matter how much you want to not let the person, and no matter how suspect this person actually is, being stingy is no good.
So when I got a response email from Todd after I asked to borrow his DVDs, I laughed. Thrown in with some chit-chat about the series, Todd said, "Not that I think you'll intentionally mishandle them, but please take care of them: no scratches please." I imagined him agonizing over this, trying to word it just right so that I wouldn't be offended, but that I understood that I was to be careful. Or maybe Todd is just a confident enough person to remind me that it was not my own DVDs that I was playing with.
I should be such a person. I should be able to say "Be careful, please." Maybe if I were silly about it, I could get away with it, because it would be like I'm making a joke but I'm not. I could say "Don't let your pet elephant play with it!" or maybe "Don't use it for scrubbing your pots and pans!" And see, that would serve the double purpose of me feeling better because I was able to warn someone to be careful, and it would also make that person think twice before using the item to scrub pots and pans.
In any case, I have Todd's DVDs, and I won't be letting my pet elephant play with it, although I might tell Todd that I did, just to have some fun. I'm pretty excited about seeing the trilogy; I hear there's an exciting twist at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, something to do with Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. I can't wait.
I was just going to rent the trilogy. But then I realized that I work at a software company, and someone surely had the SUPER-MEGA-EXTENDED-BONUS EDITION WITH SPECIAL FEATURES FROM THE DIRECTOR'S CHOICE COLLECTION. We have a lot of dorks here. Two of my coworkers had the VHS versions, and the third led me to another, Todd. Apparently, Todd is a kind of a sci-fi nut, so he definitely had them. I asked very nicely if he would mind if I borrowed the set for a few days.
I personally have a hard time loaning out my belongings. My old roommate's friends used to borrow things from us. Maybe they would ask her, and she's an accommodating kind of girl, so she would rent out our things. Maybe they wouldn't ask, knowing she would agree, and have every intention of returning it. Maybe they were thieves. In any case, I lived in terror of my stuff being borrowed out and never returned or returned damaged. I don't like it. So I understand that when people lend things to me, they may very well be the same way. In fact, since they're my friends, they are very likely the same way.
But it's rude to not let people borrow things when they ask, and it's rude to look pained and uncomfortable and to say, "PLEASE DON'T BREAK IT AND PLEEEEEEEASE DON'T LOSE IT, AND BE EXTRA-SPECIAL CAREFUL, 'CAUSE IT IS MINE, MINE, MINE." However, that is probably a good way to get the thing back immediately and to never be asked to lend anything ever again because you are such a freak. No matter how much you want to not let the person, and no matter how suspect this person actually is, being stingy is no good.
So when I got a response email from Todd after I asked to borrow his DVDs, I laughed. Thrown in with some chit-chat about the series, Todd said, "Not that I think you'll intentionally mishandle them, but please take care of them: no scratches please." I imagined him agonizing over this, trying to word it just right so that I wouldn't be offended, but that I understood that I was to be careful. Or maybe Todd is just a confident enough person to remind me that it was not my own DVDs that I was playing with.
I should be such a person. I should be able to say "Be careful, please." Maybe if I were silly about it, I could get away with it, because it would be like I'm making a joke but I'm not. I could say "Don't let your pet elephant play with it!" or maybe "Don't use it for scrubbing your pots and pans!" And see, that would serve the double purpose of me feeling better because I was able to warn someone to be careful, and it would also make that person think twice before using the item to scrub pots and pans.
In any case, I have Todd's DVDs, and I won't be letting my pet elephant play with it, although I might tell Todd that I did, just to have some fun. I'm pretty excited about seeing the trilogy; I hear there's an exciting twist at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, something to do with Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. I can't wait.
6.02.2005
build master®.
We've had a series of employees who have held the title of Build Master. I'm the current Build Master. There was once talk of calling me the Build Mistress, but that just doesn't flow as well. The Build Master packages installs. The reason that no one person is the permanent Build Master in residence is no one wants this job forever. So the company started making the new hires be the Build Master. The first was Zach, who was Master for a year and a half. He trained Josh, who had the title for six months. Josh trained Sandra, that's me, and I've been Build Master for four months now. Josh was the new Zach, I was the new Josh, and I can only hope that soon there will be a new Sandra. We were due to get a new Sandra in August, but he passed on the offer. Frankly, I think anyone should be honored to be the new Sandra.
The company sent Zach to a Build Master class where he learned about the install software, InstallShield. I was given his books from the class when I started in the hopes that in my spare time I would read both the text and Zach's scribbled notes. I browsed through them during my first week, but haven't touched them since. Rather than send Josh to another class, Zach just trained him to do the job. Then Josh trained me. It is the passing of the torch, or rather the hasty throwing of the torch and then running away before the other guy can try to give the torch back.
The job isn't that bad, but it's very ebb and flow. You can be sitting around reading Microsoft books one week, bored out of your skull, and then the next week you are up to your ears in deadlines. Plus, there is no advancement in this job. You're making installs, that is all you'll do, and even though each one is different, it's still an install. While that's okay for a while, no one goes to college with dreams of doing it. I hear that people who do want to do installs forever are in demand for those companies who need full time Build Masters. It can be stressful. No install is ever as simple as it seems, because there is always that one little catch. "We need this install to just copy some files over - real simple like, should be no problem. Here are the files, it's no big thing. Oh, by the way, we need it to launch this other install in the background. You should have this by the end of the day, right? Actually, maybe before lunch, because Martha's testing it and she likes to leave at 3." Okay, I'm exaggerating - no one has ever given me a deadline like that. But installs are never as simple as they seem. Our company isn't big enough to have someone do it full-time, so we use the passing of the torch system, which seems to be working pretty well.
So I like to think that each Build Master adds something to the fount of Build Master knowledge that is passed down. It's like that name game you play on the first day of camp where everyone's going on a cruise, and each person is taking something that starts with the same letter as the person's first name. "We're all going on a cruise, and Zach is taking zucchini, Josh is taking jumpropes, and I'm Sandra, and I'm taking silkworms." Zach's class didn't teach him everything, and even if it had, he would not have remembered it all. The thing about using InstallShield is there is a lot of functionality included that you never know about until you need it. One day someone says, "Hey, wouldn't it be nice if the install could do this? Is that possible? Can you find out?" And then the Build Master spends some time researching by looking at the InstallShield help files (which vary wildly in their levels of usefulness and ambiguity) and searching online forums full of questions and answer from other Build Masters across the world. This part is actually one of my favorite parts of the job. I like to figure out first if something is possible, and then how it is possible, and finally how it is possible in my individual install. Then once I know, I can add it to the list of the things that I'll tell the new Sandra, just in case he ever needs it.
So it's just like the name game where you're going on a cruise, except in this case, it's more like "We're all adding to the Build Master know-how pool, and Zach taught us how to modify dialogs, Josh taught us how to record installations, and I'm Sandra, and I taught you how to use the Character Map."
I thought everyone knew how to use the Character Map. But maybe it was just the kids like me, who found themselves sick of Solitaire and wanted something else to play with, so they started exploring anything on the computer. For those of you who don't know and are using Windows machines (post Windows 95): Go to the Start Menu, then to Programs, then Accessories, then to System Tools, and you'll see the Character Map. It's fun, for like, five minutes. You can make cool emoticons and Greek letters and funny pictures. It's like when you discovered Wingdings, only better. I never thought I would ever use it in my job, until the day came that I had to install something with a trademark in the name.
Most installs just have a (TM) or (R) if the product has a trademark or registered trademark in the name. But at some point, someone asked me, "Sandra, is there any way to make that prettier?" So I went to the Character Map. See, the tiny TM and the R in the circle are actual characters in most fonts, just like a lowercase letter 'a,' a plus sign, or the Greek letter gamma. But putting those characters into an install took me four hours to figure out. It was a whole big font issue that I'd rather not retell. The moral of the story is that you can get the little R in the circle, but not the tiny TM. At least I haven't figured out how to do it yet.
To be fair, I've done more than figure out the character map issue. I also learned to turn off the update feature, how to associate file extensions with a program, how to restart the install after a reboot, and that any install that includes Adobe Reader 7.0 will be trouble. But no one cares about those things because they can't really see them. Anyone can see and appreciate a little R inside a circle. My coworkers are regularly delighted with the little R's in circles. Josh was so delighted that he asked me how I did it. He'd never heard of the Character Map before, and his life hasn't been the same since I showed it to him. He uses it whenever he gets the chance. Note his last email to me:
>> -----Original Message-----
From: Josh
Sent: Wednesday, May 25, 2005 3:17 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: demo
Sandra®,
Can you make a new diagnostics® demo and give it to Mike?
Thanks®.
Josh®
That's a lot of little R's in circles. And that is my contribution to the collection torch of knowledge to be passed down to generations upon generations of Build Masters. I'd like for all those future Zachs, Joshes, and Sandras to know just who brought them the ability to put the little R's into the circles. I thought of trademarking the idea, but then again, I still don't know how to make that tiny TM.
The company sent Zach to a Build Master class where he learned about the install software, InstallShield. I was given his books from the class when I started in the hopes that in my spare time I would read both the text and Zach's scribbled notes. I browsed through them during my first week, but haven't touched them since. Rather than send Josh to another class, Zach just trained him to do the job. Then Josh trained me. It is the passing of the torch, or rather the hasty throwing of the torch and then running away before the other guy can try to give the torch back.
The job isn't that bad, but it's very ebb and flow. You can be sitting around reading Microsoft books one week, bored out of your skull, and then the next week you are up to your ears in deadlines. Plus, there is no advancement in this job. You're making installs, that is all you'll do, and even though each one is different, it's still an install. While that's okay for a while, no one goes to college with dreams of doing it. I hear that people who do want to do installs forever are in demand for those companies who need full time Build Masters. It can be stressful. No install is ever as simple as it seems, because there is always that one little catch. "We need this install to just copy some files over - real simple like, should be no problem. Here are the files, it's no big thing. Oh, by the way, we need it to launch this other install in the background. You should have this by the end of the day, right? Actually, maybe before lunch, because Martha's testing it and she likes to leave at 3." Okay, I'm exaggerating - no one has ever given me a deadline like that. But installs are never as simple as they seem. Our company isn't big enough to have someone do it full-time, so we use the passing of the torch system, which seems to be working pretty well.
So I like to think that each Build Master adds something to the fount of Build Master knowledge that is passed down. It's like that name game you play on the first day of camp where everyone's going on a cruise, and each person is taking something that starts with the same letter as the person's first name. "We're all going on a cruise, and Zach is taking zucchini, Josh is taking jumpropes, and I'm Sandra, and I'm taking silkworms." Zach's class didn't teach him everything, and even if it had, he would not have remembered it all. The thing about using InstallShield is there is a lot of functionality included that you never know about until you need it. One day someone says, "Hey, wouldn't it be nice if the install could do this? Is that possible? Can you find out?" And then the Build Master spends some time researching by looking at the InstallShield help files (which vary wildly in their levels of usefulness and ambiguity) and searching online forums full of questions and answer from other Build Masters across the world. This part is actually one of my favorite parts of the job. I like to figure out first if something is possible, and then how it is possible, and finally how it is possible in my individual install. Then once I know, I can add it to the list of the things that I'll tell the new Sandra, just in case he ever needs it.
So it's just like the name game where you're going on a cruise, except in this case, it's more like "We're all adding to the Build Master know-how pool, and Zach taught us how to modify dialogs, Josh taught us how to record installations, and I'm Sandra, and I taught you how to use the Character Map."
I thought everyone knew how to use the Character Map. But maybe it was just the kids like me, who found themselves sick of Solitaire and wanted something else to play with, so they started exploring anything on the computer. For those of you who don't know and are using Windows machines (post Windows 95): Go to the Start Menu, then to Programs, then Accessories, then to System Tools, and you'll see the Character Map. It's fun, for like, five minutes. You can make cool emoticons and Greek letters and funny pictures. It's like when you discovered Wingdings, only better. I never thought I would ever use it in my job, until the day came that I had to install something with a trademark in the name.
Most installs just have a (TM) or (R) if the product has a trademark or registered trademark in the name. But at some point, someone asked me, "Sandra, is there any way to make that prettier?" So I went to the Character Map. See, the tiny TM and the R in the circle are actual characters in most fonts, just like a lowercase letter 'a,' a plus sign, or the Greek letter gamma. But putting those characters into an install took me four hours to figure out. It was a whole big font issue that I'd rather not retell. The moral of the story is that you can get the little R in the circle, but not the tiny TM. At least I haven't figured out how to do it yet.
To be fair, I've done more than figure out the character map issue. I also learned to turn off the update feature, how to associate file extensions with a program, how to restart the install after a reboot, and that any install that includes Adobe Reader 7.0 will be trouble. But no one cares about those things because they can't really see them. Anyone can see and appreciate a little R inside a circle. My coworkers are regularly delighted with the little R's in circles. Josh was so delighted that he asked me how I did it. He'd never heard of the Character Map before, and his life hasn't been the same since I showed it to him. He uses it whenever he gets the chance. Note his last email to me:
>> -----Original Message-----
From: Josh
Sent: Wednesday, May 25, 2005 3:17 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: demo
Sandra®,
Can you make a new diagnostics® demo and give it to Mike?
Thanks®.
Josh®
That's a lot of little R's in circles. And that is my contribution to the collection torch of knowledge to be passed down to generations upon generations of Build Masters. I'd like for all those future Zachs, Joshes, and Sandras to know just who brought them the ability to put the little R's into the circles. I thought of trademarking the idea, but then again, I still don't know how to make that tiny TM.
5.29.2005
ain't that some auto parts store?
I was raised a white zinfandel girl (from hence known as white zin). I didn't realize until I began working at Vintner's Restaurant & Wine Shoppe that white zin was not classy. Most wine people tend to look down upon it, lumping white zin people with boxed wine people, Boone's Farm people, and illiterate people. I remember once waiting on a table at The Bistro of three gentlemen who were drinking pricey pinot noir. Their table was next to a big southern family of eight drinking white zin. One of the gentlemen looked at the family with disgust, and then said in a fake southern accent, "Napa? Ain't that some auto parts store?" I laughed, because it was pretty clever, and said, "Hey, it takes all kinds."
Being around wine at work all the time made me interested in it, so I started learning what I could. I was too young to do much tasting, and my of-age friends were impatient with my hour long trips to the wine aisle. So it was mostly head knowledge, and very little tongue knowledge. But with limited tasting, I was having a hard time finding something I liked. Every wine I tried made my face pucker, but I thought that was just the way wine was. I began to despair that I would never be more than a white zin person.
My life with wine changed the night I went to an art opening. It was shortly before my 21st birthday, they had free wine, and no one was carding. After the first time, they took your empty glass as an indication that you were old enough to do this. I took the opportunity to try a lot of different things. Casey was not very interested in wine at the time, and asked for a suggestion. I recommended a riesling, because I knew that it was one of the sweetest "classy" wines that you can find, and that's what we both had. One taste, and we both had a great epiphany.
Wine could taste good.
My face didn't pucker, I didn't have to swallow it quickly, and I definitely didn't throw it down the water fountain like I did with some bitter red stuff we tried later that evening. At the time I tasted it, I lacked the wine words to describe it properly, but here is what I remember: very pleasant and drinkable, fruity and well-balanced, but not overly sweet. It was what the experts would call a nice sipping wine. It was what the southern experts would call a nice sippin' and sittin' on the porch at sunset in the summertime wine.
I've since looked everywhere for that wine. I went to the local wine stores and all the grocery stores, but no one had it. Probably whoever had it couldn't sell it, and donated it to the art gallery. I remembered the label from the night we tasted it, and I did extensive searching on the internet until I found it. I also found three wine shops in New England that carry it, but do not ship to North Carolina. I could only hope that the winery will release a new vintage every year that was as good as the one I tried, and I can find it then. I was a little afraid that since I, a wine amateur, liked it, that in the wine world, it would be considered a bad wine. But then it showed up in the Top 100 Value Wines issue of Wine Enthusiast. At #54, it scored 88 points. I am redeemed.
It's been over a year and a half since I tried that wonderful riesling. I stopped looking for it after a year. This week, I was early for some dinner plans, so I stopped at a wine shop downtown to kill time. I'd been meaning to check it out since I moved to Winston, but since there's a Total Wine & More near my work and a North Carolina wineseller near my house, I lacked the impetus. I was just browsing, looking more for a red zin that my local Total Wine doesn't carry than anything else, when there was my riesling. One bottle, sitting there, hanging out without any sort of sign that said "SANDRA, LOOK HERE RIGHT NOW!" I'd sworn off wine buying recently, because I have two cases at home, but an exception had to be made. I was so excited that when I paid, I gushed to the cashier, "I've been looking for this for a year and a half." I never divulge information to strangers. He politely nodded and took my credit card.
I'm afraid now that I won't like my little riesling. My tastes have changed, as I've been old enough to taste and I've been taking advantage of that. I find red zin more interesting than white zin, and it's been a long time since I found a riesling that I liked enough to buy. I'm afraid that the wine won't live up to the memory, like when I watched The Dark Crystal for the first time as an adult and realized that it sucked. We shall see.
I've come a long way in my wine knowledge. I try not to be a wine snob, because Lord knows I still have a long way to go in my wine education. I see white zin as a pair of training wheels on a bike. You have to start somewhere, and I don't think there is anyone who can jump right into a sauvignon blanc or a pinot noir and appreciate them without having had wine before. (I was honestly beginning to wonder if I would ever like sauvignon blanc when I tried a very nice one a couple of months ago.) And while some people may never get past the training wheels, anything that gets them to appreciate wine at all is a good idea. You should drink what you like. Why waste your time drinking something that doesn't even taste good to you? Looking down upon people for liking white zin is like looking down upon people for liking oysters or mushrooms or cantaloupe (though I have to confess I do have to wonder what is actually wrong with all those kinds of people).
Though I may think all of that, it's a little different in practice. I went out to eat once with a friend of mine. After the food, I decided to partake in an alcoholic beverage for dessert, so I asked about the wine and beer list. I wanted a nice riesling. But this was not a wine place, and they had merlot, chardonnay, and white zinfandel. I didn't like beer, so I ordered a premium malt beverage. Most college kids would not be caught dead drinking a malt beverage in public, but as I explained to my friend, "Well, I wasn't going to drink a white zin in public!"
Being around wine at work all the time made me interested in it, so I started learning what I could. I was too young to do much tasting, and my of-age friends were impatient with my hour long trips to the wine aisle. So it was mostly head knowledge, and very little tongue knowledge. But with limited tasting, I was having a hard time finding something I liked. Every wine I tried made my face pucker, but I thought that was just the way wine was. I began to despair that I would never be more than a white zin person.
My life with wine changed the night I went to an art opening. It was shortly before my 21st birthday, they had free wine, and no one was carding. After the first time, they took your empty glass as an indication that you were old enough to do this. I took the opportunity to try a lot of different things. Casey was not very interested in wine at the time, and asked for a suggestion. I recommended a riesling, because I knew that it was one of the sweetest "classy" wines that you can find, and that's what we both had. One taste, and we both had a great epiphany.
Wine could taste good.
My face didn't pucker, I didn't have to swallow it quickly, and I definitely didn't throw it down the water fountain like I did with some bitter red stuff we tried later that evening. At the time I tasted it, I lacked the wine words to describe it properly, but here is what I remember: very pleasant and drinkable, fruity and well-balanced, but not overly sweet. It was what the experts would call a nice sipping wine. It was what the southern experts would call a nice sippin' and sittin' on the porch at sunset in the summertime wine.
I've since looked everywhere for that wine. I went to the local wine stores and all the grocery stores, but no one had it. Probably whoever had it couldn't sell it, and donated it to the art gallery. I remembered the label from the night we tasted it, and I did extensive searching on the internet until I found it. I also found three wine shops in New England that carry it, but do not ship to North Carolina. I could only hope that the winery will release a new vintage every year that was as good as the one I tried, and I can find it then. I was a little afraid that since I, a wine amateur, liked it, that in the wine world, it would be considered a bad wine. But then it showed up in the Top 100 Value Wines issue of Wine Enthusiast. At #54, it scored 88 points. I am redeemed.
It's been over a year and a half since I tried that wonderful riesling. I stopped looking for it after a year. This week, I was early for some dinner plans, so I stopped at a wine shop downtown to kill time. I'd been meaning to check it out since I moved to Winston, but since there's a Total Wine & More near my work and a North Carolina wineseller near my house, I lacked the impetus. I was just browsing, looking more for a red zin that my local Total Wine doesn't carry than anything else, when there was my riesling. One bottle, sitting there, hanging out without any sort of sign that said "SANDRA, LOOK HERE RIGHT NOW!" I'd sworn off wine buying recently, because I have two cases at home, but an exception had to be made. I was so excited that when I paid, I gushed to the cashier, "I've been looking for this for a year and a half." I never divulge information to strangers. He politely nodded and took my credit card.
I'm afraid now that I won't like my little riesling. My tastes have changed, as I've been old enough to taste and I've been taking advantage of that. I find red zin more interesting than white zin, and it's been a long time since I found a riesling that I liked enough to buy. I'm afraid that the wine won't live up to the memory, like when I watched The Dark Crystal for the first time as an adult and realized that it sucked. We shall see.
I've come a long way in my wine knowledge. I try not to be a wine snob, because Lord knows I still have a long way to go in my wine education. I see white zin as a pair of training wheels on a bike. You have to start somewhere, and I don't think there is anyone who can jump right into a sauvignon blanc or a pinot noir and appreciate them without having had wine before. (I was honestly beginning to wonder if I would ever like sauvignon blanc when I tried a very nice one a couple of months ago.) And while some people may never get past the training wheels, anything that gets them to appreciate wine at all is a good idea. You should drink what you like. Why waste your time drinking something that doesn't even taste good to you? Looking down upon people for liking white zin is like looking down upon people for liking oysters or mushrooms or cantaloupe (though I have to confess I do have to wonder what is actually wrong with all those kinds of people).
Though I may think all of that, it's a little different in practice. I went out to eat once with a friend of mine. After the food, I decided to partake in an alcoholic beverage for dessert, so I asked about the wine and beer list. I wanted a nice riesling. But this was not a wine place, and they had merlot, chardonnay, and white zinfandel. I didn't like beer, so I ordered a premium malt beverage. Most college kids would not be caught dead drinking a malt beverage in public, but as I explained to my friend, "Well, I wasn't going to drink a white zin in public!"
5.22.2005
goo goo g'joob.
hing 1: Forget the walrus, I am the lobster (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I am sunburnt.
I am not so much the color of a lobster so much as I am the color of a lobster as it is being boiled alive. I have only myself to blame. I knew I was pasty, and I knew I was going to be out in the sun. But my altogether faulty logic figured that since I would not be in the sun between the hours of 10am and noon (the most dangerous hours in terms of sun exposure, so I've heard), that I would be fine. However, when you are the color of a, well, a computer scientist, and you are out in the sun for FOUR HOURS, then you're going to end up looking like a computer scientist being boiled alive. So I'm red, I'm in pain, and I am whiny.
Thing 2: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I'm using that bright blue gel ice stuff for my burns.
I bought this stuff last night, around the time that I realized just how much sun I had gotten. I love this stuff. I love that it is neon, I love that it is gel, and I love that it is a very silly product that somehow works. Plus, they seem to have made advancements in the gel ice technology since the last time I purchased the stuff, as it no longer has that weird smell. It smells like mint. So I may look kinda stupid with my weird burn lines, but I smell like I just brushed my teeth. Blind people will want to kiss me, I am so minty fresh.
Incidently, I heard recently that you could put vinegar on sunburn, and that you would feel better. This sounds like something you tell someone so they'll do it, and then you can laugh at them - like the time at The Bistro when Harry burnt his thumb, and someone told him to put a wet tea bag on it. He came in the next day with a brown thumb, and we laughed at him. Also, with this method, blind people will not want to kiss me, though, as Mama pointed out, I will not attract any flies.
Thing 3: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster being boiled alive (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I am still not using my air conditioning.
No, I'm not that stubborn. I did finally turn my air conditioning on: it just doesn't work. My apartment manager has been notified, and the situation is due to be corrected in the morning. No promises on the rest of my problems.
Translation: I am sunburnt.
I am not so much the color of a lobster so much as I am the color of a lobster as it is being boiled alive. I have only myself to blame. I knew I was pasty, and I knew I was going to be out in the sun. But my altogether faulty logic figured that since I would not be in the sun between the hours of 10am and noon (the most dangerous hours in terms of sun exposure, so I've heard), that I would be fine. However, when you are the color of a, well, a computer scientist, and you are out in the sun for FOUR HOURS, then you're going to end up looking like a computer scientist being boiled alive. So I'm red, I'm in pain, and I am whiny.
Thing 2: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I'm using that bright blue gel ice stuff for my burns.
I bought this stuff last night, around the time that I realized just how much sun I had gotten. I love this stuff. I love that it is neon, I love that it is gel, and I love that it is a very silly product that somehow works. Plus, they seem to have made advancements in the gel ice technology since the last time I purchased the stuff, as it no longer has that weird smell. It smells like mint. So I may look kinda stupid with my weird burn lines, but I smell like I just brushed my teeth. Blind people will want to kiss me, I am so minty fresh.
Incidently, I heard recently that you could put vinegar on sunburn, and that you would feel better. This sounds like something you tell someone so they'll do it, and then you can laugh at them - like the time at The Bistro when Harry burnt his thumb, and someone told him to put a wet tea bag on it. He came in the next day with a brown thumb, and we laughed at him. Also, with this method, blind people will not want to kiss me, though, as Mama pointed out, I will not attract any flies.
Thing 3: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster being boiled alive (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I am still not using my air conditioning.
No, I'm not that stubborn. I did finally turn my air conditioning on: it just doesn't work. My apartment manager has been notified, and the situation is due to be corrected in the morning. No promises on the rest of my problems.
5.19.2005
the depths of my poverty.
Last night, I was lying in bed, and I was sweating. Relax, Ma, it's not what you think. Have you been upstairs in my apartment? No, of course not, otherwise, I would have found your skeleton already, one hand on your empty canteen and one arm draped over the cactus that has recently sprouted in my guest room. I tell ya, it is hot up there. Downstairs is fine, almost comfortable. Upstairs, it's a toss up between walking around in my skivvies and throwing all the windows open. If I lived in the country, I'd do both.
Of course, the real solution is to just turn on the A/C. I have air conditioning, I even have central air, which was a big selling point for me when I signed up for my place. I should use it. I'm not even sure what I'm waiting for. Every time it occurs to me to just turn on the A/C, I suddenly am too lazy to do it. To me, suffering is easier than closing the windows and going downstairs to turn a knob.
I've lived without air conditioning in Winston before. I lived at Salem College one summer on the top floor of a dorm that was apparently built by the original Moravian settlers back in the year sixteen-whatever. My solution was to spend as much time as possible either in the Fine Arts Center (where there was A/C), outside, or with my head in my fridge. But at night, I had to be in that sauna. I had the top bunk, and I slept wearing as little as I could get away with without embarrassing my roommate, to whom I never spoke. Eventually, I put an oscillating fan at the foot of the bed, and then before I went to bed every night, I would wet a few of my socks with cold water, and then lay them on myself. I bet I sure looked stupid.
Maybe the problem is that I still think that I live in Boone. In Boone, no one has air conditioning, except maybe like the rich old people who summer there. It just doesn't get hot enough. People in Boone just throw open their windows or walk around in their skivvies or both. I was no diferent, and during my last summer there, I lived in the country. See, in Boone, I was just reluctant to turn on the heat. I remember one winter sitting at my computer trying to type with gloves on before the typos just got ridiculous, and I looked at myself and said, "I am not this poor."
And I am still not this poor. I am not poor enough to go to bed with wet socks all over me. I am not poor enough to wonder just how little clothing I can get away with before my neighbors start whipping out their binoculars. I'm even richer than when I was not poor enough to type with gloves on. I am rich enough to use the air conditioning that I am likely paying extra to have in my apartment. If only I were rich enough to just buy a house in the country.
Of course, the real solution is to just turn on the A/C. I have air conditioning, I even have central air, which was a big selling point for me when I signed up for my place. I should use it. I'm not even sure what I'm waiting for. Every time it occurs to me to just turn on the A/C, I suddenly am too lazy to do it. To me, suffering is easier than closing the windows and going downstairs to turn a knob.
I've lived without air conditioning in Winston before. I lived at Salem College one summer on the top floor of a dorm that was apparently built by the original Moravian settlers back in the year sixteen-whatever. My solution was to spend as much time as possible either in the Fine Arts Center (where there was A/C), outside, or with my head in my fridge. But at night, I had to be in that sauna. I had the top bunk, and I slept wearing as little as I could get away with without embarrassing my roommate, to whom I never spoke. Eventually, I put an oscillating fan at the foot of the bed, and then before I went to bed every night, I would wet a few of my socks with cold water, and then lay them on myself. I bet I sure looked stupid.
Maybe the problem is that I still think that I live in Boone. In Boone, no one has air conditioning, except maybe like the rich old people who summer there. It just doesn't get hot enough. People in Boone just throw open their windows or walk around in their skivvies or both. I was no diferent, and during my last summer there, I lived in the country. See, in Boone, I was just reluctant to turn on the heat. I remember one winter sitting at my computer trying to type with gloves on before the typos just got ridiculous, and I looked at myself and said, "I am not this poor."
And I am still not this poor. I am not poor enough to go to bed with wet socks all over me. I am not poor enough to wonder just how little clothing I can get away with before my neighbors start whipping out their binoculars. I'm even richer than when I was not poor enough to type with gloves on. I am rich enough to use the air conditioning that I am likely paying extra to have in my apartment. If only I were rich enough to just buy a house in the country.
5.15.2005
dreaming when i wrote this.
2:37 am.
I'd had a rough night of it. I couldn't remember if I'd been awake for three hours or if I'd just been having very realistic dreams of being awake. Either way, I was feeling unsatisfied by the past three hours of sleep that I might or might not have gotten. My cell phone was ringing. The screen says Josh is calling, but I know two boys named Josh, and the screen isn't big enough for the last name. To see the last name, I would have to open the phone, thereby answering it.
One boy named Josh would call me at 2:37 am. If I could be sure it was him, I would let it ring, if for no other reason than the fact that he left me a lovely and revealing voicemail message once, and I've been waiting for another ever since, except I keep answering my phone. He called me once before in the wee hours of the morning. I think he'd been drinking, though he claimed only a light buzz when I answered the phone that time.
Another boy named Josh has never called me in the dead of night before, and it doesn't strike me as his style. So if it were his last name that was sitting just out of the range of the exterior screen of my cell phone, that might mean he needed something. Maybe he needed bailing out of jail. Maybe he was depressed. Maybe he couldn't think of the band that sang that "Time of the Season" song.
Ah well, I wasn't sleeping well anyway. Might as well answer it. For the brief second that I saw the screen of the phone before I put it to my ear, I saw that it was Josh #1. Crap. Should've just let him leave a message. Too late now.
"Hey, sailor."
"Oh, hey. I didn't expect you to answer. I woke you up, didn't I?"
"No. Well, kinda."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just going to leave a message. I figured your phone would be off."
"Nope. What's up? Are you okay?"
"Yeah. How are you? How's your job?"
"Fine."
"Yeah, it's a job. Listen, what are you doing May 28? I think that's the right date. The last Saturday in May."
"That's Memorial Day." A beat while I realize I've told a falsehood. "Weekend."
"Oh, really? Huh. Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, well, my apartment building is having a music festival, and there's-"
I laugh.
"...well, okay, you can laugh if you want." He's a little hurt.
"It's funny. 'My apartment building is the last stop of Lollapalooza!'"
He laughs.
"Yeah, okay, that is funny. Well, there's like four bands playing in different people's apartments. We're calling it 'Waltamont,' you know after Altamont, and-"
I laugh.
"You know, that old festival that went bad?" He's confused now, though he knows me well enough to know that I laugh at nigh upon everything.
"No, yeah, I know. Can I be the first person to get killed at your festival?"
He laughs.
"Sure. I was just calling to leave you a message about that, but you answered, and...hey listen, I should call back when you're awake and it's not the middle of the night. This was dumb."
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay. Sorry. Bye."
"Bye."
I'd had a rough night of it. I couldn't remember if I'd been awake for three hours or if I'd just been having very realistic dreams of being awake. Either way, I was feeling unsatisfied by the past three hours of sleep that I might or might not have gotten. My cell phone was ringing. The screen says Josh is calling, but I know two boys named Josh, and the screen isn't big enough for the last name. To see the last name, I would have to open the phone, thereby answering it.
One boy named Josh would call me at 2:37 am. If I could be sure it was him, I would let it ring, if for no other reason than the fact that he left me a lovely and revealing voicemail message once, and I've been waiting for another ever since, except I keep answering my phone. He called me once before in the wee hours of the morning. I think he'd been drinking, though he claimed only a light buzz when I answered the phone that time.
Another boy named Josh has never called me in the dead of night before, and it doesn't strike me as his style. So if it were his last name that was sitting just out of the range of the exterior screen of my cell phone, that might mean he needed something. Maybe he needed bailing out of jail. Maybe he was depressed. Maybe he couldn't think of the band that sang that "Time of the Season" song.
Ah well, I wasn't sleeping well anyway. Might as well answer it. For the brief second that I saw the screen of the phone before I put it to my ear, I saw that it was Josh #1. Crap. Should've just let him leave a message. Too late now.
"Hey, sailor."
"Oh, hey. I didn't expect you to answer. I woke you up, didn't I?"
"No. Well, kinda."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just going to leave a message. I figured your phone would be off."
"Nope. What's up? Are you okay?"
"Yeah. How are you? How's your job?"
"Fine."
"Yeah, it's a job. Listen, what are you doing May 28? I think that's the right date. The last Saturday in May."
"That's Memorial Day." A beat while I realize I've told a falsehood. "Weekend."
"Oh, really? Huh. Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, well, my apartment building is having a music festival, and there's-"
I laugh.
"...well, okay, you can laugh if you want." He's a little hurt.
"It's funny. 'My apartment building is the last stop of Lollapalooza!'"
He laughs.
"Yeah, okay, that is funny. Well, there's like four bands playing in different people's apartments. We're calling it 'Waltamont,' you know after Altamont, and-"
I laugh.
"You know, that old festival that went bad?" He's confused now, though he knows me well enough to know that I laugh at nigh upon everything.
"No, yeah, I know. Can I be the first person to get killed at your festival?"
He laughs.
"Sure. I was just calling to leave you a message about that, but you answered, and...hey listen, I should call back when you're awake and it's not the middle of the night. This was dumb."
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay. Sorry. Bye."
"Bye."
5.11.2005
car things.
Car themed things today!
Thing 1: I got a car.
Not new, not even new to me. For though I've been driving this car around and calling it my car for four years now, it's officially mine. My parents signed a paper, I signed a paper, an unrelated witness signed the paper. I own a car. It is the most valuable thing I own. Depending on the depreciation of my computer, I would say that my washer/dryer set run a distant second. Then my autographed 8x10 glossy of Macaulay Culkin. Nah, just kidding. I wasn't kidding about having one of those, just about it being worth anything.
Thing 2: I broke the car.
Specifically the windshield. A few weeks ago, I noticed a crack in the windshield. I vaguely remember hearing something hitting the windshield, but at the time, I hadn't noticed damage. The crack was concerning, but I didn't worry about it. A couple of weeks after that, I noticed the crack was longer. That was cause for concern. I figured a cracked windshield wouldn't hurt anything, but an increasingly cracked windshield was troublesome. Long story short, the company my insurance company sent me to came out while I was at work, fixed my windshield, filed my insurance paperwork, gave me a lifetime guarantee, and told me to have a nice day. I proceeded to have a nice day, except for when I was driving home and something flew out of the road, hit my windshield, and left a scratch. But not a crack, so it's okay.
Thing 3: I fixed the car.
The car pulled to the right, and the steering wheel vibrated at around 65 mph. My solution for that was just to always go faster than that, but that still didn't solve the pulling. As convenient as it was to be able to get off on my exit without having to steer myself there, it's bad news for the tires. And as I am fully capable of screwing up my tires by hitting potholes at high speeds, running over nails, or hitting cats, I don't need help from my own car. So I had the tire place fix that up real nice, and they changed my oil, too. But NOT the power steering fluid, because I can get my daddy to do that. So I'm only mostly helpless. Afterwards, I was able to fix my hair while driving because I didn't need to keep a hand on the steering wheel all the time. Aren't you glad my car's all better?
I hate having car issues. I am rough on my car with my ignorance and apathy. I need my car to just do its job, to get me somewhere and play that funky music. So there's crap all in it and there are some places that are sticky from having stuff spilled on it. You may find a diabetic test strip and/or syringe, because my boyfriend doesn't care what my car looks like either. When the car is broken, it gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach all the time. I'm scared of the car being broken, and I'm scared to go get it fixed. I just want it to work. And I do love my little car, because she understands her job. She knows she's just supposed to get me there, and that it doesn't matter what she looks like or what kind of mess her interior is in. She gets to go fast and listen to loud music, and she can win races at the stoplight against much fancier cars, particularly when their drivers don't realize they are racing.
So I'm glad she's all better now, because I hate having to worry about my tires falling off or my windshield coming flying in my face. With the change in ownership, she can now expect exactly the same kind of treatment. She's my car now, and she's the most valuable thing I own. If only I could get Macaulay Culkin to sign the car, now that would be something special...
Thing 1: I got a car.
Not new, not even new to me. For though I've been driving this car around and calling it my car for four years now, it's officially mine. My parents signed a paper, I signed a paper, an unrelated witness signed the paper. I own a car. It is the most valuable thing I own. Depending on the depreciation of my computer, I would say that my washer/dryer set run a distant second. Then my autographed 8x10 glossy of Macaulay Culkin. Nah, just kidding. I wasn't kidding about having one of those, just about it being worth anything.
Thing 2: I broke the car.
Specifically the windshield. A few weeks ago, I noticed a crack in the windshield. I vaguely remember hearing something hitting the windshield, but at the time, I hadn't noticed damage. The crack was concerning, but I didn't worry about it. A couple of weeks after that, I noticed the crack was longer. That was cause for concern. I figured a cracked windshield wouldn't hurt anything, but an increasingly cracked windshield was troublesome. Long story short, the company my insurance company sent me to came out while I was at work, fixed my windshield, filed my insurance paperwork, gave me a lifetime guarantee, and told me to have a nice day. I proceeded to have a nice day, except for when I was driving home and something flew out of the road, hit my windshield, and left a scratch. But not a crack, so it's okay.
Thing 3: I fixed the car.
The car pulled to the right, and the steering wheel vibrated at around 65 mph. My solution for that was just to always go faster than that, but that still didn't solve the pulling. As convenient as it was to be able to get off on my exit without having to steer myself there, it's bad news for the tires. And as I am fully capable of screwing up my tires by hitting potholes at high speeds, running over nails, or hitting cats, I don't need help from my own car. So I had the tire place fix that up real nice, and they changed my oil, too. But NOT the power steering fluid, because I can get my daddy to do that. So I'm only mostly helpless. Afterwards, I was able to fix my hair while driving because I didn't need to keep a hand on the steering wheel all the time. Aren't you glad my car's all better?
I hate having car issues. I am rough on my car with my ignorance and apathy. I need my car to just do its job, to get me somewhere and play that funky music. So there's crap all in it and there are some places that are sticky from having stuff spilled on it. You may find a diabetic test strip and/or syringe, because my boyfriend doesn't care what my car looks like either. When the car is broken, it gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach all the time. I'm scared of the car being broken, and I'm scared to go get it fixed. I just want it to work. And I do love my little car, because she understands her job. She knows she's just supposed to get me there, and that it doesn't matter what she looks like or what kind of mess her interior is in. She gets to go fast and listen to loud music, and she can win races at the stoplight against much fancier cars, particularly when their drivers don't realize they are racing.
So I'm glad she's all better now, because I hate having to worry about my tires falling off or my windshield coming flying in my face. With the change in ownership, she can now expect exactly the same kind of treatment. She's my car now, and she's the most valuable thing I own. If only I could get Macaulay Culkin to sign the car, now that would be something special...
5.08.2005
back to pondering my mortality.
Terry Schiavo. The Pope. Big time for the media. Oh, and Mitch Hedberg died. I noticed.
Mitch Hedberg is (was?) a comedian, easily my favorite. He died this past month at the age of 37; rumors whisper heroin. Mainstream America knows him from regular stints on Letterman or from specials on Comedy Central. I was introduced to Mitch Hedberg by an hour-long comedy CD that found its way into my freshman roommate's stereo. The three of us would sit in the room, each of us at our computers doing something else while listening, often pausing to laugh. Sometimes we had to pause a long time, because it was just that funny. Before long, we could quote him verbatim, and we often imitated his slow, stoned drawl.
The thing I liked most about Hedberg was just how obvious and ridiculous his jokes were. No one thought of his jokes before because they were so obvious. So obvious, it was funny. Most of them left you going "What in the world?" but you laughed as you said it. Maybe they were the kind of jokes you would make up if you were stoned, and maybe potheads the world over have already come up with all of his jokes a million times, but they just didn't remember them later. Regardless, they weren't jokes you had to be stoned to enjoy.
So I've been bummed about it. Mitch Hedberg's death isn't going to cause political changes, like Schiavo's, and it won't affect people the way the Pope's has and will. It's not like he's even the first young talent in entertainment to OD. There's nothing controversial about his death. It's just...sad.
I took the liberty of finding some of Mitch's jokes* for you all, so that if you had never heard him, you could enjoy them too, and then be sad like me that he's gone.
I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.
I like swiss cheese. It's the only cheese you can draw with a pencil and identify. You can draw American cheese, but someone will think it's cheddar. Swiss cheese is the only cheese you can bite and miss. "Hey Mitch - does that sandwich have cheese on it?" "Every now and then!"
I can't wait 'til this set is over 'cuz I've got a roll of lifesavers in my pocket and pineapple is next!
Once I met this wino and he was eating some grapes and I said "dude, you have to wait".
I hate turkeys. If you stand in the meat section at the grocery store long enough, you start to get mad at turkeys. There's turkey ham, turkey bologna, turkey pastrami. Some one needs to tell the turkey: man, just be yourself.
I like refried beans. I wanna try fried beans, because maybe they're just as good and we're just wasting time.
I have a friend who is a juggler. When I go to his house I don't like to take food from him if it is in threes. "He has three apples left ... I guess I can't have one."
If you had a friend who was a tightrope walker, and you were walking down a sidewalk, and he fell, that would be completely unacceptable.
My friend said to me "Man, this weather is trippy." I said to him, "No man, perhaps it is not the weather that is trippy, it is the way we perceive it that is indeed trippy ..." then I thought, man, I should have just said, 'yeah.'
I like to play blackjack. I'm not addicted to gambling, I'm addicted to sitting in a semi-circle.
...and then at the end of the letter I like to write "P.S. - This is what part of the alphabet would look like if Q and R were eliminated."
I wanna hang a map of the world in my house. Then I'm gonna put pins into all the locations that I've travelled to. But first, I'm gonna have to travel to the top two corners of the map so that it will not fall down.
When I drive a rental car, I don't know what's going on with it, right? So a lot of time I drive, like, for 10 miles with the emergency parking brake on. That doesn't say a lot for me, but it says even less for the "emergency parking brake." It's more like an "emergency make-the-car-smell-funny lever."
I was at a club and they had blacklights everywhere. A blacklight is a light that makes everyone look cool... except me, 'cause I was under the impression that the mustard stain came out.
Whenever I walk, people try to hand me out flyers. And when someone tries to hand me out a flyer, it's kinda like they're saying, "Here - you throw this away."
When I was a kid, I used to lie awake in my twin bed wonderin' where my brother was...
I played golf, I'm not good at golf, I never got good at it. I never got a hole in one, but I did hit a guy. And that's way more satisfying. You're supposed to yell "fore." But I was too busy mumbling, "there ain't no way that's gonna hit him." ....
My belt holds my pants up, but the belt loops hold my belt up. So which one's the real hero?
You know when they have a fishing show on TV? They catch the fish and then let it go. They don't want to eat the fish; they just want to make it late for something.
I wanted to buy a candle holder, but the store didn't have one. So I got a cake.
I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here.
An escalator can never break. It can only become stairs. You would never see an escalator "Temporarily Out of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs... Sorry for the Convenience ... We apologize for the fact that you can still get up there."
I have a cheese-shredder at home, which is its positive name. They don't call it by its negative name, which is sponge-ruiner. Because I wanted to clean it, and now I have little bits of sponge that would melt easily over tortilla chips.
I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.
Sometimes I fall asleep at night with my clothes on. I'm going to have all my clothes made out of blankets.
This jacket is dry clean only. Which means .... it's dirty.
*Quotes obtained from WikiQuote.
Mitch Hedberg is (was?) a comedian, easily my favorite. He died this past month at the age of 37; rumors whisper heroin. Mainstream America knows him from regular stints on Letterman or from specials on Comedy Central. I was introduced to Mitch Hedberg by an hour-long comedy CD that found its way into my freshman roommate's stereo. The three of us would sit in the room, each of us at our computers doing something else while listening, often pausing to laugh. Sometimes we had to pause a long time, because it was just that funny. Before long, we could quote him verbatim, and we often imitated his slow, stoned drawl.
The thing I liked most about Hedberg was just how obvious and ridiculous his jokes were. No one thought of his jokes before because they were so obvious. So obvious, it was funny. Most of them left you going "What in the world?" but you laughed as you said it. Maybe they were the kind of jokes you would make up if you were stoned, and maybe potheads the world over have already come up with all of his jokes a million times, but they just didn't remember them later. Regardless, they weren't jokes you had to be stoned to enjoy.
So I've been bummed about it. Mitch Hedberg's death isn't going to cause political changes, like Schiavo's, and it won't affect people the way the Pope's has and will. It's not like he's even the first young talent in entertainment to OD. There's nothing controversial about his death. It's just...sad.
I took the liberty of finding some of Mitch's jokes* for you all, so that if you had never heard him, you could enjoy them too, and then be sad like me that he's gone.
| * | * | * |
I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.
I like swiss cheese. It's the only cheese you can draw with a pencil and identify. You can draw American cheese, but someone will think it's cheddar. Swiss cheese is the only cheese you can bite and miss. "Hey Mitch - does that sandwich have cheese on it?" "Every now and then!"
I can't wait 'til this set is over 'cuz I've got a roll of lifesavers in my pocket and pineapple is next!
Once I met this wino and he was eating some grapes and I said "dude, you have to wait".
I hate turkeys. If you stand in the meat section at the grocery store long enough, you start to get mad at turkeys. There's turkey ham, turkey bologna, turkey pastrami. Some one needs to tell the turkey: man, just be yourself.
I like refried beans. I wanna try fried beans, because maybe they're just as good and we're just wasting time.
I have a friend who is a juggler. When I go to his house I don't like to take food from him if it is in threes. "He has three apples left ... I guess I can't have one."
If you had a friend who was a tightrope walker, and you were walking down a sidewalk, and he fell, that would be completely unacceptable.
My friend said to me "Man, this weather is trippy." I said to him, "No man, perhaps it is not the weather that is trippy, it is the way we perceive it that is indeed trippy ..." then I thought, man, I should have just said, 'yeah.'
I like to play blackjack. I'm not addicted to gambling, I'm addicted to sitting in a semi-circle.
...and then at the end of the letter I like to write "P.S. - This is what part of the alphabet would look like if Q and R were eliminated."
I wanna hang a map of the world in my house. Then I'm gonna put pins into all the locations that I've travelled to. But first, I'm gonna have to travel to the top two corners of the map so that it will not fall down.
When I drive a rental car, I don't know what's going on with it, right? So a lot of time I drive, like, for 10 miles with the emergency parking brake on. That doesn't say a lot for me, but it says even less for the "emergency parking brake." It's more like an "emergency make-the-car-smell-funny lever."
I was at a club and they had blacklights everywhere. A blacklight is a light that makes everyone look cool... except me, 'cause I was under the impression that the mustard stain came out.
Whenever I walk, people try to hand me out flyers. And when someone tries to hand me out a flyer, it's kinda like they're saying, "Here - you throw this away."
When I was a kid, I used to lie awake in my twin bed wonderin' where my brother was...
I played golf, I'm not good at golf, I never got good at it. I never got a hole in one, but I did hit a guy. And that's way more satisfying. You're supposed to yell "fore." But I was too busy mumbling, "there ain't no way that's gonna hit him." ....
My belt holds my pants up, but the belt loops hold my belt up. So which one's the real hero?
You know when they have a fishing show on TV? They catch the fish and then let it go. They don't want to eat the fish; they just want to make it late for something.
I wanted to buy a candle holder, but the store didn't have one. So I got a cake.
I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here.
An escalator can never break. It can only become stairs. You would never see an escalator "Temporarily Out of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs... Sorry for the Convenience ... We apologize for the fact that you can still get up there."
I have a cheese-shredder at home, which is its positive name. They don't call it by its negative name, which is sponge-ruiner. Because I wanted to clean it, and now I have little bits of sponge that would melt easily over tortilla chips.
I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.
Sometimes I fall asleep at night with my clothes on. I'm going to have all my clothes made out of blankets.
This jacket is dry clean only. Which means .... it's dirty.
*Quotes obtained from WikiQuote.
5.05.2005
frisbeepiphany.
I'm playing frisbee with my nephew Adam, son of my brother Knocker. Adam is describing to me the way to throw a frisbee. The description involves a demonstration of proper frisbee-throwing technique and form and finally culminates in an even and completely mis-aimed throw. "Sorry about that," he says. "Sometimes I miss."
"It's okay," I say, because it is, "You just need more practice." Then I remember something from my childhood and wonder if Adam knows the answer to the question that I then put to him, "Hey, Adam! What does practice make?"
"Better." Of course he knows. He's Knocker's son, and I distinctly remember Knocker correcting me once when I was little, saying that practice did not make perfect, practice makes better. After querying Adam, Knocker laughed that I knew what practice makes, thinking that I had heard it from some other brother. I told him that he had told me when I was little. "Man, I've been saying that a long time."
"Practice makes perfect" is not technically correct. Without getting too far into the question of whether actual perfection is ever really attained, we can all agree that it isn't always attained, even with a lot of practice. I practiced basketball for five seasons, in two hour sessions five days a week. I never made it to perfect, and it would be very debatable to say that I even made it to adequate. But I got better.
I decided long ago that I agreed with "Practice makes better." And then this morning I started wondering why Knocker came up with it in the first place. Maybe he doesn't believe in humans attaining perfection. Maybe he heard it from someone else. Or maybe there was some tragic incident where he practiced, practiced, practiced and still didn't make it to Carnegie Hall. Then he was disillusioned, because someone had told him that practice makes perfect, and he had practiced, so therefore he should be perfect. But he wasn't. He was only better. Young Knocker concluded that the phrase was then wrong, or at least misleading. Q.E.D.
I feel like the practice-makes-better story is a Knocker-defining one. I could tell the story to someone who knows Knocker, and they would laugh, nod, and say, "Yeah, that sounds like him." Everyone in my family likes to be technically correct, and I suppose it wouldn't be too far off the mark to call us perfectionists, but I've always felt like Knocker beat us all out at it. Maybe he just practiced more.
But I find, and I suspect Knocker does, too, comfort in correctness. Not popular, not even necessarily right, but correct. It is logically sound and you cannot really argue against it, even when it borders on silliness. I might win on a technicality, but I win. I may be stumbling blindly through life just like everyone else, but at least I know the truth about practice and what it really makes.
But for all the comfort I get out of that, I am realizing that being correct isn't everything, and in most cases, it isn't anything. While I still appreciate correctness and I admire other people who appreciate it, by and large, it is missing the point. It is small picture, not big, and it is trees, not forest. See? I know that. I am making improvement. Though I have no hopes of ever achieving perfection, every day I get a little more practice at life.
And I'm getting better.
"It's okay," I say, because it is, "You just need more practice." Then I remember something from my childhood and wonder if Adam knows the answer to the question that I then put to him, "Hey, Adam! What does practice make?"
"Better." Of course he knows. He's Knocker's son, and I distinctly remember Knocker correcting me once when I was little, saying that practice did not make perfect, practice makes better. After querying Adam, Knocker laughed that I knew what practice makes, thinking that I had heard it from some other brother. I told him that he had told me when I was little. "Man, I've been saying that a long time."
"Practice makes perfect" is not technically correct. Without getting too far into the question of whether actual perfection is ever really attained, we can all agree that it isn't always attained, even with a lot of practice. I practiced basketball for five seasons, in two hour sessions five days a week. I never made it to perfect, and it would be very debatable to say that I even made it to adequate. But I got better.
I decided long ago that I agreed with "Practice makes better." And then this morning I started wondering why Knocker came up with it in the first place. Maybe he doesn't believe in humans attaining perfection. Maybe he heard it from someone else. Or maybe there was some tragic incident where he practiced, practiced, practiced and still didn't make it to Carnegie Hall. Then he was disillusioned, because someone had told him that practice makes perfect, and he had practiced, so therefore he should be perfect. But he wasn't. He was only better. Young Knocker concluded that the phrase was then wrong, or at least misleading. Q.E.D.
I feel like the practice-makes-better story is a Knocker-defining one. I could tell the story to someone who knows Knocker, and they would laugh, nod, and say, "Yeah, that sounds like him." Everyone in my family likes to be technically correct, and I suppose it wouldn't be too far off the mark to call us perfectionists, but I've always felt like Knocker beat us all out at it. Maybe he just practiced more.
But I find, and I suspect Knocker does, too, comfort in correctness. Not popular, not even necessarily right, but correct. It is logically sound and you cannot really argue against it, even when it borders on silliness. I might win on a technicality, but I win. I may be stumbling blindly through life just like everyone else, but at least I know the truth about practice and what it really makes.
But for all the comfort I get out of that, I am realizing that being correct isn't everything, and in most cases, it isn't anything. While I still appreciate correctness and I admire other people who appreciate it, by and large, it is missing the point. It is small picture, not big, and it is trees, not forest. See? I know that. I am making improvement. Though I have no hopes of ever achieving perfection, every day I get a little more practice at life.
And I'm getting better.
5.02.2005
cake-eaters.
The higher-ups at my company like cake, which is just fine with us lower-downs, because we like it, too. Someone, somewhere said "Let them eat cake," and so we're all having it, and we're eating it, too. Every month we have a lunch from a local eating establishment, and then we finish it off with some cake. The excuse for the party is to celebrate all the birthdays and work anniversaries for that month. Then we also have parties for five and ten-year anniversaries, where there is no lunch, but only cake. I'm not fooled by these reasons for celebrating. We are celebrating cake. Every month we are saying, "A long time ago somebody threw together flour, eggs, sugar, and milk, and boy, was it a good idea!"
The cake is usually marble, that is, vanilla with chocolate swirls. There is elaborate colored icing on top with "Happy Birthday" or "Congratulations" or "Hey, look! Cake!" written in more colored icing. Often there are icing flowers and candy sprinkles, and whoever ends up cutting the cake (usually whoever is having a birthday) will have to field requests for specific pieces. I don't like icing much, so I ask for a middle piece and hope there are candy sprinkles involved. Others will ask for side pieces, and only the boldest will ask for flowers. We all have college degrees, most of us have mortgages, but cake has a way of turning us all into five-year-olds. The only difference is the fact that age and experience has given us the ability to keep from bouncing on our toes while we say, "Can I have a piece with a flower? And, and, and some sprinkles? Please, can I? Pleeeeeease?" If a fountain of youth is ever found, chances are good that it's made of cake.
Josh, whose office is across the hall from mine, likes cake more than most. He works out every day and usually eats carrots or celery that he buys in bulk at Costco for lunch. But he makes up for it on cake days. He eats two slices at the party, and then later in the day, when everyone is full of cake, he'll sneak to the break room and come back to his office with a piece of cake about four times the size of a regular piece. He'll intend to take it home to eat later, but that mammoth-sized piece of cake won't last five minutes. Once we had cake with some blue icing that gave everyone Smurf teeth. Sure enough, at about 4 o'clock, Josh looked like he'd been chewing on a blue ink pen that had exploded in his mouth. I tell ya, there's not much in this life that will cheer you up like grown-ups with funny-colored mouths all hepped up on sugar. Except maybe cake.
The cake is usually marble, that is, vanilla with chocolate swirls. There is elaborate colored icing on top with "Happy Birthday" or "Congratulations" or "Hey, look! Cake!" written in more colored icing. Often there are icing flowers and candy sprinkles, and whoever ends up cutting the cake (usually whoever is having a birthday) will have to field requests for specific pieces. I don't like icing much, so I ask for a middle piece and hope there are candy sprinkles involved. Others will ask for side pieces, and only the boldest will ask for flowers. We all have college degrees, most of us have mortgages, but cake has a way of turning us all into five-year-olds. The only difference is the fact that age and experience has given us the ability to keep from bouncing on our toes while we say, "Can I have a piece with a flower? And, and, and some sprinkles? Please, can I? Pleeeeeease?" If a fountain of youth is ever found, chances are good that it's made of cake.
Josh, whose office is across the hall from mine, likes cake more than most. He works out every day and usually eats carrots or celery that he buys in bulk at Costco for lunch. But he makes up for it on cake days. He eats two slices at the party, and then later in the day, when everyone is full of cake, he'll sneak to the break room and come back to his office with a piece of cake about four times the size of a regular piece. He'll intend to take it home to eat later, but that mammoth-sized piece of cake won't last five minutes. Once we had cake with some blue icing that gave everyone Smurf teeth. Sure enough, at about 4 o'clock, Josh looked like he'd been chewing on a blue ink pen that had exploded in his mouth. I tell ya, there's not much in this life that will cheer you up like grown-ups with funny-colored mouths all hepped up on sugar. Except maybe cake.
4.28.2005
god's mailing list.
If you haven't figured out yet that I've picked a church, let me spell it out for you: I-V-E F-O-U-N...you get the idea. I guess I decided one Sunday morning when I overslept and hadn't planned on a specific church the night before, so I found myself back at Harmony Grove, the only church I'd really liked. And I was tired of looking. When I went back, the people recognized me, and they were glad I came back. So I kept going.
The real deciding factor for Harmony Grove was the mail. Churches always want you to sign the register with your name, address, phone number, etc. so they can send out the church hounds, I mean, postcards. We can probably all agree that churches want you to come back, though why it is they want you back may be open for discussion. I always wrote down my name and simply "Lewisville, NC" as my address. There are over 8000 people who could put "Lewisville, NC," so I didn't figure I was giving anything away. The truth is, being sent a postcard or getting a phone call from the pastor probably wasn't going to change my mind about a church.
Or so I thought.
Two days after my first visit to Harmony Grove, I received an inspirational postcard - generic pastoral-type picture with a Bible verse with a generic y'all-come-back-now-ya-hear message on the back. It was mailed to me at simply "Lewisville, NC." Written off to the side was my building and apartment number in a different ink - the mail carrier. How was it possible that the postcard made it to me? True, my last name isn't that common, but I just moved here. Does the church have an agent at the post office? Is the Lewisville branch of the United States Post Service just that good? "Through wind, rain, sleet, snow and incomplete addresses..."
I told my mother, a rural mail carrier, about it, and she was equally amazed. I've seen letters with the wrong house number on the right street get delivered, but a letter sans the street entirely? Even in a small town, it is not the post office's job to fill in the blanks of addresses. You know, I've been hearing that God works in mysterious ways for a long time now, but never have I seen Him use a stamp.
Now here I am, proved wrong by thinking that a church's outreach committee wasn't going to change my mind. And if I hadn't been so very Sandra about the whole thing and just put my address, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I would've chucked the postcard after a cursory glance, and I surely wouldn't have stuck it on my fridge.
So now I go to the church that sent me mail. You could say I took it as a sign. I'm not saying that God made sure I got the postcard because my life will be drastically changed by my regular attendance at Harmony Grove. Could be. I make no promises on knowing God's plans, though I am apparently somehow on His mailing list. More than likely, He's just having a good laugh about it. He knows I think I'm pretty smart, and yet here I am, totally thrown by a generic religious postcard. Mysterious ways, indeed.
The real deciding factor for Harmony Grove was the mail. Churches always want you to sign the register with your name, address, phone number, etc. so they can send out the church hounds, I mean, postcards. We can probably all agree that churches want you to come back, though why it is they want you back may be open for discussion. I always wrote down my name and simply "Lewisville, NC" as my address. There are over 8000 people who could put "Lewisville, NC," so I didn't figure I was giving anything away. The truth is, being sent a postcard or getting a phone call from the pastor probably wasn't going to change my mind about a church.
Or so I thought.
Two days after my first visit to Harmony Grove, I received an inspirational postcard - generic pastoral-type picture with a Bible verse with a generic y'all-come-back-now-ya-hear message on the back. It was mailed to me at simply "Lewisville, NC." Written off to the side was my building and apartment number in a different ink - the mail carrier. How was it possible that the postcard made it to me? True, my last name isn't that common, but I just moved here. Does the church have an agent at the post office? Is the Lewisville branch of the United States Post Service just that good? "Through wind, rain, sleet, snow and incomplete addresses..."
I told my mother, a rural mail carrier, about it, and she was equally amazed. I've seen letters with the wrong house number on the right street get delivered, but a letter sans the street entirely? Even in a small town, it is not the post office's job to fill in the blanks of addresses. You know, I've been hearing that God works in mysterious ways for a long time now, but never have I seen Him use a stamp.
Now here I am, proved wrong by thinking that a church's outreach committee wasn't going to change my mind. And if I hadn't been so very Sandra about the whole thing and just put my address, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I would've chucked the postcard after a cursory glance, and I surely wouldn't have stuck it on my fridge.
So now I go to the church that sent me mail. You could say I took it as a sign. I'm not saying that God made sure I got the postcard because my life will be drastically changed by my regular attendance at Harmony Grove. Could be. I make no promises on knowing God's plans, though I am apparently somehow on His mailing list. More than likely, He's just having a good laugh about it. He knows I think I'm pretty smart, and yet here I am, totally thrown by a generic religious postcard. Mysterious ways, indeed.
4.26.2005
that's a lot of batteries.
Thing 1: I told you so.
I went shopping with Rob again last week, and I specifically remember saying as we were getting out of his car, "C'mon, so we can go into popular, mainstream stores where we can listen to remixes of cool indie music and get pissed off about it." He shook his head at me, because he apparently thought that was a silly thing to be pissed off about. It's not. Stores where you pay mostly for the brand name are the antithesis of independent music, and people who solely shop at those places should not get to hear it. Also, he probably thought that mine was a ridiculous prediction to make. Of course, I wouldn't bother mentioning the statement had it not come true. We were in the Gap (or is it The Gap?) when I found that I knew the lyrics of a song I'd never heard before. Then I realized, to my absolute and sheer horror, that it was a mellow, techno remake of The Kinks' "All Day and All of the Night." Blasphemy. I remarked something about the audacity of it to Rob, who characteristically responded with something about the shirts he was looking at. He tunes me out so well. Ah, but then, we were in American Eagle, and the Postal Service was playing. I don't care much for the Postal Service (the band, not the mail service), but they are one of Rob's favorite bands. I went up to him and said, "Listen." He said, "Yeah, I know. And it's really pissing me off."
Thing 2: I am one step closer to grown-up-hood.
Because I joined Costco. I'd been toying with the idea, but wasn't sure if the savings would pay for the membership fee. Everyone I knew was in favor of it, mostly because they all wanted me to take them to Costco. Casey made the valid point of asking what percentage of my annual salary did a membership cost. Apparently, the boy knows the way my mind works. One of my coworkers practically lives there. He says he pays for his membership in milk savings alone, as he goes through 2 gallons of milk a week (at $2.15 a gallon at Costco). I figured I would probably join, especially after I found out that they have a Costco gas station. But then there was a booth in the mall that giving away $10 gift cards with new memberships. Okay, fine, sign me up. I went for the first time Sunday and bought 48 batteries. I bought other stuff, too, but I just think it's funny to say that I bought 48 batteries.
Thing 3: Six extra batteries.
Actually, I bought 54 batteries, but six of them were fancy-schmancy rechargeable ones for my pretty new camera, which arrived last Friday, despite Dell.com's estimated ship date of May 4. I cannot describe to you my love affair with this camera. I had it delivered to me at work, and directly after work, you could have found me lying down in the parking lot adjacent to my office building, taking pictures of dogwood blooms. I came up with flowers in my pants and a big smile (though the two were unrelated). I also spent an afternoon at Old Salem taking pictures after I found myself there for a rummage sale. My camera can do a lot of things that I do not yet understand, but I aim to conquer every button on there. I am very glad that I splurged and got the quality camera with the tilty LCD screen, as I find that I can twist it so as to avoid lying down all over the ground (though I sometimes like to do that just for fun).
I went shopping with Rob again last week, and I specifically remember saying as we were getting out of his car, "C'mon, so we can go into popular, mainstream stores where we can listen to remixes of cool indie music and get pissed off about it." He shook his head at me, because he apparently thought that was a silly thing to be pissed off about. It's not. Stores where you pay mostly for the brand name are the antithesis of independent music, and people who solely shop at those places should not get to hear it. Also, he probably thought that mine was a ridiculous prediction to make. Of course, I wouldn't bother mentioning the statement had it not come true. We were in the Gap (or is it The Gap?) when I found that I knew the lyrics of a song I'd never heard before. Then I realized, to my absolute and sheer horror, that it was a mellow, techno remake of The Kinks' "All Day and All of the Night." Blasphemy. I remarked something about the audacity of it to Rob, who characteristically responded with something about the shirts he was looking at. He tunes me out so well. Ah, but then, we were in American Eagle, and the Postal Service was playing. I don't care much for the Postal Service (the band, not the mail service), but they are one of Rob's favorite bands. I went up to him and said, "Listen." He said, "Yeah, I know. And it's really pissing me off."
Thing 2: I am one step closer to grown-up-hood.
Because I joined Costco. I'd been toying with the idea, but wasn't sure if the savings would pay for the membership fee. Everyone I knew was in favor of it, mostly because they all wanted me to take them to Costco. Casey made the valid point of asking what percentage of my annual salary did a membership cost. Apparently, the boy knows the way my mind works. One of my coworkers practically lives there. He says he pays for his membership in milk savings alone, as he goes through 2 gallons of milk a week (at $2.15 a gallon at Costco). I figured I would probably join, especially after I found out that they have a Costco gas station. But then there was a booth in the mall that giving away $10 gift cards with new memberships. Okay, fine, sign me up. I went for the first time Sunday and bought 48 batteries. I bought other stuff, too, but I just think it's funny to say that I bought 48 batteries.
Thing 3: Six extra batteries.
Actually, I bought 54 batteries, but six of them were fancy-schmancy rechargeable ones for my pretty new camera, which arrived last Friday, despite Dell.com's estimated ship date of May 4. I cannot describe to you my love affair with this camera. I had it delivered to me at work, and directly after work, you could have found me lying down in the parking lot adjacent to my office building, taking pictures of dogwood blooms. I came up with flowers in my pants and a big smile (though the two were unrelated). I also spent an afternoon at Old Salem taking pictures after I found myself there for a rummage sale. My camera can do a lot of things that I do not yet understand, but I aim to conquer every button on there. I am very glad that I splurged and got the quality camera with the tilty LCD screen, as I find that I can twist it so as to avoid lying down all over the ground (though I sometimes like to do that just for fun).
4.24.2005
FLUIDS.
So what does a girl like me do when she's suddenly thrust into this new life where she has weekends off from work and disposable income? She goes to yard sales. Regular readers (as well as some of the irregular ones) should know by now that I love yard sales. Call it low-class, call it backwards, call it distasteful, but my stuff is cooler than yours and it cost less, too.
The Winston-Salem Forsyth County Schools put on a yard sale last weekend, and they advertised it in the paper. I see the advertisement, and I am intrigued: "Desks, Chairs, other Furniture, Musical Instruments." The idea of a school system putting on a yard sale was probably enough to convince me to go, but if Casey had found out that I passed on going to a sale with instruments, he would consider that grounds for relationship termination. So I Googled the location, because I still don't know my way around this town, and I set out.
The sale was in a big warehouse on a sketchy side of town. I walked in, and it was like I was in some sort of store house of my grade school memories. Desks, tables, magazine racks, cubbies, everything I ever remember from school exactly the way I remember it, down to the old colored gum stuck to the bottoms. There were kid-sized desks, desks with the chairs attached, teacher-sided desks, principal-sized desks, all with accompanying chairs. There were file cabinets, classroom cabinets, and one green metal cabinet marked "FLUIDS" that had unfortunately already been sold before I got there (It would have made a fabulous liquor cabinet). There were wooden chairs, plastic chairs (a quarter apiece), blue metal cafeteria chairs, and I remembered sitting in them all at some point in my public school career. They had those old plastic couches that gave away their age by being orange or green, the kind that were in the teachers' lounge. I saw the office chairs that visitors sat in, the simple swivel jobs that the secretary used, and even the imposing high-backed dark blue kind of chair that the principal sat in. All the furniture was just lined up in sections, like little armies of school furniture.
There were pianos and kilns for $25 apiece. Sewing machines for ten bucks. Everything was in working order; the schools were just upgrading to new items. It's probably best that the kilns had all sold by the time of my arrival, because I would've wanted one, even given the arguments that I had no room for one, no idea how to use one, and no way of getting it to the home where there was no room for it in the first place. I did buy a sewing machine. Not that I know how to sew, but it was more practical than a kiln.
It was awesome. There are no words to describe how great this yard sale was, despite all the ones you just read. I've been to a lot of yard sales, but never one like this. And the best part? The school system is going to start having these sales every couple of months. There's still hope to get me a "FLUIDS" cabinet yet.
The Winston-Salem Forsyth County Schools put on a yard sale last weekend, and they advertised it in the paper. I see the advertisement, and I am intrigued: "Desks, Chairs, other Furniture, Musical Instruments." The idea of a school system putting on a yard sale was probably enough to convince me to go, but if Casey had found out that I passed on going to a sale with instruments, he would consider that grounds for relationship termination. So I Googled the location, because I still don't know my way around this town, and I set out.
The sale was in a big warehouse on a sketchy side of town. I walked in, and it was like I was in some sort of store house of my grade school memories. Desks, tables, magazine racks, cubbies, everything I ever remember from school exactly the way I remember it, down to the old colored gum stuck to the bottoms. There were kid-sized desks, desks with the chairs attached, teacher-sided desks, principal-sized desks, all with accompanying chairs. There were file cabinets, classroom cabinets, and one green metal cabinet marked "FLUIDS" that had unfortunately already been sold before I got there (It would have made a fabulous liquor cabinet). There were wooden chairs, plastic chairs (a quarter apiece), blue metal cafeteria chairs, and I remembered sitting in them all at some point in my public school career. They had those old plastic couches that gave away their age by being orange or green, the kind that were in the teachers' lounge. I saw the office chairs that visitors sat in, the simple swivel jobs that the secretary used, and even the imposing high-backed dark blue kind of chair that the principal sat in. All the furniture was just lined up in sections, like little armies of school furniture.
There were pianos and kilns for $25 apiece. Sewing machines for ten bucks. Everything was in working order; the schools were just upgrading to new items. It's probably best that the kilns had all sold by the time of my arrival, because I would've wanted one, even given the arguments that I had no room for one, no idea how to use one, and no way of getting it to the home where there was no room for it in the first place. I did buy a sewing machine. Not that I know how to sew, but it was more practical than a kiln.
It was awesome. There are no words to describe how great this yard sale was, despite all the ones you just read. I've been to a lot of yard sales, but never one like this. And the best part? The school system is going to start having these sales every couple of months. There's still hope to get me a "FLUIDS" cabinet yet.
4.22.2005
this morning's emergency.
I have a candy dish for my keys. I have to always put my keys in the candy dish sitting on the table in my living room or I will lose them. Yes, I am one of those people. The key/candy dish was Casey's idea, because he got tired of waiting for me to find my keys every time we went someplace. So he suggested the candy dish plan so that he would not have to be subjected to my frantic tearing around the house, and I would not have to be subjected to his loud sighing.
This morning, the keys were not in the candy dish. I checked a couple of other places that seemed likely. I thought hard about what I did when I came in yesterday. I unlocked the door. Then I unlocked the dead bolt, which was unusual, because I don't usually lock the deadbolt when I leave the house. It threw me off my routine, perhaps. Had I left the keys in the deadbolt?
That thought was concerning. I opened the door to check if there were keys dangling outside. There were not. That was even more concerning. What if I had left my keys hanging in the deadbolt overnight, and someone had taken the opportunity to take them? Oh, no, no, no, this was bad. I thought about the keys on the set in question: various keys to cars and apartments far away (no real worries there), my car key, my house key, my mailbox key.
I had a spare set; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that there might be someone out there who now had access to all those things and knew where to find them. I tried to calm down and not freak out. After all, it was more than possible that I had just mislaid the keys somewhere in the apartment. No need to start calling my landlord or the nearest Toyota dealership. So I decided to just take my spare set and go to work and not worry about it. And what could I do now anyway, when there was no real guarantee that the keys had been stolen? Just go to work.
Well, that was a stupid idea, how could I not worry about it? I got a mile down the road before I realized that if I was going to get broken into while I was at work, I would at least be prepared. The first thing I did when I got back was to go upstairs to my computer, the only real thing of value that I own. I use a browser that saves my passwords to any sites that I log into. I erased all my passwords, so that if any criminals happened to look at my computer before they sold it, they wouldn't log into any sites like oh, say, my bank account. I hid my stack of account documents and bills. I was planning on taking a roll of tape with me out the door, so that I could tape it across the door. That way, if I came home and the robber was still there, I would know to not go in. All in all, I consider that I handled the situation quite well.
I was already late for work, but before I left, I was going to write a note to my landlord saying that I may have lost my keys. I grabbed some paper and went to get the pen I'd left on the coffee table last night. I lifted a magazine to look for the pen, and suddenly I didn't need the pen anymore.
Always, always use the candy dish.
This morning, the keys were not in the candy dish. I checked a couple of other places that seemed likely. I thought hard about what I did when I came in yesterday. I unlocked the door. Then I unlocked the dead bolt, which was unusual, because I don't usually lock the deadbolt when I leave the house. It threw me off my routine, perhaps. Had I left the keys in the deadbolt?
That thought was concerning. I opened the door to check if there were keys dangling outside. There were not. That was even more concerning. What if I had left my keys hanging in the deadbolt overnight, and someone had taken the opportunity to take them? Oh, no, no, no, this was bad. I thought about the keys on the set in question: various keys to cars and apartments far away (no real worries there), my car key, my house key, my mailbox key.
I had a spare set; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that there might be someone out there who now had access to all those things and knew where to find them. I tried to calm down and not freak out. After all, it was more than possible that I had just mislaid the keys somewhere in the apartment. No need to start calling my landlord or the nearest Toyota dealership. So I decided to just take my spare set and go to work and not worry about it. And what could I do now anyway, when there was no real guarantee that the keys had been stolen? Just go to work.
Well, that was a stupid idea, how could I not worry about it? I got a mile down the road before I realized that if I was going to get broken into while I was at work, I would at least be prepared. The first thing I did when I got back was to go upstairs to my computer, the only real thing of value that I own. I use a browser that saves my passwords to any sites that I log into. I erased all my passwords, so that if any criminals happened to look at my computer before they sold it, they wouldn't log into any sites like oh, say, my bank account. I hid my stack of account documents and bills. I was planning on taking a roll of tape with me out the door, so that I could tape it across the door. That way, if I came home and the robber was still there, I would know to not go in. All in all, I consider that I handled the situation quite well.
I was already late for work, but before I left, I was going to write a note to my landlord saying that I may have lost my keys. I grabbed some paper and went to get the pen I'd left on the coffee table last night. I lifted a magazine to look for the pen, and suddenly I didn't need the pen anymore.
Always, always use the candy dish.
4.21.2005
i'll rate this one a seven, too.
Wednesday, 5:41pm. A Lewisville, NC apartment.
I'm relaxing after work, just doing a little light cleaning and listening to a mix of Soul Coughing's slower tracks. "Lazybones" is playing when the phone rings. I pause the music - it's pretty loud - and answer the phone. It's early evening, and I'm thinking it's a social call.
"Hi, yes, I'm calling on behalf of Pizza Hut, and I just want to verify that someone in this household participated in a phone survey within the last week. Are you the person who participated in the survey?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Okay, well, I just have to questions for you. On a scale of one to seven, one being disastisfied and seven being satisfied, how would you rate the survey you took?"
"Seven."
"And what would be your reasoning behind your answer?"
"Um. Because it was fine."
"Thank you very much for your time."
Ridiculous.
I'm relaxing after work, just doing a little light cleaning and listening to a mix of Soul Coughing's slower tracks. "Lazybones" is playing when the phone rings. I pause the music - it's pretty loud - and answer the phone. It's early evening, and I'm thinking it's a social call.
"Hi, yes, I'm calling on behalf of Pizza Hut, and I just want to verify that someone in this household participated in a phone survey within the last week. Are you the person who participated in the survey?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Okay, well, I just have to questions for you. On a scale of one to seven, one being disastisfied and seven being satisfied, how would you rate the survey you took?"
"Seven."
"And what would be your reasoning behind your answer?"
"Um. Because it was fine."
"Thank you very much for your time."
Ridiculous.
4.20.2005
three links.
For Three Things today, we have links!
Thing 1: This just in...
Wonderful, wonderful news. I know it's just a first step and there is a lot more research and work to be done before this is a widely-available treatment option. However, the way I figure it is I have about ten or fifteen years before I start having children old enough to get diabetes and need the treatment anyway. (While I realize that our children may very well not inherit Casey's diabetes, I should go ahead and start preparing for our kids to get my nose and his health problems.) That's ten to fifteen years for this treatment to advance, and ten to fifteen years for me to take good care of my pancreas so that I can lovingly donate cells to my children just as I lovingly donated the shape of my nose.
Thing 2: Pretty, pretty.
Look what I bought! I've never had a digital camera before, but I feel like I would take pictures if I had one. When you travel around the rural South, you are likely to run into some very photo-worthy objects at any moment. So I decided I wanted a camera, set a $200 budget, and started looking around. I found this camera, I blew my budget, and I bought it. All online reviews were glowing. I had asked around, heard a couple of pretty good reviews, but the clincher was the graphic designer at work who answered "What kind of digital camera would you recommend?" with simply "Canon." I'm not too upset about the extra money I spent, as I feel I'm getting my money's worth. Be sure to notice the saucy way the LCD monitor can be moved around. The biggest reason that I bought this camera, though, is the fact that most reviews mentioned the fact that it is a camera that "grows with you." So while it's simple enough for me to take pictures right now when I don't know anything, it has features that will allow me to play and experiment as I learn more. And that's just lovely.
Thing 3: Saving money is sexy.
A coworker told me about this site. I used it to get a great deal on the aforementioned, also sexy camera (MSRP is $400, I paid $260, tax and shipping included). I'm also using it to find accessories to make my camera even sexier, if such a thing is possible. The best place to find deals is to search the forums for whatever you want. There are posts listing amazing combinations of good deals that combine to make a Great Deal. Sales! Special, little-advertised promotions! Rebates! Coupon codes! My coworker was telling me about all the deals, and I swear, it was like dirty talk to me.
Thing 1: This just in...
Wonderful, wonderful news. I know it's just a first step and there is a lot more research and work to be done before this is a widely-available treatment option. However, the way I figure it is I have about ten or fifteen years before I start having children old enough to get diabetes and need the treatment anyway. (While I realize that our children may very well not inherit Casey's diabetes, I should go ahead and start preparing for our kids to get my nose and his health problems.) That's ten to fifteen years for this treatment to advance, and ten to fifteen years for me to take good care of my pancreas so that I can lovingly donate cells to my children just as I lovingly donated the shape of my nose.
Thing 2: Pretty, pretty.
Look what I bought! I've never had a digital camera before, but I feel like I would take pictures if I had one. When you travel around the rural South, you are likely to run into some very photo-worthy objects at any moment. So I decided I wanted a camera, set a $200 budget, and started looking around. I found this camera, I blew my budget, and I bought it. All online reviews were glowing. I had asked around, heard a couple of pretty good reviews, but the clincher was the graphic designer at work who answered "What kind of digital camera would you recommend?" with simply "Canon." I'm not too upset about the extra money I spent, as I feel I'm getting my money's worth. Be sure to notice the saucy way the LCD monitor can be moved around. The biggest reason that I bought this camera, though, is the fact that most reviews mentioned the fact that it is a camera that "grows with you." So while it's simple enough for me to take pictures right now when I don't know anything, it has features that will allow me to play and experiment as I learn more. And that's just lovely.
Thing 3: Saving money is sexy.
A coworker told me about this site. I used it to get a great deal on the aforementioned, also sexy camera (MSRP is $400, I paid $260, tax and shipping included). I'm also using it to find accessories to make my camera even sexier, if such a thing is possible. The best place to find deals is to search the forums for whatever you want. There are posts listing amazing combinations of good deals that combine to make a Great Deal. Sales! Special, little-advertised promotions! Rebates! Coupon codes! My coworker was telling me about all the deals, and I swear, it was like dirty talk to me.
4.19.2005
not the same, but easily recognizable.
As Casey and I were leaving dinner at La Carreta, we saw two of them. As we were driving downtown to The Garage, we saw half a dozen. As we were entering Krispy Kreme, we saw another half a dozen. As we were wandering around Wal-Mart, we ran into a couple more.
Stupid high school kids in prom clothes.
Was it just me, or did we happen to run into the most annoying ones? Maybe it's just the fact that the minute I left high school, all high school kids became inherently annoying. Was I that obnoxious? Did I look that ridiculous tottering in my high heels and chewing gum? I watched and listened to these kids and I knew exactly what kind of kids they were. I could put a name on them that corresponded to another kid that I went to high school with. Different high school, different city, different time, but same exact kid. In my day, that guy was named Mitchell, and that girl was named Ashley. That dude over there was Brandon, and his date was a different girl named Ashley. I didn't like them in high school, either. Ridiculous people who think that tuxedos and sequined dresses make them adults. Sorry, kid, but your mom's borrowed Visa gave you away. And when one couple had a Krispy Kreme employee take their picture standing in front of the "Hot Doughnuts Now" sign holding up their respective half-dozen boxes, I'm surprised my eyes didn't roll right out of my head. The Krispy Kreme workers seemed to be having similar difficulties trying not to laugh out loud.
Ah, but who am I kidding? I am only four years removed from those girls in shiny dresses and matching eye shadow. Am I wrong to think that they were four important years? I have a degree now, and major kitchen appliances, and a credit rating, and a job that doesn't include an apron in the dress code. I worried then about my GPA, what I wanted to major in, and the size of my hips. Now I worry about my 401k, whether I majored in the right thing, and the size of my hips. Maybe if I'd run into the right group of kids, I would've looked at a girl and thought she would've been named Sandra at my high school. The scarier idea is if she'd be able to look at me and tell that she is me, just four years later.
I can't deny my high school self, nor would I necessarily want to. She did about the best she could given her resources. She wasn't so bad, for a kid in high school, and she remains part of me. I'm not the same, but I'm easily recognizable.
But the funniest part was watching those kids with their dates and then looking across the table at my once-upon-a-time prom date; he had doughnut glaze on his chin. Some things never change.
Stupid high school kids in prom clothes.
Was it just me, or did we happen to run into the most annoying ones? Maybe it's just the fact that the minute I left high school, all high school kids became inherently annoying. Was I that obnoxious? Did I look that ridiculous tottering in my high heels and chewing gum? I watched and listened to these kids and I knew exactly what kind of kids they were. I could put a name on them that corresponded to another kid that I went to high school with. Different high school, different city, different time, but same exact kid. In my day, that guy was named Mitchell, and that girl was named Ashley. That dude over there was Brandon, and his date was a different girl named Ashley. I didn't like them in high school, either. Ridiculous people who think that tuxedos and sequined dresses make them adults. Sorry, kid, but your mom's borrowed Visa gave you away. And when one couple had a Krispy Kreme employee take their picture standing in front of the "Hot Doughnuts Now" sign holding up their respective half-dozen boxes, I'm surprised my eyes didn't roll right out of my head. The Krispy Kreme workers seemed to be having similar difficulties trying not to laugh out loud.
Ah, but who am I kidding? I am only four years removed from those girls in shiny dresses and matching eye shadow. Am I wrong to think that they were four important years? I have a degree now, and major kitchen appliances, and a credit rating, and a job that doesn't include an apron in the dress code. I worried then about my GPA, what I wanted to major in, and the size of my hips. Now I worry about my 401k, whether I majored in the right thing, and the size of my hips. Maybe if I'd run into the right group of kids, I would've looked at a girl and thought she would've been named Sandra at my high school. The scarier idea is if she'd be able to look at me and tell that she is me, just four years later.
I can't deny my high school self, nor would I necessarily want to. She did about the best she could given her resources. She wasn't so bad, for a kid in high school, and she remains part of me. I'm not the same, but I'm easily recognizable.
But the funniest part was watching those kids with their dates and then looking across the table at my once-upon-a-time prom date; he had doughnut glaze on his chin. Some things never change.
4.18.2005
take it or leave it? okay.
Sunrise United Methodist Church
Another of the four UMCs in Lewisville, this one is a little unconventional. The church has two services, both contemporary. Their sanctuary is a great big room with lots of chairs lined up in rows in the middle, a stage up front, and small round cafeteria tables around the outer perimeter. Snacks and coffee are provided in the lobby, and you are encouraged to take your food into the service. This is a good idea. I like to worship God whilst I enjoy some of his fresh-brewed creation.
But I really didn't know what to make of this church. It was just so casual. I was probably overdressed, in a skirt, short-sleeved top, and sandals. Most people were in jeans, and some were in (gasp!) shorts. I'm not sure how I feel about casual dress at church. I guess I feel like it doesn't matter what you wear, but I personally feel a little weird about wearing casual stuff to Sunday services. And while I know that is completely my own issue stemming from growing up in traditional churches, knowing that doesn't make it any easier to pull on my Levi's on Sunday morning. I suppose I could get used to it.
Being dressed-down didn't keep the people from being super-ultra-mega-friendly. The church is big enough that the regulars might not be able to spot a visitor immediately, but these people seemed to feel that the fact that I was there was reason enough to come up and introduce themselves. Even if they couldn't tell I was new, they could tell I was new to them. Plus, they were regular, down-to-earth people. One of them even told me up-front that this was the kind of church that you either liked or didn't like. Even if it turned out that I was the kind that didn't like the church, I liked the "Hey, this is what we do - take it or leave it" kind of attitude. They're glad to see me if I come, but they'll understand if I don't.
Being a contemporary church, they had contemporary music. I'm not a fan. However, they did have a full band (acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bass, drumset, and a set of bongos that did not get played), rather than using some awful recording of karaoke versions of popular Christian music. We read the words off TV screens at the front of the room. The distressing thing about not using hymnals is that you don't know what to do with your hands. I think I ended up holding my hands together in front of me, feeling very awkward and checking out what other people were doing with their hands.
I dug the sermon a lot; it wasn't very good. The minister gave some anecdotes that didn't really fit, had poor flow in his ideas, and I think he defined a couple of concepts incorrectly. But the sermon was about sloth, and I'd never heard a sermon on sloth before, and it made me think about things I'd never really thought about, and so I liked it. I write, so I'm probably just overcritical of bad sermon-writing, but I do give points for originality.
I am frankly not sure if I will ever darken the door of Sunrise UMC ever again. Part of me thinks that I could easily get used to the contemporary and casual aspects that I'm not all that comfortable with, and another part of me thinks that I shouldn't have to get used to it. Either way, I don't feel guilty. They told me I could take it or leave it, and so leave it I will.
Another of the four UMCs in Lewisville, this one is a little unconventional. The church has two services, both contemporary. Their sanctuary is a great big room with lots of chairs lined up in rows in the middle, a stage up front, and small round cafeteria tables around the outer perimeter. Snacks and coffee are provided in the lobby, and you are encouraged to take your food into the service. This is a good idea. I like to worship God whilst I enjoy some of his fresh-brewed creation.
But I really didn't know what to make of this church. It was just so casual. I was probably overdressed, in a skirt, short-sleeved top, and sandals. Most people were in jeans, and some were in (gasp!) shorts. I'm not sure how I feel about casual dress at church. I guess I feel like it doesn't matter what you wear, but I personally feel a little weird about wearing casual stuff to Sunday services. And while I know that is completely my own issue stemming from growing up in traditional churches, knowing that doesn't make it any easier to pull on my Levi's on Sunday morning. I suppose I could get used to it.
Being dressed-down didn't keep the people from being super-ultra-mega-friendly. The church is big enough that the regulars might not be able to spot a visitor immediately, but these people seemed to feel that the fact that I was there was reason enough to come up and introduce themselves. Even if they couldn't tell I was new, they could tell I was new to them. Plus, they were regular, down-to-earth people. One of them even told me up-front that this was the kind of church that you either liked or didn't like. Even if it turned out that I was the kind that didn't like the church, I liked the "Hey, this is what we do - take it or leave it" kind of attitude. They're glad to see me if I come, but they'll understand if I don't.
Being a contemporary church, they had contemporary music. I'm not a fan. However, they did have a full band (acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bass, drumset, and a set of bongos that did not get played), rather than using some awful recording of karaoke versions of popular Christian music. We read the words off TV screens at the front of the room. The distressing thing about not using hymnals is that you don't know what to do with your hands. I think I ended up holding my hands together in front of me, feeling very awkward and checking out what other people were doing with their hands.
I dug the sermon a lot; it wasn't very good. The minister gave some anecdotes that didn't really fit, had poor flow in his ideas, and I think he defined a couple of concepts incorrectly. But the sermon was about sloth, and I'd never heard a sermon on sloth before, and it made me think about things I'd never really thought about, and so I liked it. I write, so I'm probably just overcritical of bad sermon-writing, but I do give points for originality.
I am frankly not sure if I will ever darken the door of Sunrise UMC ever again. Part of me thinks that I could easily get used to the contemporary and casual aspects that I'm not all that comfortable with, and another part of me thinks that I shouldn't have to get used to it. Either way, I don't feel guilty. They told me I could take it or leave it, and so leave it I will.
4.17.2005
lord, hear our prayers.
Harmony Grove United Methodist Church
I like this church. It's small, with about 70 people attending regularly. We sang one song I did know and one I didn't, and the choir was actually very good. No handbells. The preacher (who had such a lovely southern gentleman accent, I could listen to it all day) gave a slightly unconventional sermon about death that had a couple of historical references (I like informed preachers) and started out with a joke about a little girl asking about the birds and the bees, which I thought was daring.
The church definitely had that family feel that is so important to me. The people knew each other there. People would quip into the announcements to make a joke, and everybody laughed. They were nice to each other, they were nice to me. A woman came up to me and started telling me about the young adult Sunday School class. I was stopped by an older couple on my way out who introduced themselves. Yet another older woman stopped to talk to me and tell me how much she wanted me to come back. Rather than a chain of introductions like at the Moravian church, every individual here made it their business to meet me. I didn't have to be introduced as a visitor, because I obviously was to everyone.
This church had a prayer tradition that I've never experienced before, although I think it might be fairly common, perhaps in other denominations. In most Methodist services, there's a great big long prayer in the middle of the service, after the announcements, but before the offering. Beforehand, the preacher usually asks for prayer requests or celebrations. In this church, we all bowed our heads, and people would call out their requests one at a time, just saying the name of someone who was sick or something like "our troops overseas." Then after each one, the congregation would say in unison "Lord, hear our prayers." Admittedly, it took me a couple requests to catch on to what was going on, but once I did, I really liked it. There was a sense of togetherness in it, like your prayer is his prayer is my prayer, and we're all in this together.
Again, I like this church a lot. If there were not another Methodist church down the road that I was curious about, I would have said to myself that this was it as I walked out the door. This was the kind of church that everyone had been going to since they were born, and though they had a system and a rhythm already going strong before I came in, they were more than willing to let me, or anyone else, catch up.
I like this church. It's small, with about 70 people attending regularly. We sang one song I did know and one I didn't, and the choir was actually very good. No handbells. The preacher (who had such a lovely southern gentleman accent, I could listen to it all day) gave a slightly unconventional sermon about death that had a couple of historical references (I like informed preachers) and started out with a joke about a little girl asking about the birds and the bees, which I thought was daring.
The church definitely had that family feel that is so important to me. The people knew each other there. People would quip into the announcements to make a joke, and everybody laughed. They were nice to each other, they were nice to me. A woman came up to me and started telling me about the young adult Sunday School class. I was stopped by an older couple on my way out who introduced themselves. Yet another older woman stopped to talk to me and tell me how much she wanted me to come back. Rather than a chain of introductions like at the Moravian church, every individual here made it their business to meet me. I didn't have to be introduced as a visitor, because I obviously was to everyone.
This church had a prayer tradition that I've never experienced before, although I think it might be fairly common, perhaps in other denominations. In most Methodist services, there's a great big long prayer in the middle of the service, after the announcements, but before the offering. Beforehand, the preacher usually asks for prayer requests or celebrations. In this church, we all bowed our heads, and people would call out their requests one at a time, just saying the name of someone who was sick or something like "our troops overseas." Then after each one, the congregation would say in unison "Lord, hear our prayers." Admittedly, it took me a couple requests to catch on to what was going on, but once I did, I really liked it. There was a sense of togetherness in it, like your prayer is his prayer is my prayer, and we're all in this together.
Again, I like this church a lot. If there were not another Methodist church down the road that I was curious about, I would have said to myself that this was it as I walked out the door. This was the kind of church that everyone had been going to since they were born, and though they had a system and a rhythm already going strong before I came in, they were more than willing to let me, or anyone else, catch up.
4.12.2005
something to read.
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:48 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: something to read
I have a strange theory that Krispy Kreme engineers their coffee to have a strong coffee scent. The 1/2 oz. I have left in this morning's cup can still be smelled from a couple of feet away. That just doesn't happen with the office coffee (or anything I make at home).
How's your afternoon shaping up? Anything good going on? I got some stuff to look over, at least. Baby steps.
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:54 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
eh. certification stuff. sleepy sandra. i'd like to take a nap. i think it's all this energy i'm devoting to not biting on the nails that broke.
i dreamt last night that i was getting a novel published. i was pretty bummed when i woke up and realized it wasn't true.
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:57 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
When was the last time you wrote something? Maybe you could write an exciting story about an investigation into coffee that somehow unnaturally maintains its coffee smell.
You should totally bite the nails. Life is short.
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:02 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
dear, that's what coffee does.
life is too short to not be able to open stuff because you bit your nails off. also, it's too short to be miserable because your fingers hurt. my finger is bleeding.
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:04 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
ouch, really? sorry about that.
I found your coffee story too brief. Elaborate a little, get the reader involved. Maybe add a character or two. Some dialog. Whatnot.
What movie did you mention on the way to lunch?
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:10 PM
To: Rob
Subject: mulholland drive
"i'm bored," said rob, raking his right hand across his hairline to sweep his hair to the left. sometimes he worried that the gesture was causing his hairline to recede. sometimes he worried that not sweeping his hair to the left would make his hairline recede. sometimes he thought about sweeping his hair to the right, but found the motion too difficult with his non-dominant hand.
"write a story about an unnatural event that is completely and totally natural. i will read it and judge you and thereby be amused for a few minutes," he demanded, thinking that an unnatural event that was completely and totally natural would distract him from the all too natural event of hairline migration.
"no," replied sandra. she had lots of hair.
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:48 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: something to read
I have a strange theory that Krispy Kreme engineers their coffee to have a strong coffee scent. The 1/2 oz. I have left in this morning's cup can still be smelled from a couple of feet away. That just doesn't happen with the office coffee (or anything I make at home).
How's your afternoon shaping up? Anything good going on? I got some stuff to look over, at least. Baby steps.
* * *
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:54 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
eh. certification stuff. sleepy sandra. i'd like to take a nap. i think it's all this energy i'm devoting to not biting on the nails that broke.
i dreamt last night that i was getting a novel published. i was pretty bummed when i woke up and realized it wasn't true.
* * *
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:57 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
When was the last time you wrote something? Maybe you could write an exciting story about an investigation into coffee that somehow unnaturally maintains its coffee smell.
You should totally bite the nails. Life is short.
* * *
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:02 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
dear, that's what coffee does.
life is too short to not be able to open stuff because you bit your nails off. also, it's too short to be miserable because your fingers hurt. my finger is bleeding.
* * *
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:04 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
ouch, really? sorry about that.
I found your coffee story too brief. Elaborate a little, get the reader involved. Maybe add a character or two. Some dialog. Whatnot.
What movie did you mention on the way to lunch?
* * *
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:10 PM
To: Rob
Subject: mulholland drive
"i'm bored," said rob, raking his right hand across his hairline to sweep his hair to the left. sometimes he worried that the gesture was causing his hairline to recede. sometimes he worried that not sweeping his hair to the left would make his hairline recede. sometimes he thought about sweeping his hair to the right, but found the motion too difficult with his non-dominant hand.
"write a story about an unnatural event that is completely and totally natural. i will read it and judge you and thereby be amused for a few minutes," he demanded, thinking that an unnatural event that was completely and totally natural would distract him from the all too natural event of hairline migration.
"no," replied sandra. she had lots of hair.
4.11.2005
that stupid girl who never wrote me back.
Thing 1: Seth got a job!
My friend, Seth from the illustrious computer science program at Appalachian State University, is graduating this May, and has landed a job. Normally, I would not share this news for you, for though I would be excited for him anyway, my selfless excitement would not be enough for a Thing. No, I'm having some selfish excitement, too. When I found out I was moving here, I pretty much tried to talk all of my friends into moving here, too. Apparently, Seth listened. He got a job in Winston, so now I will have a(nother) friend. Better yet, I will likely be the only person he knows here, so he will have to put up with me if he wants any friends.
Thing 2: I googled for about four hours today.
Surfing the net at work is fun. Surfing for work-related stuff at work is not so much fun. I was doing the latter. I was trying to figure out how to do something with a piece of software I've never used before. After four hours, I asked someone for help. He gave up half an hour later with the advice that if we couldn't find some way to do it on the web, it couldn't be done. I like this advice, and I took it as permission to give up and have a cup of tea. I only wished I could've had a Long Island Iced Tea, but as that sort of thing is very discouraged at work, I settled for some Earl Grey.
Thing 3: I mailed a card to Yuliya.
Yuliya is a girl I used to work with at Vintner's. She's originally from Belarus, but now she's settled down in the eastern part of NC with her husband. I hadn't spoken to her since she moved, but we always got along very well. Of all the people I worked with at Vintner's, she's one of the ones I miss the most. Anyway, I happened to look her up on the internet and found her mailing address. I'm bad to let friendships fizzle, and I've decided recently that I've known too many wonderful people to lose them out of neglect. She may or may not ever respond, and that's fine really. I feel better knowing that I gave it a shot. That way, she won't become "that sweet girl that I lost touch with," but "that stupid girl who never wrote me back."
My friend, Seth from the illustrious computer science program at Appalachian State University, is graduating this May, and has landed a job. Normally, I would not share this news for you, for though I would be excited for him anyway, my selfless excitement would not be enough for a Thing. No, I'm having some selfish excitement, too. When I found out I was moving here, I pretty much tried to talk all of my friends into moving here, too. Apparently, Seth listened. He got a job in Winston, so now I will have a(nother) friend. Better yet, I will likely be the only person he knows here, so he will have to put up with me if he wants any friends.
Thing 2: I googled for about four hours today.
Surfing the net at work is fun. Surfing for work-related stuff at work is not so much fun. I was doing the latter. I was trying to figure out how to do something with a piece of software I've never used before. After four hours, I asked someone for help. He gave up half an hour later with the advice that if we couldn't find some way to do it on the web, it couldn't be done. I like this advice, and I took it as permission to give up and have a cup of tea. I only wished I could've had a Long Island Iced Tea, but as that sort of thing is very discouraged at work, I settled for some Earl Grey.
Thing 3: I mailed a card to Yuliya.
Yuliya is a girl I used to work with at Vintner's. She's originally from Belarus, but now she's settled down in the eastern part of NC with her husband. I hadn't spoken to her since she moved, but we always got along very well. Of all the people I worked with at Vintner's, she's one of the ones I miss the most. Anyway, I happened to look her up on the internet and found her mailing address. I'm bad to let friendships fizzle, and I've decided recently that I've known too many wonderful people to lose them out of neglect. She may or may not ever respond, and that's fine really. I feel better knowing that I gave it a shot. That way, she won't become "that sweet girl that I lost touch with," but "that stupid girl who never wrote me back."
4.09.2005
free opinions!
I don't have any sneakers. No, that's not right, I have lots of sneakers. I have red ones with blue stripes and blue ones with white stripes and black ones with bleach spots. What I mean is that while I have several pairs of sneakers, I don't really have anything I can go running in or play basketball in or any other kind of sporting thing that I don't do regularly but might if I had some shoes in which to do them.
I don't have any athletic shoes. Well, that's not true either. I have a pair of Adidas, white with some purplish-blueish design on them that I got when I was in high school and I played volleyball. But they're kinda old, and maybe my tastes have changed a bit. What I mean is that I don't really have any athletic shoes that I like to wear.
I wanted some new athletic shoes. That is true.
Last night, Rob and I went athletic shoe shopping. Last night was not to be confused with last week, which was when Rob and I went dress shoe shopping. Rob likes to take girls shopping because girls can tell him what looks good and what does not. He has a gay man friend who supposedly has great taste, but since Rob's target audience is girls and not gay men, he brings a girl. He often even promises to buy the girl something in exchange for her opinions.
I told Rob it would be silly for him to buy me something in exchange for my opinion, when I am so happy to give it freely and usually without being asked. Plus, I like to shop, and I have no other friends in Winston-Salem. Maybe I should've been buying him something. But no. I also went because I was toying with the idea of buying some shoes myself for reasons covered earlier.
We started at Sears', and really, we should've just stayed there. Every shoe store we perused had essentially the same stock at essentially the same price. We both agreed that there were lots of pairs of shoes that were fine, but nothing that made either one of us say, "Wow, my feet would look sexy in those." There was a pair of lovely suede green New Balances that Rob liked, and of course I enthusiastically approve of all suede shoes; alas, they were women's. I tried hard to convince him that no one would ever be able to tell, but he was convinced the day would come when he would hit on a girl and look down to realize she had the same shoes. There was another pair of some funny-shaped track shoes that Rob liked, but when he tried them on, I looked at him sadly and said, "Sweetie, I just don't think you can pull those off. Frankly, I don't know anyone who can. I'm sorry." He sighed, and said, "It's okay. That's why you're here."
Finally, it was back to Sears'. He tried on a pair of men's Nikes, and I tried on a pair of men's Nikes. Then we switched; Rob and I wear the same shoe size. I decided to buy my pair after much walking with one of them on and checking myself out in the feet mirror with my pants rolled up to see if they had a slimming effect on my calf. Rob decided to buy his, took them off, tried mine on, decided to buy mine, then tried his on again and decided to buy them so we wouldn't have the same pair of shoes. I suggested both of us each wearing one of each shoe, but Rob has an amazing ability to completely tune me out when I make suggestions.
We walked out of Sears' with matching bags containing matching boxes containing non-matching shoes in matching sizes. And that's the truth.
I don't have any athletic shoes. Well, that's not true either. I have a pair of Adidas, white with some purplish-blueish design on them that I got when I was in high school and I played volleyball. But they're kinda old, and maybe my tastes have changed a bit. What I mean is that I don't really have any athletic shoes that I like to wear.
I wanted some new athletic shoes. That is true.
Last night, Rob and I went athletic shoe shopping. Last night was not to be confused with last week, which was when Rob and I went dress shoe shopping. Rob likes to take girls shopping because girls can tell him what looks good and what does not. He has a gay man friend who supposedly has great taste, but since Rob's target audience is girls and not gay men, he brings a girl. He often even promises to buy the girl something in exchange for her opinions.
I told Rob it would be silly for him to buy me something in exchange for my opinion, when I am so happy to give it freely and usually without being asked. Plus, I like to shop, and I have no other friends in Winston-Salem. Maybe I should've been buying him something. But no. I also went because I was toying with the idea of buying some shoes myself for reasons covered earlier.
We started at Sears', and really, we should've just stayed there. Every shoe store we perused had essentially the same stock at essentially the same price. We both agreed that there were lots of pairs of shoes that were fine, but nothing that made either one of us say, "Wow, my feet would look sexy in those." There was a pair of lovely suede green New Balances that Rob liked, and of course I enthusiastically approve of all suede shoes; alas, they were women's. I tried hard to convince him that no one would ever be able to tell, but he was convinced the day would come when he would hit on a girl and look down to realize she had the same shoes. There was another pair of some funny-shaped track shoes that Rob liked, but when he tried them on, I looked at him sadly and said, "Sweetie, I just don't think you can pull those off. Frankly, I don't know anyone who can. I'm sorry." He sighed, and said, "It's okay. That's why you're here."
Finally, it was back to Sears'. He tried on a pair of men's Nikes, and I tried on a pair of men's Nikes. Then we switched; Rob and I wear the same shoe size. I decided to buy my pair after much walking with one of them on and checking myself out in the feet mirror with my pants rolled up to see if they had a slimming effect on my calf. Rob decided to buy his, took them off, tried mine on, decided to buy mine, then tried his on again and decided to buy them so we wouldn't have the same pair of shoes. I suggested both of us each wearing one of each shoe, but Rob has an amazing ability to completely tune me out when I make suggestions.
We walked out of Sears' with matching bags containing matching boxes containing non-matching shoes in matching sizes. And that's the truth.
4.07.2005
loaded with protein!
For the uninformed, a Cricket Lick-It is a novelty lollipop with a cricket inside. A friend of mine brought one to class when I was in middle school. We all crowded around to examine the rectangular prism of yellow candy with the bug inside, which was vaguely reminiscent of the mosquito in Jurassic Park. I examined it closely and remarked that it was amusing, but that it was not a real cricket. My friend retorted that of course it was a real cricket, that they wouldn't be able to claim it was a cricket on the packaging if it was fake.
We checked the side of the plastic wrapper for the ingredients.
Ingredients: HSH (Maltitol syrup), Cricket, Natural and Artifical flavoring, Artificial Color (Yellow 5, Blue 1)
Huh. Well, still, there's no way that it could be a real cricket, right? I was still not convinced. They'd have to have a warning or something that stated, "Hey! Stubborn girl! That's a real cricket in there!" Crickets can't be good for you.* Surely that was just a fake cricket made of candy or maybe even a toy. We argued for a good few minutes over it, and I was not to be convinced. And then came the challenge that I should've seen coming.
"Well, then you eat it and find out."
Fine, I will, I said. I was confident that it was candy, so I unwrapped the sucker and started working on it. The cricket was in the middle, and since this was not a Tootsie Pop, it took more than three licks to get to the center. ("Mr. Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the insectival center of a Cricket Lick-It?") Some time went by while I sucked on the lollipop. Regardless of the genuineness of the bug inside the sucker, obviously the HotLix Candy Company did not put a lot of money into their sucker recipe - the candy itself tasted like crap. I guess when you've got an obvious gimmick, there's no point in making a quality product.
Finally I started getting to some cricket parts. Before long, there was a leg sticking out into open air where the candy had been diminished by my tongue. It was at about this point that I begin to have doubts in my fake cricket theory. Then I bit the leg and switched sides of the argument altogether. Yup. That is one real cricket I am eating, I thought. Worse than that was the knowledge that I still had five legs, an abdomen, antennae, and a head to go. No one else had noticed me eat the leg, so as far as they knew, the question was still in the air.
The good thing about my stubbornness is the fact that I am consistent with it. So I refused to give up in eating the cricket that I had refused to believe was real. I sucked some more until I could get the cricket in all one bite, my misery and dread building up with each successive lick. By this time, people noticed that it was cricket-eating time, and it was with an audience watching that I took a big bite out of that very real cricket. I chewed and nodded confidently, "It's candy." I had just eaten a cricket. There was no way I was about to make myself feel worse by admitting to being wrong. "Adding insult to injury" doesn't even begin to cover what I was feeling.
Oh, I learned my lesson that day. I think the moral of this story is pretty clear: never be wrong about anything. Also, don't eat crickets.
*As according to the FAQs on cricketscience.com:
ARE ANY CRICKETS POISONOUS? No, not to our knowledge. Undoubtedly, however, there are crickets somewhere in the world that produce a noxious chemical that wards off one or more kinds of predators that might otherwise have the crickets for food. This kind of thing is very common among insects. The crickets in "Cricket-Lick-It" lollipops certainly aren't poisonous, however; they're loaded with protein!
We checked the side of the plastic wrapper for the ingredients.
Ingredients: HSH (Maltitol syrup), Cricket, Natural and Artifical flavoring, Artificial Color (Yellow 5, Blue 1)
Huh. Well, still, there's no way that it could be a real cricket, right? I was still not convinced. They'd have to have a warning or something that stated, "Hey! Stubborn girl! That's a real cricket in there!" Crickets can't be good for you.* Surely that was just a fake cricket made of candy or maybe even a toy. We argued for a good few minutes over it, and I was not to be convinced. And then came the challenge that I should've seen coming.
"Well, then you eat it and find out."
Fine, I will, I said. I was confident that it was candy, so I unwrapped the sucker and started working on it. The cricket was in the middle, and since this was not a Tootsie Pop, it took more than three licks to get to the center. ("Mr. Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the insectival center of a Cricket Lick-It?") Some time went by while I sucked on the lollipop. Regardless of the genuineness of the bug inside the sucker, obviously the HotLix Candy Company did not put a lot of money into their sucker recipe - the candy itself tasted like crap. I guess when you've got an obvious gimmick, there's no point in making a quality product.
Finally I started getting to some cricket parts. Before long, there was a leg sticking out into open air where the candy had been diminished by my tongue. It was at about this point that I begin to have doubts in my fake cricket theory. Then I bit the leg and switched sides of the argument altogether. Yup. That is one real cricket I am eating, I thought. Worse than that was the knowledge that I still had five legs, an abdomen, antennae, and a head to go. No one else had noticed me eat the leg, so as far as they knew, the question was still in the air.
The good thing about my stubbornness is the fact that I am consistent with it. So I refused to give up in eating the cricket that I had refused to believe was real. I sucked some more until I could get the cricket in all one bite, my misery and dread building up with each successive lick. By this time, people noticed that it was cricket-eating time, and it was with an audience watching that I took a big bite out of that very real cricket. I chewed and nodded confidently, "It's candy." I had just eaten a cricket. There was no way I was about to make myself feel worse by admitting to being wrong. "Adding insult to injury" doesn't even begin to cover what I was feeling.
Oh, I learned my lesson that day. I think the moral of this story is pretty clear: never be wrong about anything. Also, don't eat crickets.
*As according to the FAQs on cricketscience.com:
ARE ANY CRICKETS POISONOUS? No, not to our knowledge. Undoubtedly, however, there are crickets somewhere in the world that produce a noxious chemical that wards off one or more kinds of predators that might otherwise have the crickets for food. This kind of thing is very common among insects. The crickets in "Cricket-Lick-It" lollipops certainly aren't poisonous, however; they're loaded with protein!
4.05.2005
heel yeah!
My NCAA bracket got shot all to heck after the first round, and my $5 contribution to the office pool should've been spent buying groceries. But I don't care. We won!
Admittedly, UNC is not my team. I've always been a NC State girl, I guess starting from when I was little and wanted to go to veterinary school there. I haven't wanted to be a vet for a good fifteen years now, but I still pull for the Wolfpack over anybody. But when you live in North Carolina, you have to love college basketball and you have to pull for the Atlantic Coast Conference. It's a rule.
Okay, I know a lot of exceptions to that rule. I know lots of ACC team fans who won't pull for one of their supposed rivals during tournament time. I don't understand those people. I especially can't understand the people who can watch a game and not root for someone, anyone. I start watching a game and within five minutes, I'm emotionally involved. I want someone to win for some reason, even if the reason has something to do with the mascot or the way the point guard does his hair. I don't get any enjoyment out of a game where I don't have a dog in the fight. Even if I don't think I have a side, when the game's over and I notice I'm feeling disappointment or happiness over the outcome, it's clear the way I wanted things to turn out.
But I don't understand how you can root against a fellow ACC team when your team isn't involved. There are some huge rivalries around here, and it's not uncommon to hear some blush-inducing obscenities hurled at the opposing team during the regular season or the ACC tournament. But when that's all over, a conference team is a conference team. It's not a matter of disloyalty. It's a matter of something bigger than the rivalry between two teams. You want what's best for the conference.
Because, let's face it, the ACC rocks. It was pure luck that I was born smack dab in the middle of all this, and I can't help but feel sorry for those who weren't. Those people should think about moving so that their children don't have the same misfortune. I live within two hours of four big ACC schools (all of which were in the tourney, 3 of which made Sweet Sixteen). I live within fifteen minutes of Wake Forest, and it was like a day of mourning around here when they lost. How could anyone not get caught up in this kind of excitement?
So last night, even the most hard-core of Wake Forest fans in this town pulled for the Tarheels. We cursed them all when Wake played them, but now it's the Big Dance, and it's a different set of rules. We learned the players' names and yelled for them without including curse words as their middle names. We felt relieved when we pulled away and got nervous again when it got close again. We jumped from our seats when Felton made that last steal. We cheered when it was all over, though maybe not as loudly as we would have had it been our favorite team. We live here, and it's our team, too.
Go Heels.
Admittedly, UNC is not my team. I've always been a NC State girl, I guess starting from when I was little and wanted to go to veterinary school there. I haven't wanted to be a vet for a good fifteen years now, but I still pull for the Wolfpack over anybody. But when you live in North Carolina, you have to love college basketball and you have to pull for the Atlantic Coast Conference. It's a rule.
Okay, I know a lot of exceptions to that rule. I know lots of ACC team fans who won't pull for one of their supposed rivals during tournament time. I don't understand those people. I especially can't understand the people who can watch a game and not root for someone, anyone. I start watching a game and within five minutes, I'm emotionally involved. I want someone to win for some reason, even if the reason has something to do with the mascot or the way the point guard does his hair. I don't get any enjoyment out of a game where I don't have a dog in the fight. Even if I don't think I have a side, when the game's over and I notice I'm feeling disappointment or happiness over the outcome, it's clear the way I wanted things to turn out.
But I don't understand how you can root against a fellow ACC team when your team isn't involved. There are some huge rivalries around here, and it's not uncommon to hear some blush-inducing obscenities hurled at the opposing team during the regular season or the ACC tournament. But when that's all over, a conference team is a conference team. It's not a matter of disloyalty. It's a matter of something bigger than the rivalry between two teams. You want what's best for the conference.
Because, let's face it, the ACC rocks. It was pure luck that I was born smack dab in the middle of all this, and I can't help but feel sorry for those who weren't. Those people should think about moving so that their children don't have the same misfortune. I live within two hours of four big ACC schools (all of which were in the tourney, 3 of which made Sweet Sixteen). I live within fifteen minutes of Wake Forest, and it was like a day of mourning around here when they lost. How could anyone not get caught up in this kind of excitement?
So last night, even the most hard-core of Wake Forest fans in this town pulled for the Tarheels. We cursed them all when Wake played them, but now it's the Big Dance, and it's a different set of rules. We learned the players' names and yelled for them without including curse words as their middle names. We felt relieved when we pulled away and got nervous again when it got close again. We jumped from our seats when Felton made that last steal. We cheered when it was all over, though maybe not as loudly as we would have had it been our favorite team. We live here, and it's our team, too.
Go Heels.
4.04.2005
all right, you win, it's great to be alive.
I've got a New Yorker cartoon day-by-day calendar. I save the really good ones. I have one from Thursday, February 24 that shows a couple walking down a beach at sunset beneath a sky dotted with fluffy marshmallow clouds. The man is saying, "All right, Stephanie, you win -- it's great to be alive!"
Days like these are what Henry Ford had in mind when he made automobiles available for the Everyman. Just because those old cars couldn't go 74 miles per hour in a 65 mph zone down the yet-uninvented interstate doesn't mean that wasn't what he was shooting for. I don't know what the American Dream really is anymore, but it's gotta include driving fast on a pretty day. Driving fast with the windows down and the music loud, all right, you win, it's great to be alive.
There's a song I've been listening to lately, "Pacific Theme" by Broken Social Scene. Laid-back and cool, it's a good song. But when you play it loud while driving with the windows down, it's a great song. It's an instrumental number and starts out quiet, slowly building up and adding more instruments to the same basic theme each iteration of the tune. First there's some soft percussion, then a surf guitar, then a bass, another guitar. At about the two and a half minute mark, the song breaks into a soft bridge with just the drums and a lone trumpet. You think maybe the song's over, it's getting so quiet. But then, after fouty-five seconds, the original tune comes back again in a fantastic aural climax, this time with all the other instruments plus the trumpet, loud, strong, but still mellow and cool. It has to be the song built of a jam session in somebody's open garage in the summertime. Sun's shining, hanging with your buddies, playing music, all right, you win, it's great to be alive.
I could put this song on repeat during a long trip on a day like today and just relax behind the wheel of my Japanese part of the American Dream. Windows down, my hair pulled back to keep it from getting all nappy in the wind (not that it helps, but who cares?), my left arm out the window catching the breeze in the very model of a driving position I did not learn in Driver's Ed. "Pacific Theme" is playing loudly, because otherwise you can't hear it over the breeze and the engine pushing my car to the limit of the velocity range that I can drive without being pulled over. I feel happy and young. I am young, but now I feel it. All right, you win, it's great to be alive.
Days like these are what Henry Ford had in mind when he made automobiles available for the Everyman. Just because those old cars couldn't go 74 miles per hour in a 65 mph zone down the yet-uninvented interstate doesn't mean that wasn't what he was shooting for. I don't know what the American Dream really is anymore, but it's gotta include driving fast on a pretty day. Driving fast with the windows down and the music loud, all right, you win, it's great to be alive.
There's a song I've been listening to lately, "Pacific Theme" by Broken Social Scene. Laid-back and cool, it's a good song. But when you play it loud while driving with the windows down, it's a great song. It's an instrumental number and starts out quiet, slowly building up and adding more instruments to the same basic theme each iteration of the tune. First there's some soft percussion, then a surf guitar, then a bass, another guitar. At about the two and a half minute mark, the song breaks into a soft bridge with just the drums and a lone trumpet. You think maybe the song's over, it's getting so quiet. But then, after fouty-five seconds, the original tune comes back again in a fantastic aural climax, this time with all the other instruments plus the trumpet, loud, strong, but still mellow and cool. It has to be the song built of a jam session in somebody's open garage in the summertime. Sun's shining, hanging with your buddies, playing music, all right, you win, it's great to be alive.
I could put this song on repeat during a long trip on a day like today and just relax behind the wheel of my Japanese part of the American Dream. Windows down, my hair pulled back to keep it from getting all nappy in the wind (not that it helps, but who cares?), my left arm out the window catching the breeze in the very model of a driving position I did not learn in Driver's Ed. "Pacific Theme" is playing loudly, because otherwise you can't hear it over the breeze and the engine pushing my car to the limit of the velocity range that I can drive without being pulled over. I feel happy and young. I am young, but now I feel it. All right, you win, it's great to be alive.
4.02.2005
traditionally, well, traditional.
Lewisville United Methodist Church
By my count, there are four United Methodist churches in Lewisville. That's a lot for a town of 8000 people. I also think it's a good sign. But anyway, Lewisville United Methodist is the biggest. It has two Sunday morning services, and I attended the later service, which is why there were Cadillacs and Buicks in the parking lot instead of minivans and coupes.
Late services are traditionally, well, traditional, while the contemporary services are generally held at some ungodly hour like 8:30 AM. The main difference in these services (besides the time) tends to be the music. Contemporary christian music, in my experience, tends to kinda suck. Critiquing the quality of praise music is probably missing the point, and I'm sure the songwriters had their hearts in the right place. It just seems that the writers (mainly the lyricists) are trying to glorify the Lord through talents that He didn't give them. Give me Tennessee Ernie Ford and Johnny Cash over Michael W. Smith any day.
Unfortunately, the type of people who seem to agree with me on this point are, ahem, chronologically advanced. And while I don't seem to find a lot in common with what counts as "young adults" in most churches (30s, married with children), I can relate more easily to them than I can to the traditional service set (60s, widowed with grandchildren). This really is a total side issue, but honestly, I took the fact that Lewisville UMC has two services as a sign that I may not like the church. Whichever service I chose, I was going to have to give up something I was looking for. I suppose the joint Sunday School between services is supposed to rectify that situation, but I would still feel like a stranger in the late service. Plus, most multiple-service churches are bigger than what I like.
The service itself was fine. Standard stuff, nothing special. We sang songs I already knew, which I found comforting. However, exactly one person said "Good morning" to me, and that was it. I had people stepping all over me to see the new baby sitting in front of me, but they managed to do it without saying even hello to me. It's possible they figured I was just an early service regular who overslept, and so they didn't realize that I was a visitor, in which case, they still should've realized that they personally didn't know me and made an attempt to correct that. In the case that people didn't realize I was new, the church may just be too big for my tastes anyway, if the folks there don't know a visitor when they see one. I even got lost looking for the sanctuary, so they really should've figured it out. Maybe they're just rude. In any case, I didn't feel welcome at all, and I'm not going back, even though their handbell choir was very good. Maybe if they had performed a song called "We're So Happy You Are Here, Sandra!" Ah, well.
By my count, there are four United Methodist churches in Lewisville. That's a lot for a town of 8000 people. I also think it's a good sign. But anyway, Lewisville United Methodist is the biggest. It has two Sunday morning services, and I attended the later service, which is why there were Cadillacs and Buicks in the parking lot instead of minivans and coupes.
Late services are traditionally, well, traditional, while the contemporary services are generally held at some ungodly hour like 8:30 AM. The main difference in these services (besides the time) tends to be the music. Contemporary christian music, in my experience, tends to kinda suck. Critiquing the quality of praise music is probably missing the point, and I'm sure the songwriters had their hearts in the right place. It just seems that the writers (mainly the lyricists) are trying to glorify the Lord through talents that He didn't give them. Give me Tennessee Ernie Ford and Johnny Cash over Michael W. Smith any day.
Unfortunately, the type of people who seem to agree with me on this point are, ahem, chronologically advanced. And while I don't seem to find a lot in common with what counts as "young adults" in most churches (30s, married with children), I can relate more easily to them than I can to the traditional service set (60s, widowed with grandchildren). This really is a total side issue, but honestly, I took the fact that Lewisville UMC has two services as a sign that I may not like the church. Whichever service I chose, I was going to have to give up something I was looking for. I suppose the joint Sunday School between services is supposed to rectify that situation, but I would still feel like a stranger in the late service. Plus, most multiple-service churches are bigger than what I like.
The service itself was fine. Standard stuff, nothing special. We sang songs I already knew, which I found comforting. However, exactly one person said "Good morning" to me, and that was it. I had people stepping all over me to see the new baby sitting in front of me, but they managed to do it without saying even hello to me. It's possible they figured I was just an early service regular who overslept, and so they didn't realize that I was a visitor, in which case, they still should've realized that they personally didn't know me and made an attempt to correct that. In the case that people didn't realize I was new, the church may just be too big for my tastes anyway, if the folks there don't know a visitor when they see one. I even got lost looking for the sanctuary, so they really should've figured it out. Maybe they're just rude. In any case, I didn't feel welcome at all, and I'm not going back, even though their handbell choir was very good. Maybe if they had performed a song called "We're So Happy You Are Here, Sandra!" Ah, well.
3.27.2005
a VISITOR!!!
Unity Moravian Church
Moravians are relatively common in this area because the town was first settled by a group of wayward ones. John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist Church, spent a lot of time with the Moravians, and the two denominations are supposed to be fairly similar. Plus, the Moravians make great cookies, and if I became a Moravian, then I too would make great cookies.
Cookies or not, I had essentially written this church off by the end of the service. There was a lot of ritual in the service, much more than to my taste. I'm fine with a little bit of ritual in my church routine, in fact, some ritual I find comforting. But too much and worship becomes stale and rehearsed. You can stand up, sit down, and read the bold-faced words on autopilot; too much of that and nothing means anything. And I don't know if this is church-specific or not, but this particular Moravian church liked its rituals. Lots of singing and reading prayers, plus a five-page litany from the hymnal. This was just a regular Sunday, mind you, not even Easter or Communion Sunday. I shudder to think of what the Christmas or Good Friday service must be like.
However, the members of Unity Moravian Church are either very, very friendly or just hard up for new members. A lady came up to me, introduced herself, and then introduced me to someone else, saying, "This is Sandra! She's a VISITOR!!!" The next person talked to me a while, then introduced me to another person, saying "This is Sandra! She just moved here from Boone! She's a VISITOR!!!" Finally, after going through another chained introduction or two, I was introduced to the pastor by another of my new aquaintances, who said, "This is Sandra! She just moved here from Boone! She recently graduated from Appalachian! She writes software! SHE'S A VISITOR!!!" I was concerned for the health of these people, as the excitement of having a visitor (!!!) seemed to be almost too much for them. In any case, I was charmed (and a little frightened) by their enthusiasm. But I kept thinking about that five-page litany, and in the end, I wanted to look around some more. Five pages of responsive reading? No cookies are that good.
Moravians are relatively common in this area because the town was first settled by a group of wayward ones. John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist Church, spent a lot of time with the Moravians, and the two denominations are supposed to be fairly similar. Plus, the Moravians make great cookies, and if I became a Moravian, then I too would make great cookies.
Cookies or not, I had essentially written this church off by the end of the service. There was a lot of ritual in the service, much more than to my taste. I'm fine with a little bit of ritual in my church routine, in fact, some ritual I find comforting. But too much and worship becomes stale and rehearsed. You can stand up, sit down, and read the bold-faced words on autopilot; too much of that and nothing means anything. And I don't know if this is church-specific or not, but this particular Moravian church liked its rituals. Lots of singing and reading prayers, plus a five-page litany from the hymnal. This was just a regular Sunday, mind you, not even Easter or Communion Sunday. I shudder to think of what the Christmas or Good Friday service must be like.
However, the members of Unity Moravian Church are either very, very friendly or just hard up for new members. A lady came up to me, introduced herself, and then introduced me to someone else, saying, "This is Sandra! She's a VISITOR!!!" The next person talked to me a while, then introduced me to another person, saying "This is Sandra! She just moved here from Boone! She's a VISITOR!!!" Finally, after going through another chained introduction or two, I was introduced to the pastor by another of my new aquaintances, who said, "This is Sandra! She just moved here from Boone! She recently graduated from Appalachian! She writes software! SHE'S A VISITOR!!!" I was concerned for the health of these people, as the excitement of having a visitor (!!!) seemed to be almost too much for them. In any case, I was charmed (and a little frightened) by their enthusiasm. But I kept thinking about that five-page litany, and in the end, I wanted to look around some more. Five pages of responsive reading? No cookies are that good.
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