Mike is training me. He's not in charge of training me, and he doesn't even do the same work that I'm being trained to do. Mike is a tester, and I'm the new Build Master (we considered calling me the Build Mistress, but that sounds like I'm just sleeping with the Build behind the Build's wife's back). I do work with Mike, because when I make a build, it has to be tested, and sometimes Mike is the one that tests it.
So he isn't training me to make builds. He's training me to make builds his way. Mike likes his builds to be burned to a CD. Yesterday, I finished a build for Mike that fixed a couple problems the previous one had. I told him that I finished it, and I put it up on the public company hard drive where he would be able to get it. This morning, Mike came in and asked if I had fixed the problem. I was confused, because I thought I had told him I fixed it. Then he said, "Well, I didn't know if you did, since I didn't get a disc." Ah. Point taken.
Technically, that was my fault. I knew he likes to have a disc. He likes to have them labelled. He likes to follow SOP (standard operating procedures). The first disc I ever made for Mike was sometime last week, and I didn't label it. The guy who is actually training me, the previous Build Master, didn't tell me to. So Mike trotted back to my office and asked me to label it. Mike could have easily labelled the thing himself. He knew what it would say. But I needed to be trained to do it. It's SOP. So I labelled it, and I've labelled the two discs I've given to Mike since then. I even went to the office manager and specifically asked for a Sharpie so that I could label Mike's discs. It's green.
Two days ago, I revised a build for Mike. Builds are supposed to restart the computer when they fiddle with the registry, more as a precaution than anything else. The previous versions of this build did not restart, though they did change the registry. I fixed it so it did restart, because that's SOP. Mike came to my office and asked why this build restarted when the others did not. I told him it was because the build changed the registry, and the others should have done that. Mike said, "Oh, good, so we're going to follow SOP?" It was really hard not to laugh.
I could be irritated. I'm not. I'm the new guy here, and since all this stuff is new to me, I don't mind learning it this way if it's what keeps people happy. Besides, being anal-retentive (or "detail-oriented," as we call it) is what makes a lot of computer scientists good at what they do, even if it sometimes makes them a little obnoxious in social situations. So I'll burn the disc, and I'll label it with my green Sharpie. And I'll follow SOP, but not for Mike. That just makes good sense.
2.11.2005
2.09.2005
the site of somebody's family dinners.
My kitchen table is old. It's old and dirty and grimy. It wobbles when it stands up at all, which hasn't been very often lately, considering two of the four legs haven't been attached. Somehow when I was living in downtown Boone, one of the legs decided not to hang on to the table anymore. I blame Krystal, mostly because she was the only one who knew it was even broken for months. The leg was just wedged under the table, and somehow it stayed up.
But all that aside, I love that table. It's over 50 years old, one of those kitschy dinette sets everyone used to have. I bought it at a yard sale with six matching chairs for $15. The guy who used to own it said it had been in his grandmother's kitchen since the 50s. And yeah, it showed its age, but, man, that table was cool.
For the entire month that I've lived in Lewisville, my table has been lying on its side against the kitchen wall, as much out of the way as possible. My family tried to get me to throw it out when we were moving it. It's true that it's given me at least $15 worth of service and that it's barely functional. During the move, another leg came loose. But I couldn't bear to let this table go. This table has a history! Family dinners were held there. Not my family, but somebody's family!
I decided to fix it. This was kind of a problem. I couldn't just screw the legs back on because the table top is made of that old table material that you only find anymore in places called Mel's or The Silver Dollar Diner or Eats. The underside was very old corkboard, reduced with age until it looked more like cardboard. The old screwholes were wide and eaten and unusable. What a dilemma.
But I fixed my table last night. I bought some boards at Lowes (actually just one board that the nice man at Lowes cut for me into eight little boards), and then attached the legs to the boards. Then I attached the boards to the table. This engineering idea came from my brother, whose other engineering idea was to throw the stupid thing out. And my table stands again. It wobbles, and it's a lot higher than it used to be, but it stands and it works. In this course of this project, I got some splinters in my fingers, broke a 3/32 drill bit, and almost spoiled a gallon of milk (I forgot to put it away before I left to go buy screws). But I fixed my poor $15 table. And now it's my $20 table when I add the $4 for the boards and the $1 for the screws.
See? The value of this table has gone up already. And you were going to let me throw it out.
But all that aside, I love that table. It's over 50 years old, one of those kitschy dinette sets everyone used to have. I bought it at a yard sale with six matching chairs for $15. The guy who used to own it said it had been in his grandmother's kitchen since the 50s. And yeah, it showed its age, but, man, that table was cool.
For the entire month that I've lived in Lewisville, my table has been lying on its side against the kitchen wall, as much out of the way as possible. My family tried to get me to throw it out when we were moving it. It's true that it's given me at least $15 worth of service and that it's barely functional. During the move, another leg came loose. But I couldn't bear to let this table go. This table has a history! Family dinners were held there. Not my family, but somebody's family!
I decided to fix it. This was kind of a problem. I couldn't just screw the legs back on because the table top is made of that old table material that you only find anymore in places called Mel's or The Silver Dollar Diner or Eats. The underside was very old corkboard, reduced with age until it looked more like cardboard. The old screwholes were wide and eaten and unusable. What a dilemma.
But I fixed my table last night. I bought some boards at Lowes (actually just one board that the nice man at Lowes cut for me into eight little boards), and then attached the legs to the boards. Then I attached the boards to the table. This engineering idea came from my brother, whose other engineering idea was to throw the stupid thing out. And my table stands again. It wobbles, and it's a lot higher than it used to be, but it stands and it works. In this course of this project, I got some splinters in my fingers, broke a 3/32 drill bit, and almost spoiled a gallon of milk (I forgot to put it away before I left to go buy screws). But I fixed my poor $15 table. And now it's my $20 table when I add the $4 for the boards and the $1 for the screws.
See? The value of this table has gone up already. And you were going to let me throw it out.
2.07.2005
i'm here to win.
I was in the math building at 8:30 am on a Saturday to take a math test. Oh, and it was a voluntary math test. I wasn't even getting extra credit in any of my classes like some of the other kids who showed up. Before we started the test, we went around introducing ourselves and telling why we were here. Most were there for the extra credit. A couple, like me, were there more out of curiosity than anything else. Then there was this skinny sophomore kid, who shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm here to win." The other kids looked aghast, and I laughed out loud at his audacity and arrogance, but thought, hey, if he's going to be full of himself, he might as well be honest about it.
The Putnam Math Exam is a Big Deal. Undergraduate students all over the country take it, and basically, if you make a positive score, that's considered really good. You're given a dozen problems and about six hours to work on them. You're not meant to finish them all. The hope is that you'll get far enough along on at least one of them to get partial credit. That's how you get a positive score. Whoever has the highest score is the winner. I don't know what the winner gets, maybe a scholarship to grad school or something like that. I wasn't there to win, so I don't know.
There were maybe a dozen kids there. For the test, they put each of us in a different classroom, and we were allowed to draw all over the chalk boards if that helped us think. I don't like using chalk boards. Give me a good sheet of scratch paper and I'm set. Plus, I ended up having to share a classroom anyway. The other guy in my classroom used the board a little for the morning session. He drew triangles. There was a triangle question on the test, so I assume he was working on that rather than just killing time with three-sided figures.
I was the only senior there. I knew only a couple of the other kids. During the half-hour lunch break, I mostly just listened to the others talk. I could tell that some of them were pretty smart and others not so much. I talked to Adam because he was the only guy I knew well. I like Adam. He has math tattoos. Plus, I think he was the only one besides me there who was of age.
After the morning session, we were all looking a little discouraged. The test is apparently designed to make you feel stupid. Most of us questioned how long we would even stay for the afternoon session - what was the point? Most of us weren't there to win. Adam joked that we should blow off the afternoon session and just walk to Murphy's and have some post-Putnam beers.
The afternoon session was a joke. No one cared anymore about this stupid impossible test. I made myself at least make an attempt on the afternoon questions. There was one that looked doable, at least more doable than the others. The other guy in my classroom gave up after about fifteen minutes. I thought I was getting somewhere on my problem, but then realized a kink. There were always kinks in these questions. I had spent the whole morning session feeling like I was getting somewhere and then finding a tiny kink that made the problem exponentially harder. Once I found the kink in the afternoon problem, I gave up. I didn't care. I wasn't there to win.
Security was much more lax in the afternoon. I peeked in the other classrooms to try to find Adam to see if that post-Putnam beer offer was still good. I found one of the other kids in his room, and they were discussing the problem I had just given up on. This was definitely not allowed, but I joined in since I had already given up. Adam wanted to finish the problem - he thought it looked doable, too. He and the other kid talked about it for a while while I watched. Adam started getting excited. Then I pointed out the kink. I had to explain it twice. Then Adam saw it, too, looked at me, and said, "Let's go to Murphy's." We didn't care. We weren't there to win.
The Putnam Math Exam is a Big Deal. Undergraduate students all over the country take it, and basically, if you make a positive score, that's considered really good. You're given a dozen problems and about six hours to work on them. You're not meant to finish them all. The hope is that you'll get far enough along on at least one of them to get partial credit. That's how you get a positive score. Whoever has the highest score is the winner. I don't know what the winner gets, maybe a scholarship to grad school or something like that. I wasn't there to win, so I don't know.
There were maybe a dozen kids there. For the test, they put each of us in a different classroom, and we were allowed to draw all over the chalk boards if that helped us think. I don't like using chalk boards. Give me a good sheet of scratch paper and I'm set. Plus, I ended up having to share a classroom anyway. The other guy in my classroom used the board a little for the morning session. He drew triangles. There was a triangle question on the test, so I assume he was working on that rather than just killing time with three-sided figures.
I was the only senior there. I knew only a couple of the other kids. During the half-hour lunch break, I mostly just listened to the others talk. I could tell that some of them were pretty smart and others not so much. I talked to Adam because he was the only guy I knew well. I like Adam. He has math tattoos. Plus, I think he was the only one besides me there who was of age.
After the morning session, we were all looking a little discouraged. The test is apparently designed to make you feel stupid. Most of us questioned how long we would even stay for the afternoon session - what was the point? Most of us weren't there to win. Adam joked that we should blow off the afternoon session and just walk to Murphy's and have some post-Putnam beers.
The afternoon session was a joke. No one cared anymore about this stupid impossible test. I made myself at least make an attempt on the afternoon questions. There was one that looked doable, at least more doable than the others. The other guy in my classroom gave up after about fifteen minutes. I thought I was getting somewhere on my problem, but then realized a kink. There were always kinks in these questions. I had spent the whole morning session feeling like I was getting somewhere and then finding a tiny kink that made the problem exponentially harder. Once I found the kink in the afternoon problem, I gave up. I didn't care. I wasn't there to win.
Security was much more lax in the afternoon. I peeked in the other classrooms to try to find Adam to see if that post-Putnam beer offer was still good. I found one of the other kids in his room, and they were discussing the problem I had just given up on. This was definitely not allowed, but I joined in since I had already given up. Adam wanted to finish the problem - he thought it looked doable, too. He and the other kid talked about it for a while while I watched. Adam started getting excited. Then I pointed out the kink. I had to explain it twice. Then Adam saw it, too, looked at me, and said, "Let's go to Murphy's." We didn't care. We weren't there to win.
2.04.2005
talking about hypercards and the yellow beetle.
Driving back from Mario's, an old yellow Beetle pulled out in front of Rob's black Civic. We all cursed him mildly before returning to talking about hypercards. Actually, Rob talked about hypercards. Dave and I listened because we didn't know what they were. I'm still not sure. As it happened, we ended up behind the yellow Beetle at the next stoplight.
We were still talking about hypercards when we interrupted ourselves to talk about the guy in the yellow Beetle again. He was dancing, and he was doing it like no one was watching. His head was bouncing back and forth and all over the driver seat of that yellow Beetle. Whenever we happened to catch a shot of his profile, we saw him singing, his mouth wide open.
Amused, I started imitating him. I bounced back and forth and all over the passenger seat of that black Civic. I think our dancer saw me in his rearview mirror, because he became even more animated. Apparently he dances even when someone is watching. He began to point back and forth a la Saturday Night Fever. Then he somehow managed to jump while in the car, causing that old yellow Beetle to shake dangerously when he landed. It was awesome. We were fascinated. I wanted to know what he was listening to. Dave wanted to know what he was on. Rob wanted to just follow him around town.
The light changed, and when the yellow Beetle made a right turn, the black Civic kept straight. I wish we had followed him to see where he went and just watch him groove; instead, we went back to talking about hypercards.
We were still talking about hypercards when we interrupted ourselves to talk about the guy in the yellow Beetle again. He was dancing, and he was doing it like no one was watching. His head was bouncing back and forth and all over the driver seat of that yellow Beetle. Whenever we happened to catch a shot of his profile, we saw him singing, his mouth wide open.
Amused, I started imitating him. I bounced back and forth and all over the passenger seat of that black Civic. I think our dancer saw me in his rearview mirror, because he became even more animated. Apparently he dances even when someone is watching. He began to point back and forth a la Saturday Night Fever. Then he somehow managed to jump while in the car, causing that old yellow Beetle to shake dangerously when he landed. It was awesome. We were fascinated. I wanted to know what he was listening to. Dave wanted to know what he was on. Rob wanted to just follow him around town.
The light changed, and when the yellow Beetle made a right turn, the black Civic kept straight. I wish we had followed him to see where he went and just watch him groove; instead, we went back to talking about hypercards.
1.31.2005
well-informed beggers.
I don't know whether to be scared or amused by the people who sell newspapers on the medians of busy intersections. I say people out of a habit of political correctness; the only ones I've ever seen are men. The first couple of times I saw them, I thought they were beggers. Then I noticed that instead of displaying a poorly-spelled plea for help, they displayed the days headlines instead. Maybe they're just well-informed beggers.
The one I see most often is the black guy who works the intersection of the off-ramp from Silas Creek Parkway South and Stratford Road. He keeps a stool and extra papers sitting near the intersection, but he wanders farther back to peddle to the line of stopped cars. He carries a cane, and his right foot bends inward at an unnatural angle that I don't like to look at too closely. I can't hear what he yells, but he holds up his left index finger. I assume he means that newspapers are a dollar, rather than other possible interpretations of the gesture, like "Wake Forest is #1," "Turn to the Lord," or "Look up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane!"
I've never bought a paper from him, or any other of the vendors like him. If I wanted to read the Winston-Salem Journal, I would have bought a subscription when they called my house. But people do buy their papers this way. Seems like every morning I take that off-ramp, someone is holding a buck out the window. It's a good corner to work - my route is the same as a lot of business-types who live in the suburbs. Plus, the light is long, giving him a lot of time to hobble along our right sides, pointing upwards.
I assume these people are hired by the newspaper, rather than them just being independent entrepreneurs who buy a stack of papers to sell for an increased fee. I'm not even sure if they work on commission, because though my guy works his corner pretty hard, others stand still at the front of the intersection, not really giving anyone behind the first few cars a chance to make a purchase. Bad business.
And that makes me like the fella who works the off-ramp. He's got a bum foot, but if he's gonna sell papers, well then he's gonna sell papers. Maybe the newspaper even assigns the corners. Maybe he got such a good corner because he earned it by being so enthusiastic about such a crappy job.
In any case, I will likely never buy a paper from him. But I'm glad he's on my route to work. Even though I'm currently on the bottom of the pecking order and only doing grunt work right now, if he can be happy selling copies of the Winston-Salem Journal on the corner of the off-ramp of Silas Creek Parkway South and Stratford Road, then I can be happy building program installs.
The one I see most often is the black guy who works the intersection of the off-ramp from Silas Creek Parkway South and Stratford Road. He keeps a stool and extra papers sitting near the intersection, but he wanders farther back to peddle to the line of stopped cars. He carries a cane, and his right foot bends inward at an unnatural angle that I don't like to look at too closely. I can't hear what he yells, but he holds up his left index finger. I assume he means that newspapers are a dollar, rather than other possible interpretations of the gesture, like "Wake Forest is #1," "Turn to the Lord," or "Look up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane!"
I've never bought a paper from him, or any other of the vendors like him. If I wanted to read the Winston-Salem Journal, I would have bought a subscription when they called my house. But people do buy their papers this way. Seems like every morning I take that off-ramp, someone is holding a buck out the window. It's a good corner to work - my route is the same as a lot of business-types who live in the suburbs. Plus, the light is long, giving him a lot of time to hobble along our right sides, pointing upwards.
I assume these people are hired by the newspaper, rather than them just being independent entrepreneurs who buy a stack of papers to sell for an increased fee. I'm not even sure if they work on commission, because though my guy works his corner pretty hard, others stand still at the front of the intersection, not really giving anyone behind the first few cars a chance to make a purchase. Bad business.
And that makes me like the fella who works the off-ramp. He's got a bum foot, but if he's gonna sell papers, well then he's gonna sell papers. Maybe the newspaper even assigns the corners. Maybe he got such a good corner because he earned it by being so enthusiastic about such a crappy job.
In any case, I will likely never buy a paper from him. But I'm glad he's on my route to work. Even though I'm currently on the bottom of the pecking order and only doing grunt work right now, if he can be happy selling copies of the Winston-Salem Journal on the corner of the off-ramp of Silas Creek Parkway South and Stratford Road, then I can be happy building program installs.
1.25.2005
peruvian cotton polo shirts from lands' end
I don't do much here yet. I'm training to do a specific thing, and that thing doesn't have to be done all the time, so the training is slow without examples. So I have a lot of down-time to basically spend reading. It's not as exciting as it sounds - my choice of reading materials consists of the InstallShield Manual and C# For Experienced Programmers. Sometimes I play with code, making up programs when I get tired of reading about them.
I'm the Install Girl, the Build Master. I don't write programs yet. I build the programs that install the programs that other people write. Just today, something I built was burned to a disc and mailed to a customer. I felt proud. I don't even know what the program was. Something to do with forklifts.
I like the company. They let me in and gave me my own office, a company polo shirt, and a coffee mug, which I use for my afternoon tea. I had to bring my own half and half (not fat-free) for my afternoon tea, but they let me keep it in the company fridge, and no one uses it but me. And my company polo shirt is from Lands' End, made from Peruvian cotton, and has the company logo embroidered on it. I think company polo shirts from Lands' End is the mark of a good place to work. They've also ordered me some business cards and a nameplate for my office door so that I can take down the one that says "COAT CLOSET." Just kidding - a company that gives its employees Peruvian cotton polo shirts from Lands' End would never do that.
I'm the Install Girl, the Build Master. I don't write programs yet. I build the programs that install the programs that other people write. Just today, something I built was burned to a disc and mailed to a customer. I felt proud. I don't even know what the program was. Something to do with forklifts.
I like the company. They let me in and gave me my own office, a company polo shirt, and a coffee mug, which I use for my afternoon tea. I had to bring my own half and half (not fat-free) for my afternoon tea, but they let me keep it in the company fridge, and no one uses it but me. And my company polo shirt is from Lands' End, made from Peruvian cotton, and has the company logo embroidered on it. I think company polo shirts from Lands' End is the mark of a good place to work. They've also ordered me some business cards and a nameplate for my office door so that I can take down the one that says "COAT CLOSET." Just kidding - a company that gives its employees Peruvian cotton polo shirts from Lands' End would never do that.
1.24.2005
waking up is hard to do.
As slack as I have been lately, I wasn't even going to write tonight. But then I came up with that title, and I took it as a sign.
I've always been a frequent user of the snooze button. And I've discovered that grown-ups have to get up so early. True, my office allows me to come in as late as 10 am, but I've been told that I should make a good impression by coming in early the first couple of months. Then, once it's established that I'm a good worker, I can be not a good worker.
The goal is to be there at 8 am. It hasn't happened yet. And I usually go to bed before 11 at night. I just have a hard time getting up in the morning. I don't think clearly that early, and I make some great excuses while my hand is traveling to the snooze button. I don't have to be in early. I won't shower. I'll wear the same thing I wore yesterday. Depending on what kind of dream I was having at the moment my alarm went off, sometimes the excuses don't even make sense. Sometimes I have no idea if I'm delaying the next alarm or, say, the next shuttle launch at Cape Canaveral. In any case, soon it's 7:27, and I really have to get up.
I could set my clothes out the night before. It wouldn't help. I could shower in the evenings, but then my hair would look ridiculous. I could go to bed earlier. Wouldn't help. I could set my clock fast - that will help. And I could prep the coffee machine.
This evening, I went ahead and got the coffee maker ready for tomorrow morning. I put 4 cups of water and a clean filter filled with freshly-ground coffee in. I figure that'll save me a good five minutes when I only have to push a button to start the coffee.
I just hope that I don't remember that I prepped the coffee tomorrow morning. I'll just use it as another excuse to sleep in.
I've always been a frequent user of the snooze button. And I've discovered that grown-ups have to get up so early. True, my office allows me to come in as late as 10 am, but I've been told that I should make a good impression by coming in early the first couple of months. Then, once it's established that I'm a good worker, I can be not a good worker.
The goal is to be there at 8 am. It hasn't happened yet. And I usually go to bed before 11 at night. I just have a hard time getting up in the morning. I don't think clearly that early, and I make some great excuses while my hand is traveling to the snooze button. I don't have to be in early. I won't shower. I'll wear the same thing I wore yesterday. Depending on what kind of dream I was having at the moment my alarm went off, sometimes the excuses don't even make sense. Sometimes I have no idea if I'm delaying the next alarm or, say, the next shuttle launch at Cape Canaveral. In any case, soon it's 7:27, and I really have to get up.
I could set my clothes out the night before. It wouldn't help. I could shower in the evenings, but then my hair would look ridiculous. I could go to bed earlier. Wouldn't help. I could set my clock fast - that will help. And I could prep the coffee machine.
This evening, I went ahead and got the coffee maker ready for tomorrow morning. I put 4 cups of water and a clean filter filled with freshly-ground coffee in. I figure that'll save me a good five minutes when I only have to push a button to start the coffee.
I just hope that I don't remember that I prepped the coffee tomorrow morning. I'll just use it as another excuse to sleep in.
1.16.2005
such a lonely word.
I am a big fan of honesty. No, not the Billy Joel song, thought it's not bad. I mean the concept of not being a big liar. I know some big liars, and their lack of honesty is my least favorite thing about them. And I know some very honest people, and their honesty is one of my favorite things about them. My philosophy is to give me the truth, because I can handle it. And if it turns out that I can't, well, then it's my own fault for asking for it.
Casey is a very honest person. When he tells me something, I believe him unconditionally. If I want to know something, I ask him, he tells me, I trust him, and that's that. I love that I can do that with him.
All this leads up to going shopping with my beloved the other day. I found a pair of pants, lovely blue ones on sale for ten bucks. I went into the dressing room to try them on, and I found them to be questionable. They didn't fit so well or so badly that I immediately knew whether or not to buy them. So I poked my head outside to ask Casey's opinion on them. He said, "They're not very flattering."
Did I say I was a fan of honesty? I didn't mean it.
It's true, I asked for his opinion, and I would have wanted him to give me his true opinion. And if someone had asked me what I didn't like about the pants, I would have said, "Well, they're maybe not as flattering as I would like." I would have used the exact word that he used. So why is this any different? Why did my eyes widen in an expression of extreme injury when he gave his verdict on the pants?
I dunno, it's just different. In the world of relationships, there is an understanding that all pants are flattering, girlfriends are not fat, and size does not matter. And it wasn't that I disagreed with his assessment of the pants and the way they looked on me, I was just shocked to hear him say it. Apparently, love isn't so blind after all. Not only can it see, love thinks I look fat in those pants.
It's okay, really. I'm ready to joke about it, which he will say means that I'm not over it at all (That's not an unfair assumption; jokes mean many different things in my world). I asked for the truth, and it turns out I can handle it. Maybe next time I should ask for tact, too.
Needless to say, I did not get the pants. I never would have been able to put them on without thinking about how unflattering they were. And maybe next time, I'll just go shopping with my big fat liar friends.
Casey is a very honest person. When he tells me something, I believe him unconditionally. If I want to know something, I ask him, he tells me, I trust him, and that's that. I love that I can do that with him.
All this leads up to going shopping with my beloved the other day. I found a pair of pants, lovely blue ones on sale for ten bucks. I went into the dressing room to try them on, and I found them to be questionable. They didn't fit so well or so badly that I immediately knew whether or not to buy them. So I poked my head outside to ask Casey's opinion on them. He said, "They're not very flattering."
Did I say I was a fan of honesty? I didn't mean it.
It's true, I asked for his opinion, and I would have wanted him to give me his true opinion. And if someone had asked me what I didn't like about the pants, I would have said, "Well, they're maybe not as flattering as I would like." I would have used the exact word that he used. So why is this any different? Why did my eyes widen in an expression of extreme injury when he gave his verdict on the pants?
I dunno, it's just different. In the world of relationships, there is an understanding that all pants are flattering, girlfriends are not fat, and size does not matter. And it wasn't that I disagreed with his assessment of the pants and the way they looked on me, I was just shocked to hear him say it. Apparently, love isn't so blind after all. Not only can it see, love thinks I look fat in those pants.
It's okay, really. I'm ready to joke about it, which he will say means that I'm not over it at all (That's not an unfair assumption; jokes mean many different things in my world). I asked for the truth, and it turns out I can handle it. Maybe next time I should ask for tact, too.
Needless to say, I did not get the pants. I never would have been able to put them on without thinking about how unflattering they were. And maybe next time, I'll just go shopping with my big fat liar friends.
1.15.2005
the only fashionable computer scientist.
Tuesday, I start my life as a working woman. So by Tuesday, I need to come up with some working woman wear. Just what does a computer scientist wear once she's exhausted her supply of Linux t-shirts?
The majority of my clothing would not constitute as business casual. Until now, I've had very few occasions to wear work clothes. Basically, the only time I had to wear business clothes was when I went to interviews so that I could earn the right to wear them every day. Now I have that right, and now I have to find some clothes, because I think even computer scientists would notice if I wore the same suit every day.
I've actually been on the lookout for work clothes for months now. By that, I mean that I've been browsing thrift store racks with the idea of work clothes in mind. I haven't come up with much. As much as I love thrift shopping, when you need something, it's not very helpful.
I'm trying to get a lot of basic pieces to create a good mix-and-match situation for myself. Computer scientists won't notice that I'm wearing the same black pants three times a week if I wear three different shirts with them. All I need is a versatile pair of khakis and two more shirts and I've got a workweek covered.
I've also recently discovered tights. Maybe I should say that I re-discovered, since I'm pretty sure I discovered them initially a good fifteen years ago. I hated them then. Now, they are the best thing ever. Take a casual skirt, add some tights, and suddenly that skirt is business casual. Plus, they squeeze in excess flesh, and you don't have to shave your legs! That's legwear that I can get on board with.
I probably have enough to last me a couple of weeks. Then I can just wash the whole batch (I've been buying only machine washable fabrics, of course) and then start all over again. I even bought a special mesh bag so I can wash the five pairs of tights I bought today (JCPenney's, 70% off). Of course, I really don't know why I bother. It's not like these computer scientists are even going to notice what I wear.
The majority of my clothing would not constitute as business casual. Until now, I've had very few occasions to wear work clothes. Basically, the only time I had to wear business clothes was when I went to interviews so that I could earn the right to wear them every day. Now I have that right, and now I have to find some clothes, because I think even computer scientists would notice if I wore the same suit every day.
I've actually been on the lookout for work clothes for months now. By that, I mean that I've been browsing thrift store racks with the idea of work clothes in mind. I haven't come up with much. As much as I love thrift shopping, when you need something, it's not very helpful.
I'm trying to get a lot of basic pieces to create a good mix-and-match situation for myself. Computer scientists won't notice that I'm wearing the same black pants three times a week if I wear three different shirts with them. All I need is a versatile pair of khakis and two more shirts and I've got a workweek covered.
I've also recently discovered tights. Maybe I should say that I re-discovered, since I'm pretty sure I discovered them initially a good fifteen years ago. I hated them then. Now, they are the best thing ever. Take a casual skirt, add some tights, and suddenly that skirt is business casual. Plus, they squeeze in excess flesh, and you don't have to shave your legs! That's legwear that I can get on board with.
I probably have enough to last me a couple of weeks. Then I can just wash the whole batch (I've been buying only machine washable fabrics, of course) and then start all over again. I even bought a special mesh bag so I can wash the five pairs of tights I bought today (JCPenney's, 70% off). Of course, I really don't know why I bother. It's not like these computer scientists are even going to notice what I wear.
1.13.2005
my father's daughter.
My sister Carla tells the story of going to some soda store (The Pop Shop? The Pop Stop?) with my dad when she was a little girl. She wanted to try something different, so she went for a Diet Pepsi. Daddy took it away, telling her it was gross and she didn't want it. So she got something else. Daddy paid for the drinks, including one for himself, and they went out to the truck to enjoy their cool frosty beverages. Daddy took a great big sip of his and then spit it out all over the place. He had forgotten to put back the Diet Pepsi he took from her and ended up getting it for himself.
This is classic Daddy. He's the kind of fella who sees the big words on a product and then ignores all the little qualifiers. Let me tell you, those qualifiers are important. The only time we ever had any sort of fat-free or diet or low sugar version of a regular product was if Daddy bought it and just didn't pay attention to what he was getting. If for some reason you hated things that taste good and wanted the low-fat crap, he could not be relied upon to bring that home either. Basically, it was whatever he saw first.
Daddy is a very intelligent man; he's just not one of those attention-to-detail kind of guys. And that's no big deal. We can all just suck it up and eat the low-fat yoghurt. Or, we can avoid eating it until it goes bad and then next time not let Daddy do the grocery shopping. To be fair, usually the thing he gets is something only he eats anyway, and in true Daddy style, he doesn't seem to notice the difference.
Then, last week, I bought a quart of fat-free half and half. Man, it sucked.
I realized my mistake as I was putting the offensive stuff away, but I wasn't about to drive ten minutes back into town to exchange it. As important as fat levels in dairy products are to me, making an extra trip for the sake of full-fat cream was silly.
So I used the stupid fat-free stuff. I drink a lot of coffee and hot tea, so I use a lot of half and half. And apparently, the fat is the good stuff. I had to use much more cream per cup of beverage to get it to taste/look right. Which turned out to be not such a bad thing, since it meant I got rid of the fat-free cream quicker. This morning, I used the last of it, and I'm now enjoying a nice cup of Earl Grey with all the fat. And it's good.
So now I'll pay more attention to the words on the containers I buy before I put myself on a diet without realizing it. Of course, now I live a mile from the grocery store, and I'll go back and exchange that sucker before I suffer through another week of defattened cream.
This is classic Daddy. He's the kind of fella who sees the big words on a product and then ignores all the little qualifiers. Let me tell you, those qualifiers are important. The only time we ever had any sort of fat-free or diet or low sugar version of a regular product was if Daddy bought it and just didn't pay attention to what he was getting. If for some reason you hated things that taste good and wanted the low-fat crap, he could not be relied upon to bring that home either. Basically, it was whatever he saw first.
Daddy is a very intelligent man; he's just not one of those attention-to-detail kind of guys. And that's no big deal. We can all just suck it up and eat the low-fat yoghurt. Or, we can avoid eating it until it goes bad and then next time not let Daddy do the grocery shopping. To be fair, usually the thing he gets is something only he eats anyway, and in true Daddy style, he doesn't seem to notice the difference.
Then, last week, I bought a quart of fat-free half and half. Man, it sucked.
I realized my mistake as I was putting the offensive stuff away, but I wasn't about to drive ten minutes back into town to exchange it. As important as fat levels in dairy products are to me, making an extra trip for the sake of full-fat cream was silly.
So I used the stupid fat-free stuff. I drink a lot of coffee and hot tea, so I use a lot of half and half. And apparently, the fat is the good stuff. I had to use much more cream per cup of beverage to get it to taste/look right. Which turned out to be not such a bad thing, since it meant I got rid of the fat-free cream quicker. This morning, I used the last of it, and I'm now enjoying a nice cup of Earl Grey with all the fat. And it's good.
So now I'll pay more attention to the words on the containers I buy before I put myself on a diet without realizing it. Of course, now I live a mile from the grocery store, and I'll go back and exchange that sucker before I suffer through another week of defattened cream.
1.12.2005
dance like no one's watching.
I can deal with solitude. True, I need my regular dose of social contact, but it does not take much for me to overdose. Then just leave me alone. I have no problem with my own company even if public opinion seems to say that it sucks.
That being said, I do get lonely from time to time. It doesn't happen much, and usually I can just give somebody a call and ask if they want to hang out. I am fortunate to be blessed with many people who are just fine being my friends of convenience. They don't take it too personally.
But now I've gone and ruined all that by moving to a city where I don't know anyone. Suddenly, being a friend of convenience to someone an hour and a half away isn't so convenient anymore. So I turn to my other friends: books.
I read a lot when I'm lonely. And by a lot, I mean Oh-Dear-Lord-How-Does-A-Body-Intake-That-Much-Literature. When I consume words, they really consume me. Most books to me are the kind that I can't put down. Luckily, I read fast, so I only lose like six hours of my life with every book. Today, I read a book. And the day before yesterday, I read a book. Now, I need to unpack some more so I can find a book to read tomorrow.
As far as I can tell, I started doing this the summer before my senior year of high school. I went to Governor's School that summer, and I didn't know anybody then either. And though I was perfectly happy reading, I didn't want to do that the whole summer. So I made sure and positioned my reading spots in places where people would hang out. I also tried to read interesting books, so that these same people would think that I was interesting. I read three books that first week, checked out from the Old Salem library (which is not very extensive), and I read them out by the fish pond. By the beginning of the second week, I had become a part of the fish pond crowd, and I didn't read another book the whole summer.
Last night, I stopped at the Lewisville branch of the Forsyth County Public Library and applied for a library card. I'm very excited. The Lewisville branch is smaller than my apartment, but I can order anything from any of the eight other branches via the website and have it sent to the tiny one a block from my house for convenient pick-up. The only possible way that idea could be improved is if they were to actually bring it to my door with a complimentary cup of Earl Grey.
I even thought about joining the book club that meets at the Lewisville library, but I'm afraid I'd walk into a room of middle-aged housewives for an hour long discourse on a Nicholas Sparks novel. Here there is no fish pond for me to go read by, though there is a park where old men go to power-walk. Somehow, that's not quite the same.
The point here is not that I am lonely; I've only been here five days. The point is that I wish I read more. I enjoy reading when I do it, and even if I feel like the book wasn't that great as a whole, I can usually glean something from everything I read. So now I add one to that old phrase: Work like you don't need money, love like you've never been hurt, dance like no one's watching, and read like you've just moved to a new town where you don't know anybody.
That being said, I do get lonely from time to time. It doesn't happen much, and usually I can just give somebody a call and ask if they want to hang out. I am fortunate to be blessed with many people who are just fine being my friends of convenience. They don't take it too personally.
But now I've gone and ruined all that by moving to a city where I don't know anyone. Suddenly, being a friend of convenience to someone an hour and a half away isn't so convenient anymore. So I turn to my other friends: books.
I read a lot when I'm lonely. And by a lot, I mean Oh-Dear-Lord-How-Does-A-Body-Intake-That-Much-Literature. When I consume words, they really consume me. Most books to me are the kind that I can't put down. Luckily, I read fast, so I only lose like six hours of my life with every book. Today, I read a book. And the day before yesterday, I read a book. Now, I need to unpack some more so I can find a book to read tomorrow.
As far as I can tell, I started doing this the summer before my senior year of high school. I went to Governor's School that summer, and I didn't know anybody then either. And though I was perfectly happy reading, I didn't want to do that the whole summer. So I made sure and positioned my reading spots in places where people would hang out. I also tried to read interesting books, so that these same people would think that I was interesting. I read three books that first week, checked out from the Old Salem library (which is not very extensive), and I read them out by the fish pond. By the beginning of the second week, I had become a part of the fish pond crowd, and I didn't read another book the whole summer.
Last night, I stopped at the Lewisville branch of the Forsyth County Public Library and applied for a library card. I'm very excited. The Lewisville branch is smaller than my apartment, but I can order anything from any of the eight other branches via the website and have it sent to the tiny one a block from my house for convenient pick-up. The only possible way that idea could be improved is if they were to actually bring it to my door with a complimentary cup of Earl Grey.
I even thought about joining the book club that meets at the Lewisville library, but I'm afraid I'd walk into a room of middle-aged housewives for an hour long discourse on a Nicholas Sparks novel. Here there is no fish pond for me to go read by, though there is a park where old men go to power-walk. Somehow, that's not quite the same.
The point here is not that I am lonely; I've only been here five days. The point is that I wish I read more. I enjoy reading when I do it, and even if I feel like the book wasn't that great as a whole, I can usually glean something from everything I read. So now I add one to that old phrase: Work like you don't need money, love like you've never been hurt, dance like no one's watching, and read like you've just moved to a new town where you don't know anybody.
1.11.2005
read my lips.
When I was in elementary school, my classmates and I were submitted to all the usual extra-curricular type classes required by the state or the county or just general unwritten public school rules. We had music and spanish and drama. In music we learned about composers and in spanish we learned about the confusing idea of objects having genders. I am at a complete loss as to what we learned in drama. Most of the time we had a male teacher who later got into trouble for something or other and was not allowed to teach little children anymore.
But during my first grade year, we had Ms. Reis. She did teach some sort of acting, as I distinctly remember being a puppy learning to walk. But she also taught ventriloquism. She had a dummy named Dr. Pepper. This was back in the day when I was insanely popular and all the little first grade boys had crushes on me. And so somehow, maybe from the suggestion of all the little first grade boys, Dr. Pepper developed a crush on me. First grade merriment ensued.
Through Dr. Pepper, Ms. Reis taught us how to talk without moving our lips. She taught us the troublesome letters, like B and V, which you couldn't really say without the use of your lips. There were only about six of these letters, and I figured that was a pretty low percentage. I was amazed at all the things you could say without looking like you said it.
And I loved ventriloquism. We were encouraged to bring in our own puppets. I brought a sock that I swiped from Daddy's drawer because I was not one of those rich kids that had a lot of impressive puppets lying around. For the other poor kids, the ones without the imagination to bring a sock, Ms. Reis supplied giant sesame seed hamburger buns to use for practice.
I wouldn't dare say that I am any good at ventriloquism. It's not something that I would attempt for a living. But it's useful. Ms. Reis shared her lovely craft, and gave me a fabulous way to talk in class and never, ever get in trouble. Between minimizing lip movement and perfecting the art of saying something just loud enough to be heard by neighbors but not by teachers, I talked pretty much nonstop all the way through college. The only times I got in trouble were the times that whoever I was talking to had not mastered those arts. Sometimes my teachers suspected me, since people around me would be hiding snickers and I'd be sitting there with the most innocent of looks on my face. But they didn't hear me, and they didn't see my lips move. What could they do?
But here's the best part, particularly if you're a big fan of irony like I am. Ms. Reis was only our drama teacher that one year. I didn't see her again until sixth grade, when she suddenly became my chorus teacher. Apparently she was a woman of many talents. I sat in the middle of the third row of her class, and again, I amused myself during class by making constant comments under my breath. One day, Ms. Reis was griping about a couple of girls who were talking during her class. She asked why they couldn't be quiet all the time, just like Sandra. My neighbors, the only witnesses to my crimes of conversation, were amazed. The moment was probably the only time in the class that I was silent, but only because I was trying so hard not to laugh. It's harder to do that without moving your lips.
But during my first grade year, we had Ms. Reis. She did teach some sort of acting, as I distinctly remember being a puppy learning to walk. But she also taught ventriloquism. She had a dummy named Dr. Pepper. This was back in the day when I was insanely popular and all the little first grade boys had crushes on me. And so somehow, maybe from the suggestion of all the little first grade boys, Dr. Pepper developed a crush on me. First grade merriment ensued.
Through Dr. Pepper, Ms. Reis taught us how to talk without moving our lips. She taught us the troublesome letters, like B and V, which you couldn't really say without the use of your lips. There were only about six of these letters, and I figured that was a pretty low percentage. I was amazed at all the things you could say without looking like you said it.
And I loved ventriloquism. We were encouraged to bring in our own puppets. I brought a sock that I swiped from Daddy's drawer because I was not one of those rich kids that had a lot of impressive puppets lying around. For the other poor kids, the ones without the imagination to bring a sock, Ms. Reis supplied giant sesame seed hamburger buns to use for practice.
I wouldn't dare say that I am any good at ventriloquism. It's not something that I would attempt for a living. But it's useful. Ms. Reis shared her lovely craft, and gave me a fabulous way to talk in class and never, ever get in trouble. Between minimizing lip movement and perfecting the art of saying something just loud enough to be heard by neighbors but not by teachers, I talked pretty much nonstop all the way through college. The only times I got in trouble were the times that whoever I was talking to had not mastered those arts. Sometimes my teachers suspected me, since people around me would be hiding snickers and I'd be sitting there with the most innocent of looks on my face. But they didn't hear me, and they didn't see my lips move. What could they do?
But here's the best part, particularly if you're a big fan of irony like I am. Ms. Reis was only our drama teacher that one year. I didn't see her again until sixth grade, when she suddenly became my chorus teacher. Apparently she was a woman of many talents. I sat in the middle of the third row of her class, and again, I amused myself during class by making constant comments under my breath. One day, Ms. Reis was griping about a couple of girls who were talking during her class. She asked why they couldn't be quiet all the time, just like Sandra. My neighbors, the only witnesses to my crimes of conversation, were amazed. The moment was probably the only time in the class that I was silent, but only because I was trying so hard not to laugh. It's harder to do that without moving your lips.
1.07.2005
forced hiatus.
For the next few days, I will be taking a brief hiatus of the no-internet-access variety. It will last about as long as all the other brief breaks I've been taking lately. Those breaks have been more of the no-inspiration or no-motivation or just-plain-lazy variety. According to Time Warner, my no-internet-access hiatus will end sometime on Tuesday between the hours of 10 am and noon. After that, just assume I'm being lazy.
So yes, I'm moving. I've been packing off and on for over a week now, and I'm now down to the objects that either I will need up until the very last minute or just things that are shaped weirdly and don't fit anywhere.
I'm very excited. Not about the actual moving; that part sucks. But I'm excited about living in a new place and taking all my stuff and arranging it in a new way. And I think moving is a good thing for me in that it forces me to get rid of crap, of which I have a lot. Granted, I got it at a good price, but crap is crap. I've taken tons of clothes and little odds and ends to the mobile Goodwill donation center. This morning, I took a desk chair, a TV stand, and a large mirror. I rewarded myself by buying a new coffee table. That seems like a fair trade, right?
But enough. I have to get back to packing all the crap I decided to keep. When I'm not doing that, I'll be busy worrying about rain and breakage and tornadoes and any other unlikely possibilities that I manage to come up with. It should be a good time.
So yes, I'm moving. I've been packing off and on for over a week now, and I'm now down to the objects that either I will need up until the very last minute or just things that are shaped weirdly and don't fit anywhere.
I'm very excited. Not about the actual moving; that part sucks. But I'm excited about living in a new place and taking all my stuff and arranging it in a new way. And I think moving is a good thing for me in that it forces me to get rid of crap, of which I have a lot. Granted, I got it at a good price, but crap is crap. I've taken tons of clothes and little odds and ends to the mobile Goodwill donation center. This morning, I took a desk chair, a TV stand, and a large mirror. I rewarded myself by buying a new coffee table. That seems like a fair trade, right?
But enough. I have to get back to packing all the crap I decided to keep. When I'm not doing that, I'll be busy worrying about rain and breakage and tornadoes and any other unlikely possibilities that I manage to come up with. It should be a good time.
1.03.2005
a farewell to boone: the perfect reuben.
It took me a couple of years of living in Boone to find The Perfect Reuben. First I had to discover that despite the fact that pretty much every ingredient in a reuben is gross, nothing beats them when they are combined properly. I realized that fact when working at Vintner's, which served Very Good reubens, though maybe not perfect.
For the uninformed, a reuben is a sandwich consisting of corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese, and some sauce closely related to Thousand Island dressing all served together on toasted rye bread. And I hate sauerkraut and rye bread. I never eat corned beef or Thousand Island when it is not on a reuben. Swiss cheese I enjoy every once in a while when I can't get provolone.
That being said, it is no wonder that it took me so long to try a reuben. And had I tried the wrong reuben, then I never would have discovered how very good they can be. But the secret is the ratio, that is the amount of corned beef to the amount of sauerkraut to the amount of sauce to the amount of cheese. The amount of rye bread is pretty much a constant two slices, unless you are dealing with one of those avant-garde open faced reubens, which I just made up. When the ratio is done right, you never taste any individual ingredient of the reuben, only the conglomeration. The reuben is the sandwich illustration of "United we stand, divided we fall," except it's more like "United we taste yummy, divided we are crap." It's the most patriotic sandwich I know.
After discovering that reubens were good, I went through a stage where that's pretty much all I ever ordered everywhere I went. I immediately discovered that some reubens are bad, and some are Very Bad. Macado's, for instance, makes a terrible reuben. Way too much corned beef - the ratio is all wrong. Murphy's reuben is bad, too. The reuben at Pepper's is okay. The ratio is close, but not quite right. Carribean Cafe used to have a pretty good reuben, if a little greasy, but then they closed down.
No, The Perfect Reuben can be made to order at Our Daily Bread in downtown Boone. The ratio is perfect, the ingredients are fresh, and the meat is well-sliced. I am passed the stage where I eat reubens all the time, but I get the craving every once in a while, and Our Daily Bread is always where I go to satisfy the reuben urge. It's consisently perfect, and then there is happiness in my mouth.
But now, I am moving, and an hour and a half is a little far to go just for The Perfect Reuben. I knew that I would have to find a new hairdresser, a new doctor, a new dentist, but finding a new reuben place just only occurred to me today. So I drove into downtown Boone this evening to have my symbolic last reuben as a resident of Watauga County. I would have been sad, if not for the distracting idea that I was about to have a reuben from Our Daily Bread.
And it was Perfect.
For the uninformed, a reuben is a sandwich consisting of corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese, and some sauce closely related to Thousand Island dressing all served together on toasted rye bread. And I hate sauerkraut and rye bread. I never eat corned beef or Thousand Island when it is not on a reuben. Swiss cheese I enjoy every once in a while when I can't get provolone.
That being said, it is no wonder that it took me so long to try a reuben. And had I tried the wrong reuben, then I never would have discovered how very good they can be. But the secret is the ratio, that is the amount of corned beef to the amount of sauerkraut to the amount of sauce to the amount of cheese. The amount of rye bread is pretty much a constant two slices, unless you are dealing with one of those avant-garde open faced reubens, which I just made up. When the ratio is done right, you never taste any individual ingredient of the reuben, only the conglomeration. The reuben is the sandwich illustration of "United we stand, divided we fall," except it's more like "United we taste yummy, divided we are crap." It's the most patriotic sandwich I know.
After discovering that reubens were good, I went through a stage where that's pretty much all I ever ordered everywhere I went. I immediately discovered that some reubens are bad, and some are Very Bad. Macado's, for instance, makes a terrible reuben. Way too much corned beef - the ratio is all wrong. Murphy's reuben is bad, too. The reuben at Pepper's is okay. The ratio is close, but not quite right. Carribean Cafe used to have a pretty good reuben, if a little greasy, but then they closed down.
No, The Perfect Reuben can be made to order at Our Daily Bread in downtown Boone. The ratio is perfect, the ingredients are fresh, and the meat is well-sliced. I am passed the stage where I eat reubens all the time, but I get the craving every once in a while, and Our Daily Bread is always where I go to satisfy the reuben urge. It's consisently perfect, and then there is happiness in my mouth.
But now, I am moving, and an hour and a half is a little far to go just for The Perfect Reuben. I knew that I would have to find a new hairdresser, a new doctor, a new dentist, but finding a new reuben place just only occurred to me today. So I drove into downtown Boone this evening to have my symbolic last reuben as a resident of Watauga County. I would have been sad, if not for the distracting idea that I was about to have a reuben from Our Daily Bread.
And it was Perfect.
12.29.2004
keep stomping.
My downstairs neighbor, Zoe, has been AWOL the past couple of weeks. Well, she's probably not really lost, but since I don't know where she is and I haven't asked, that gives me the right to make up interesting explanations for where she is. Maybe she's joined the circus, or maybe she's on a secret spy mission. Maybe she is on tour with a Journey revival band.
Whatever.
Anyway, while she's been gone, her boyfriend has been house-sitting. I didn't realize he was even there until I came in one night last week to find my kitchen appliances vibrating. Stupid rap music with its ridiculous bass beats. A less uptight person might have made the best of the situation and pulled out my turntables and played along. Not me. I stomped downstairs to bang on the door. Of course he didn't hear me. The music was too loud. I love a good slap of irony in the face.
It was ludicrous. I don't care if the guy listens to loud music, but it should not make the house shake. I'm not even sure how he can stand it (and I'm refering solely to the volume issue; how he stands the music is a whole other question).
I went back upstairs and stomped around the kitchen, hoping he would get the hint. After a few minutes, he cut the music off and left, slamming the door as he went. Not that the story is over.
Today he was back, and the music either wasn't quite as loud, or the bass just wasn't as prominent. It started out with a soulful female solo, and I looked up from my computer, startled. It sounded like it was actually coming from my kitchen, and I half expected to see the angel of the Lord standing there. The music was better today, but still much too loud. So I stomped around the kitchen and thought mean thoughts about both the guy downstairs and his taste in music until he finally went away again.
I in no way imagine that this is over. But it's close enough for me to not do anything. I'm moving within the next couple of weeks, and my passive aggressive personality does not need much excuse to avoid confrontation. So all I can do is keep stomping. That, and hope he at least starts listening to better music.
Whatever.
Anyway, while she's been gone, her boyfriend has been house-sitting. I didn't realize he was even there until I came in one night last week to find my kitchen appliances vibrating. Stupid rap music with its ridiculous bass beats. A less uptight person might have made the best of the situation and pulled out my turntables and played along. Not me. I stomped downstairs to bang on the door. Of course he didn't hear me. The music was too loud. I love a good slap of irony in the face.
It was ludicrous. I don't care if the guy listens to loud music, but it should not make the house shake. I'm not even sure how he can stand it (and I'm refering solely to the volume issue; how he stands the music is a whole other question).
I went back upstairs and stomped around the kitchen, hoping he would get the hint. After a few minutes, he cut the music off and left, slamming the door as he went. Not that the story is over.
Today he was back, and the music either wasn't quite as loud, or the bass just wasn't as prominent. It started out with a soulful female solo, and I looked up from my computer, startled. It sounded like it was actually coming from my kitchen, and I half expected to see the angel of the Lord standing there. The music was better today, but still much too loud. So I stomped around the kitchen and thought mean thoughts about both the guy downstairs and his taste in music until he finally went away again.
I in no way imagine that this is over. But it's close enough for me to not do anything. I'm moving within the next couple of weeks, and my passive aggressive personality does not need much excuse to avoid confrontation. So all I can do is keep stomping. That, and hope he at least starts listening to better music.
12.27.2004
apartment 1.
My mother loves wind chimes. When in doubt around her birthday, spring for wind chimes. I like them okay, maybe because they remind me of her.
I do own one set. They hang above my couch in the living room, which despite its proximity to the ceiling fan, is not a very windy spot. But the awful irony of wind chimes is that when you actually put them out in the wind, they tend to tear up and get battered and broken. Perhaps this is a marketing trick the wind chime companies came up with. My mom had one on the front porch with little porcelain doves. The noise it made was very pretty, but I tried not to look at all those headless and tailless birds very often.
My set is made of bamboo stalks, and they make a lovely noise as well, though I have to physically reach out and touch them to create that lovely noise. I bought them not long after I moved into this place as an audio reminder, not of my mother, but of 216 Howard Street, Apartment 1.
Apartment 1 was, appropriately enough, my first apartment. I lived there with two other girls, and then later with two girls and a husband, not mine. And in the kitchen of Apartment 1, which was painted yellow by me, there hung a bamboo wind chime from one of the pipes that came out of the ceiling. And even though the kitchen was not a very drafty place, I heard those chimes all the time.
The chimes hung down next to the light switch. Pavlov's dog drooled when he heard a bell, but me, I turn on the light when I hear a bamboo wind chime.
You heard it in the mornings when Ashley went in to make coffee. You heard it in the afternoons when I came in from class to make lunch. And you heard it at night when Krystal came in from going out to party. No matter when you heard it, you almays always heard the same tune, the same sequence of hollow notes, because we always hit them in the same way as our hands made for the lights.
I think we meant to move them. We just hung them there when we moved into Apartment 1 to get them out of the way. And then we didn't move them until two years later we we all left Apartment 1. We even had another set of metal chimes shaped like elephants that hung outside from the porch. And I don't remember what they sound like at all, not even the tone of notes that those elephants made in the wind. But I do remember the exact bong-da-long bong-bong of those bamboo chimes in the kitchen of Apartment 1 announcing that someone was home and the lights were on.
When I hit my own bamboo chimes hanging above the couch, they don't play the same bong-da-long bong-bong song the ones in Apartment 1 did. But I hear it in my head just the same. And I turn on the light.
I do own one set. They hang above my couch in the living room, which despite its proximity to the ceiling fan, is not a very windy spot. But the awful irony of wind chimes is that when you actually put them out in the wind, they tend to tear up and get battered and broken. Perhaps this is a marketing trick the wind chime companies came up with. My mom had one on the front porch with little porcelain doves. The noise it made was very pretty, but I tried not to look at all those headless and tailless birds very often.
My set is made of bamboo stalks, and they make a lovely noise as well, though I have to physically reach out and touch them to create that lovely noise. I bought them not long after I moved into this place as an audio reminder, not of my mother, but of 216 Howard Street, Apartment 1.
Apartment 1 was, appropriately enough, my first apartment. I lived there with two other girls, and then later with two girls and a husband, not mine. And in the kitchen of Apartment 1, which was painted yellow by me, there hung a bamboo wind chime from one of the pipes that came out of the ceiling. And even though the kitchen was not a very drafty place, I heard those chimes all the time.
The chimes hung down next to the light switch. Pavlov's dog drooled when he heard a bell, but me, I turn on the light when I hear a bamboo wind chime.
You heard it in the mornings when Ashley went in to make coffee. You heard it in the afternoons when I came in from class to make lunch. And you heard it at night when Krystal came in from going out to party. No matter when you heard it, you almays always heard the same tune, the same sequence of hollow notes, because we always hit them in the same way as our hands made for the lights.
I think we meant to move them. We just hung them there when we moved into Apartment 1 to get them out of the way. And then we didn't move them until two years later we we all left Apartment 1. We even had another set of metal chimes shaped like elephants that hung outside from the porch. And I don't remember what they sound like at all, not even the tone of notes that those elephants made in the wind. But I do remember the exact bong-da-long bong-bong of those bamboo chimes in the kitchen of Apartment 1 announcing that someone was home and the lights were on.
When I hit my own bamboo chimes hanging above the couch, they don't play the same bong-da-long bong-bong song the ones in Apartment 1 did. But I hear it in my head just the same. And I turn on the light.
12.20.2004
stupidstupidstupid.
Okay. So I know that I haven't worked at The Bistro in over three weeks, but I was still invited to the Christmas Party, mostly because I still did work there when we drew names for Secret Santa. And I had every intention of going, even as I put in my notice, even as I worked my last day, even as the party drew closer and closer and I wanted less and less to go. I was determined to go to the stupid party, if nothing else than just to prove everyone wrong. They clearly thought I was not coming, all because of the Pig-Pickin' incident.
There was another employee holiday party at Halloween. I was expected to attend. I said I would attend, and I was signed up to bring brownies. The thing is, Halloween is the day after my birthday. When I said I would be at the pig-pickin', I obviously intended to drink more water and less alcohol the night before than I actually did. So on Halloween, I was very very sick. Hungover sick that I did to myself, but sick enough that I couldn't go to any stupid pig-pickin' where vomiting would not be encouraged. I called and told them I was sick. I even admitted the reason, thinking that since I worked with a bunch of partiers, they would understand. Not only did they not understand, they didn't even believe my excuse. (Apparently, when you drink frequently, you handle hangovers better or something. I have no idea.)
So it was clear that there was some doubt as to whether I would make it to the Christmas party, which was last night. But I was going to go. I had cookies and I had my Secret Santa gift. I was going to go to this stupid party. I only became even more determined when I received a message on my answering machine reminding me of the party this past weekend.
I spent the day down the mountain with my sister-in-law baking cookies for this party yesterday. Around the time that I needed to leave, the weather started getting iffy. I left for the party anyway, because that's just how stubborn I am. But I called my apartment to check my messages, just to see if the party had been changed because of the weather. Sure enough, I had a message from my old boss, saying the party had been moved to "tomorrow at five-thirty". Since I was hearing the message on Sunday, I assumed that meant the party was now on Monday. You can see where I am going here.
I get back to my apartment a few minutes ago and there is a new message. It is from one of my former coworkers, basically telling me off for not showing up, not calling, and not dropping off my Secret Santa gift. As the result of my inconsiderate actions, someone didn't have a gift under the tree. (Apparently, this sort of inconsiderate action ran rampant last night, as I also did not have a gift under the tree.) The message I heard Sunday night was left on Saturday night. Now I have a batch of cookies and a present for someone else and a restaurant full of people mad at me.
I'm going to go in tonight and apologize. I'm going to give the present I bought and I'm going to share the cookies I helped make. I'm going to tell them what happened. I will not expect to be believed. I will expect to be talked about in disparaging tones once I leave. That is what I am going to do.
What I am going to try to do is not let this bug me. There was a misunderstanding, and I'm going to do the most I can do to make it right. But if I am not forgiven, I will say "Screw it" and get on with my life.
Then I will eat all of the rest of the cookies all by myself in one sitting.
There was another employee holiday party at Halloween. I was expected to attend. I said I would attend, and I was signed up to bring brownies. The thing is, Halloween is the day after my birthday. When I said I would be at the pig-pickin', I obviously intended to drink more water and less alcohol the night before than I actually did. So on Halloween, I was very very sick. Hungover sick that I did to myself, but sick enough that I couldn't go to any stupid pig-pickin' where vomiting would not be encouraged. I called and told them I was sick. I even admitted the reason, thinking that since I worked with a bunch of partiers, they would understand. Not only did they not understand, they didn't even believe my excuse. (Apparently, when you drink frequently, you handle hangovers better or something. I have no idea.)
So it was clear that there was some doubt as to whether I would make it to the Christmas party, which was last night. But I was going to go. I had cookies and I had my Secret Santa gift. I was going to go to this stupid party. I only became even more determined when I received a message on my answering machine reminding me of the party this past weekend.
I spent the day down the mountain with my sister-in-law baking cookies for this party yesterday. Around the time that I needed to leave, the weather started getting iffy. I left for the party anyway, because that's just how stubborn I am. But I called my apartment to check my messages, just to see if the party had been changed because of the weather. Sure enough, I had a message from my old boss, saying the party had been moved to "tomorrow at five-thirty". Since I was hearing the message on Sunday, I assumed that meant the party was now on Monday. You can see where I am going here.
I get back to my apartment a few minutes ago and there is a new message. It is from one of my former coworkers, basically telling me off for not showing up, not calling, and not dropping off my Secret Santa gift. As the result of my inconsiderate actions, someone didn't have a gift under the tree. (Apparently, this sort of inconsiderate action ran rampant last night, as I also did not have a gift under the tree.) The message I heard Sunday night was left on Saturday night. Now I have a batch of cookies and a present for someone else and a restaurant full of people mad at me.
I'm going to go in tonight and apologize. I'm going to give the present I bought and I'm going to share the cookies I helped make. I'm going to tell them what happened. I will not expect to be believed. I will expect to be talked about in disparaging tones once I leave. That is what I am going to do.
What I am going to try to do is not let this bug me. There was a misunderstanding, and I'm going to do the most I can do to make it right. But if I am not forgiven, I will say "Screw it" and get on with my life.
Then I will eat all of the rest of the cookies all by myself in one sitting.
12.12.2004
numberOfPeopleYouKnowWithJobsInTheComputerIndustry++;
Forgive the computer science joke in the title. It's okay if you don't get it. Laugh, it's funny.
After months of feeling dejected and rejected, worrying about my future, and sending out my resume to companies all over the South, I have a job. Don't worry, it's official. I signed a paper that said that I accept the offer of employment and that I will not work for any other trucking-related software companies.
I'm going to have a job with benefits. I'm going to have medical and dental coverage, paid vacation and a 401k. Nevermind that I had to look up exactly what a 401k is on the Fidelity Financial site. Now that I know, I am very excited about planning for my retirement in 40 years. I will not have to work on Thanksgiving or the day after. In fact, I will be paid to not work on either of those days, plus another seven holidays every year.
I'm going to have a salary. I'm not going to live off the generosity and tipping know-how of strangers. I don't have to ask anyone how they want their filet cooked, and I won't care if someone's coffee cup is full or not.
I'm going to work somewhere where I will not be the biggest dork. I will make computer jokes, and people will understand them. Moreover, they will laugh, because I will be the only female employee under the age of 35.
I'm going to live in the (comparatively) big city. I'm going to live in a town where they have a Best Buy, a Total Wine & More, and a mall that does not sell furniture. I will live close enough to a Sam's Club to merit getting a membership. I'm going to be able to give directions based on the interstate.
I'm going to live somewhere where there are about 185,776 other people living (based on 2000 census reports), and I will know two of them. I will live two hours from family and an hour and a half from where I've lived for the past nearly four years.
I'm not going to be a student anymore. I'm going to be something other than what I've been for seventeen years now. I'm going to start a brand new career in a brand new place, and I may hate every bit of it.
I'm terrified. I'm excited. I'm ready.
After months of feeling dejected and rejected, worrying about my future, and sending out my resume to companies all over the South, I have a job. Don't worry, it's official. I signed a paper that said that I accept the offer of employment and that I will not work for any other trucking-related software companies.
I'm going to have a job with benefits. I'm going to have medical and dental coverage, paid vacation and a 401k. Nevermind that I had to look up exactly what a 401k is on the Fidelity Financial site. Now that I know, I am very excited about planning for my retirement in 40 years. I will not have to work on Thanksgiving or the day after. In fact, I will be paid to not work on either of those days, plus another seven holidays every year.
I'm going to have a salary. I'm not going to live off the generosity and tipping know-how of strangers. I don't have to ask anyone how they want their filet cooked, and I won't care if someone's coffee cup is full or not.
I'm going to work somewhere where I will not be the biggest dork. I will make computer jokes, and people will understand them. Moreover, they will laugh, because I will be the only female employee under the age of 35.
I'm going to live in the (comparatively) big city. I'm going to live in a town where they have a Best Buy, a Total Wine & More, and a mall that does not sell furniture. I will live close enough to a Sam's Club to merit getting a membership. I'm going to be able to give directions based on the interstate.
I'm going to live somewhere where there are about 185,776 other people living (based on 2000 census reports), and I will know two of them. I will live two hours from family and an hour and a half from where I've lived for the past nearly four years.
I'm not going to be a student anymore. I'm going to be something other than what I've been for seventeen years now. I'm going to start a brand new career in a brand new place, and I may hate every bit of it.
I'm terrified. I'm excited. I'm ready.
12.05.2004
i (heart) math.
Alright, okay, I admit it. It was bound to come out eventually anyway, so I might as well tell the world before the world finds out from someone else. I am not ashamed of it. I am proud of it.
I like math, and I am good at it.
Let me define good at it. I do not mean that I can do crazy Rain Man arithmetic in my head. I can do a little arithmetic in my head and get pretty close to the answer. But I'm slow, and there's a good chance I'll be wrong. I hate to break it to you, but in college math classes, they don't spend a lot of time teaching you extended multiplication tables. We use calculators for that.
A professor told me a story about when she was going to take her Comprehensive, which is a great big math test that graduate students take that makes the SAT math section look like a pop quiz. At the time, she was explaining to a non-math person that she had spent days upon days studying for this test. The person replied in all seriousness, "Wow, there must be some really tough fractions on that thing." Yeah, fractions. Not multi-dimensional calculus or abstract algebra or statistics, but just a bunch of really tough fractions.
Like I said, I can do some math in my head, mostly stuff I've picked up from waitressing and not my math classes. Trust me, I got really good at calculating 10%, 15%, and 20% of a check total pretty quick. I've waited tables for two years now. That's a lot of percentages.
Math is not embraced at The Bistro. They see it as just another of my weird quirks, along with the novelty earrings, the bowling shoes, and the sarcasm. If possible, they disdain math and math nerds there. I was reading a biography of Paul Erdos (who is second only to Euler in the number of math papers he published), and a fellow server said, "Please tell me you're not reading that for pleasure." When I said I was, everyone else joined in the eye-rolling and laughing, except for one of the kitchen guys, who leaned in and whispered, "Can I borrow it when you're done?" He's a math major. My coworkers were not impressed with my pi earrings, either. Seems like there was some eye-rolling the first day I wore those, too.
They can scorn all they want. I scorn the fact that a group of seasoned servers can't tell the difference between a good tip and a bad tip. One girl was griping about a tip before I looked at it and told her it was nearly 20% of the check total. Most of them will go back behind the bar and pull out a calculator so they can decide whether or not to be pissed off about a tip. Did I mention that most of these people are about to graduate from college and that they all have at least two years experience waiting tables?
Once I was working the bar and was cashing out a check. The customer gave me $48.18 for a $40.18 check, and the change was the tip. I brought up the check and just hit cash rather than enter 48.18 and then cash to see the change. I knew the change. The owner came over and actually fussed at me. Then she asked, "Do you do that all the time?" I answered, "Only when the change is easy to figure out." Again the eye-rolling. I could understand if I had been doing something like $53.72 - $38.91 in my head, she would be justifiably concerned that my internal calculator would be unreliable. Subtraction isn't even my forte, particularly when borrowing and canceling are involved. But $48.18 - $40.18? Please.
The people I worked with were the ones who asked "When are we ever going to use this?" when they learned multiplication. You know what? You use it. I've been in classes where that question was asked and the teacher said, "Probably never." I know perfectly well that I will never ever use Laplace Transforms (differential equations), eigenvalues (linear algebra), and Jacobian matrices (calc 3) again. I can do them all, and I happen to think that Laplace Transforms are pretty neat, but I know I'll never use it. But I sure as heck use multiplication. Everyone does. I don't expect everyone to be good at it. But I expect some things. I expect people not to need machines to do the same calculations their job requires every day. I expect waitresses with three to four years experience to be able to tell that on a $70 check, a $14 tip is great and $9 is crap. I don't expect to be treated like a freak because I can subtract nice round numbers.
But whatever. Depending on your stance on math, you're either nodding emphatically or still working out $48.18 - $40.18. Maybe you're still rolling your eyes over the fact that I own pi earrings, which, by the way, are really cool. But even my math-hating coworkers can tell that my new salary is a lot higher than theirs. Roll your eyes at that.
I like math, and I am good at it.
Let me define good at it. I do not mean that I can do crazy Rain Man arithmetic in my head. I can do a little arithmetic in my head and get pretty close to the answer. But I'm slow, and there's a good chance I'll be wrong. I hate to break it to you, but in college math classes, they don't spend a lot of time teaching you extended multiplication tables. We use calculators for that.
A professor told me a story about when she was going to take her Comprehensive, which is a great big math test that graduate students take that makes the SAT math section look like a pop quiz. At the time, she was explaining to a non-math person that she had spent days upon days studying for this test. The person replied in all seriousness, "Wow, there must be some really tough fractions on that thing." Yeah, fractions. Not multi-dimensional calculus or abstract algebra or statistics, but just a bunch of really tough fractions.
Like I said, I can do some math in my head, mostly stuff I've picked up from waitressing and not my math classes. Trust me, I got really good at calculating 10%, 15%, and 20% of a check total pretty quick. I've waited tables for two years now. That's a lot of percentages.
Math is not embraced at The Bistro. They see it as just another of my weird quirks, along with the novelty earrings, the bowling shoes, and the sarcasm. If possible, they disdain math and math nerds there. I was reading a biography of Paul Erdos (who is second only to Euler in the number of math papers he published), and a fellow server said, "Please tell me you're not reading that for pleasure." When I said I was, everyone else joined in the eye-rolling and laughing, except for one of the kitchen guys, who leaned in and whispered, "Can I borrow it when you're done?" He's a math major. My coworkers were not impressed with my pi earrings, either. Seems like there was some eye-rolling the first day I wore those, too.
They can scorn all they want. I scorn the fact that a group of seasoned servers can't tell the difference between a good tip and a bad tip. One girl was griping about a tip before I looked at it and told her it was nearly 20% of the check total. Most of them will go back behind the bar and pull out a calculator so they can decide whether or not to be pissed off about a tip. Did I mention that most of these people are about to graduate from college and that they all have at least two years experience waiting tables?
Once I was working the bar and was cashing out a check. The customer gave me $48.18 for a $40.18 check, and the change was the tip. I brought up the check and just hit cash rather than enter 48.18 and then cash to see the change. I knew the change. The owner came over and actually fussed at me. Then she asked, "Do you do that all the time?" I answered, "Only when the change is easy to figure out." Again the eye-rolling. I could understand if I had been doing something like $53.72 - $38.91 in my head, she would be justifiably concerned that my internal calculator would be unreliable. Subtraction isn't even my forte, particularly when borrowing and canceling are involved. But $48.18 - $40.18? Please.
The people I worked with were the ones who asked "When are we ever going to use this?" when they learned multiplication. You know what? You use it. I've been in classes where that question was asked and the teacher said, "Probably never." I know perfectly well that I will never ever use Laplace Transforms (differential equations), eigenvalues (linear algebra), and Jacobian matrices (calc 3) again. I can do them all, and I happen to think that Laplace Transforms are pretty neat, but I know I'll never use it. But I sure as heck use multiplication. Everyone does. I don't expect everyone to be good at it. But I expect some things. I expect people not to need machines to do the same calculations their job requires every day. I expect waitresses with three to four years experience to be able to tell that on a $70 check, a $14 tip is great and $9 is crap. I don't expect to be treated like a freak because I can subtract nice round numbers.
But whatever. Depending on your stance on math, you're either nodding emphatically or still working out $48.18 - $40.18. Maybe you're still rolling your eyes over the fact that I own pi earrings, which, by the way, are really cool. But even my math-hating coworkers can tell that my new salary is a lot higher than theirs. Roll your eyes at that.
12.01.2004
the bus windows are not tinted.
Yesterday, I was on the bus. Waiting, sitting, observing. Outside, a couple was walking toward the bus. She was cute and bubbly-looking, talking animatedly and walking with a little skip to her step. She clung to his arm as they walked. He, however, was striking in his solemn confidence. His posture was upright, his step was strong, his jaw was set. I couldn't imagine why these two were together. I figured he was humoring her for some reason. Why else would they be together, he in his stolid silence with his gliding gait, she with her breathless enthusiasm?
And then, all of sudden, he did this ridiculous hop-skip for several steps, his hands thrown up in the air, his mouth open and smiling. I couldn't help but smile broadly as I watched this transformation.
It was then that both the girl and I realized simultaneously that the bus windows were not tinted. I saw her laugh and point straight at me, clearly telling him that I was laughing at him. He smiled broadly and waved at me; they both laughed. I smiled back. The bus pulled away from the stop, the couple kept walking, and it was all over only a few seconds after it had all began.
And then, all of sudden, he did this ridiculous hop-skip for several steps, his hands thrown up in the air, his mouth open and smiling. I couldn't help but smile broadly as I watched this transformation.
It was then that both the girl and I realized simultaneously that the bus windows were not tinted. I saw her laugh and point straight at me, clearly telling him that I was laughing at him. He smiled broadly and waved at me; they both laughed. I smiled back. The bus pulled away from the stop, the couple kept walking, and it was all over only a few seconds after it had all began.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)