This is a recurring theme of ponderous thought and thoughtful conversation in my world: when does 'realism' cross the line to 'negativity,' 'pessimism' and/or 'control issues'? This is no longer a rhetorical question.
I can be super-crazy analytical. If I wasn't already like this before Grad School the inclination was developed while there. (Realistically, I probably was like that, thanks to my inheritance of a tiny anal-retentive gene honed by the responsibilites of being the first-born and enhanced with a love of jigsaw puzzles and detective stories as a kid). A past employer invested serious amounts of money for me to endure lectures and projects on calculating Best, Moderate, and Worst-Case Scenarios and their potential likelihood and resultant impact on things like staffing (who's gonna do it?); capacity (where we gonna make it/put it?); costs (how expensive are materials this week? and to where is the finished product shipping?); profits (how much mad coin we gonna make for the shareholders?); etc.
It would seem (in my business school tainted opinion) that this is a good skill to have, as "forewarned is forearmed." Sadly, my abilities in this matter often seem to be unappreciated. Scoffed at. Mocked, even. Am I (and all those Harvard Business School Case Studies I had to read and analyze) just plain wrong? Is the desire to drill down to the baseline facts really pessimistic?
Sure, it would be great to land the super-mega-giant project, but let's (just for a second) pretend we did ... do we have enough people to work on it? ... can we meet the delivery date without burning out the staff? No, I'm not trying to pee on your parade, I am actually trying to prevent someone (quite possibly you) being nailed to the wall in a month or so when everyone is stressed out and/or other projects are neglected (affecting the entire client base and their future business) due to a lack of foresight on the front end. So, sure, call me negative or pessismistic or controlling for attempting to save your butt. I still prefer to call it realistic.
If asked to change something delivered to the printer a week ago, I will first say "maybe," inform on the front end of any obstacles of which I am aware that could prevent fulfilling the (however unreasonable) request, and check on the answer with the vendor. Because realistically, there are other players involved and I will not make promises upon which they will have to scramble to deliver (I know how much I resent it being done to me). Nor am I authorized to direct activites that are going to cost someone additional money.
When consulted on something, I'll run "what if" scenarios ... What if the first choice guest speaker is unavailable -- what's our Plan B? What if the client hates this artwork -- do we have another option to show? If the proposed course of action is accepted and the schedule changes, what are the options?
Or maybe it's better we just put on the blinders, ignore the potential pitfalls, skip down the path and hold our breath and hope, knowing that hope is about as solid and lasting a plan as cigarette smoke in the wind. Seriously, once the potential for disaster is at least considered, I will pull for the success of the idea with all my strength. I just won't do it in the dark.
There have been enough hijackings into commitments I wouldn't have agreed to with all the info on the front end. A blindly cheerful response of "Yes, of course!" to an innocent sounding "Can you do me a favor?" resulted in weekends disappearing into hellholes of labor beginning at some half-past ridiculous hour of the morning. Consequently, requests for favors are now met with a tentative, "Ummm... Maybe. What is it?" Sorry. Thank a lifetime of predecessors. Know I invite the same responsible consideration should the tables be turned. If it's really job-critical, as boss you have the power to tell me to do it, and if it's truly a 'favor,' there is right of refusal. Unless of course, this is a case of pretending I have a choice in the matter. I'm glad we had this little chat.
Outside work, there have been accusations of my being negative and/or pessismistic when merely trying to gather info and examine possible angles and outcomes before rendering an opinion on a matter. Invite me to do something "right now," I will likely want to know: 1) Are we expected anywhere soon? and/or; 2) What are the plans of other people involved in the day? and/or; 3) Will this derail any hope of a meal anytime soon? and/or; 4) Is there any chance my response is going to bite me in the butt later? A girl's gotta know, you know? Without info, there's no informed decision. Without considering the potential ways for screwing up someone else's time or effort or sleep or appetite (or my own) with my answer, I will ask until I know what I need. Or it could go the easy way and present all the information upfront. Just an idea. Not looking to control anyone's thoughts or life or anything (except my own).
If that's negative, pessismistic or controlling, then okay. Whatever. I still maintain it's "realistic," because life happens in reality, not Disneyland. (And I'm sure the Disney folks are masters of running all possible scenarios, analyzing all variables and have a standard operating procedure for each and every potential outcome. Controlling bastards.)
The floor is now open.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Road
Boyfriend and I took a little trip for Thanksgiving – from Clarksville to Virginia – seven to eight butt-paralyzing hours by car, which is a good four hours more than I can usually tolerate in a vehicle. This is probably due to the recurring, nightmarish flashbacks of family car trips when I was a kid – five people crammed in a black car sans air conditioning in July or August, headed from Massachusetts to Texas or Florida – parents arguing in the front seat and Dad pushing the limits of the bladders and patience of all involved by driving straight through, usually exceeding all speed limits to hit some magical timetable and bragging rights known only to him.
We left Wednesday night after I got home from work and we each finally finished packing – an exercise that bore a shockingly strong resemblance to us moving out of the house forever once we’d packed the X-Box, the portable DVD player, two laptops, assorted duffel bags and every snack I could lay hands on. A tiny miscalculation landed us in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s instead of Backyard Burger, which we didn’t want to delay the departure any further to correct and were sorry for later.
Boyfriend did most of the driving, which worked for me, because I hate driving. Ok, ‘hate’ is a strong word – let’s just say I don’t enjoy doing it. It stresses me out, has me clenching my jaw and leads me to outbursts of expletives that are cathartic for me and jarring to everyone else in the immediate area. If I lived someplace where I could walk or take a subway or a monorail or ride my bike or strap on a jetpack to get where I wanted to be, then car trips could be special instead of a daily, necessary evil. And I could save money towards some nice vacations with the $35+ I wouldn’t be dumping on gas each week and the $700 annual insurance – not to mention the periodic oil changes and other upkeep. (I’m already lucky my vehicle has been paid off for a few years. Too bad I haven’t followed through with the ‘put the car payment into the bank for the next car purchase' plan.) And by the way, it’s past the year 2000 – aren’t we supposed to be flying around in personal hovercraft or doing the Star Trek ”beam me up” teletransport thing by now?
But back to the road. We didn’t run into much traffic on the way to Virginia, which was great. We had some tense moments in the car around 1 a.m. when the full effects of fatigue and confinement kicked in, but we found a hotel, stopped for the night and slept it off. The next morning, it was a quick drive and we were at the destination on a peninsula in Eggleston, at the coolest house this side of a Hollywood movie.
After two days with Boyfriend’s family, the nicest bunch of people you could ever have the good fortune to know, it was already time to repack the car and head back to Tennessee, which is actually a pretty good argument for moving further east closer to both our families. (Heck, even moving southeast to Nashville would chop an hour off driving almost everywhere, because with the layout of the Interstates we need to head towards Music City first.)
Our return trip was mostly by daylight, which made it feel easier. Boyfriend had a brilliant idea we weren’t able to execute on the trip out but pulled off for the trip home – an audio book. Before we left Virginia, he bought “The Road” by Cormack McCarthy (now a major motion picture out “in select theaters” which, as usual, means none near us). The book is on six CDs timing out to 6.75 hours. What a brilliant distraction. Sure, the post-apocalyptic story of The Man and The Boy fighting for survival in a burned-out world of ash and danger is bleak (FYI, the most repeated sentence in the book is “It was very cold.”), and I have a tendency to space out during lectures, speeches and conversations (basically anything longer than a 60-second TV spot), so I missed a lot of the story here and there, but it was still interesting. In a creepy parallel to the story of a burned out world, as we were driving on I-40 West outside Nashville, we saw an 18-wheeler on I-40 East, the cab on fire with flames shooting out the driver’s side window and up at least ten feet in the air.
The Road ended at the last traffic light before our house. (The story, not the actual pavement.) We’ll definitely get more audio books for any future road trips, although I will likely push for books by David Sedaris or some other humorist. I feel a trip to the public library coming on.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Floyd Night
Friday night we drove from Blacksburg, Virginia into Floyd for the Friday Night Jamboree at the General Store, featuring Blue Grass, Gospel and Old Time bands. According to the Wikipedia entry for Floyd, the 2000 population was 432 and the size of the town (also the seat of Floyd county) "is 0.5 square miles (all of it land)." Judging by the size of the crowd at the Jamboree, most of the town was there, plus the seven of us tourists. Judging by the Wiki entry, downtown IS the town. It was an interesting place – a sign proclaiming “Loitering Is Allowed” hung outside the Country Store, where the Jamboree has taken place for about 100 years.
Boyfriend’s sister knew of the Country Store, where the merchandise is relocated every Friday night to make way for the dancing. And the dance floor was packed the whole time we were there. Yes, we joined the crowd in the “flat foot dancing” and a couple of us were troopers and got dragged into the square dancing. I passed that up -- too many bad memories of fifth and sixth grade girl’s gym class. We took enough pictures with our cameras and cell phones that the regulars were probably thinking, “Dang, these people don’t get out much.”
It was definitely the first time I’d seen men’s tassel loafers, like those worn by navy-blue suited businessmen, with dancing taps on them. The tall and lanky old-timer wearing them could tap out some serious rythm with those shoes, too. I spent a lot of time staring at his feet, trying to deconstruct his choreography. Made me wish I’d taken those Buck Dancing lessons.
There was one boy there, about ten years old, decked out in jeans, a western shirt, cowboy hat and boots, who was one terrific little dancer, but he knew it. Thumbs hooked in his jean pockets, he’d be tapping up a storm, then pause for a sip of water, check his audience, and resume. The kid even had posing for pictures down to polished perfection. A girl, about the same age, in a multi-tiered skirt and western boots, hair French braided to one side, reminded me of my oldest niece and I just wanted to hug her, but that sort of behavior from total strangers is just creepy, and I have enough going on without becoming some creepy hugging lady.
There was a contest for who was there from the furthest distance – we figured our group had it nailed with a member from Israel, but it required a check of the old-fashioned pull down map over the stage to verify that Israel is, indeed, further from the Blue Ridge Mountains than Switzerland, scoring Sagi a new cap embroidered with “The Floyd Country Store” for his Appalachian birthday celebration. (A couple hours later, he got to wear the Birthday Sombrero at El Charro Mexican Restaurant, a few doors down from the Country Store, where we had dinner after flat foot dancing up hearty appetites.)
The Jamboree at The Floyd Country Store is clearly the best $4 entertainment investment I’ve made in a long time. It was really fun. And where else could I see the delectable, albeit inedible “Canned Creamed Possum with Sweet Potato Garnished in Coon Fat Gravy” with the grossest ingredients list imaginable. (It bears a warning on the label that it’s a novelty item and should not be eaten.) It had potential as the perfect gift for my Scrapple-eating, Mountain Oyster-sampling brother, but I passed, knowing he's never been the one to follow instructions and might actually eat it, and I don’t want to be responsible for that.
Boyfriend’s sister knew of the Country Store, where the merchandise is relocated every Friday night to make way for the dancing. And the dance floor was packed the whole time we were there. Yes, we joined the crowd in the “flat foot dancing” and a couple of us were troopers and got dragged into the square dancing. I passed that up -- too many bad memories of fifth and sixth grade girl’s gym class. We took enough pictures with our cameras and cell phones that the regulars were probably thinking, “Dang, these people don’t get out much.”
It was definitely the first time I’d seen men’s tassel loafers, like those worn by navy-blue suited businessmen, with dancing taps on them. The tall and lanky old-timer wearing them could tap out some serious rythm with those shoes, too. I spent a lot of time staring at his feet, trying to deconstruct his choreography. Made me wish I’d taken those Buck Dancing lessons.There was one boy there, about ten years old, decked out in jeans, a western shirt, cowboy hat and boots, who was one terrific little dancer, but he knew it. Thumbs hooked in his jean pockets, he’d be tapping up a storm, then pause for a sip of water, check his audience, and resume. The kid even had posing for pictures down to polished perfection. A girl, about the same age, in a multi-tiered skirt and western boots, hair French braided to one side, reminded me of my oldest niece and I just wanted to hug her, but that sort of behavior from total strangers is just creepy, and I have enough going on without becoming some creepy hugging lady.
There was a contest for who was there from the furthest distance – we figured our group had it nailed with a member from Israel, but it required a check of the old-fashioned pull down map over the stage to verify that Israel is, indeed, further from the Blue Ridge Mountains than Switzerland, scoring Sagi a new cap embroidered with “The Floyd Country Store” for his Appalachian birthday celebration. (A couple hours later, he got to wear the Birthday Sombrero at El Charro Mexican Restaurant, a few doors down from the Country Store, where we had dinner after flat foot dancing up hearty appetites.)
The Jamboree at The Floyd Country Store is clearly the best $4 entertainment investment I’ve made in a long time. It was really fun. And where else could I see the delectable, albeit inedible “Canned Creamed Possum with Sweet Potato Garnished in Coon Fat Gravy” with the grossest ingredients list imaginable. (It bears a warning on the label that it’s a novelty item and should not be eaten.) It had potential as the perfect gift for my Scrapple-eating, Mountain Oyster-sampling brother, but I passed, knowing he's never been the one to follow instructions and might actually eat it, and I don’t want to be responsible for that.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Housekeeping Time
One Thursday night this summer, after Trivia Night at The Front Page Deli, some of the team I sometimes played with was on the move to Old Towne Tavern where the pool tables are free. I was tired from staying up too late too many times, and from not eating dinner for 3 or 4 nights due to a spell of stress-induced appetite loss, forgetfulness and who knows what all else. That night, dinner was cheese fries at the Deli with my beer during trivia, which may have been an improvement over Monday night’s banana and Wednesday night’s ice water. FYI – potatoes were introduced to Europe by the Spaniards – a tidbit I learned that night at trivia, but the history scholars on my team knew it already.
In front of Austin Peay, the light at College Street and University Avenue turned yellow with enough time for me to stop before it turned red. A police cruiser came from University Ave to my right and made a u-turn in the intersection with the college logo that looks a lot like the mark used by Associated Press – a traffic move which I happen to know is an illegal maneuver in Clarksville. The next thing I knew, it was behind me with the blue lights flashing in my rear view mirror. And I’m thinking, “awwwww, fudge.” Except it wasn’t fudge. When the light turned green, I crossed the intersection with my right turn blinker on, obediently pulled over to the side of the road, hit the flashers, and stopped.
The giant spotlight came on, blinding me in my side view mirror with nearly enough eyeball splitting force to trigger a migraine. And the officer was standing at my window, which I had already rolled down. “Ma’am, you don’t have your headlights on.” Errr… crap on a stick. “Really? Oops.” Easy enough to miss – that stretch of road is as bright as day with forever long stretch of lights from the car dealerships. He asked if I’d been drinking and where I was coming from. “Umm… I’m coming from Trivia night at the Deli and I had a beer and some cheese fries.” I did not share my new knowledge about potatoes with the officer.
He asked for my license, which I produced with my insurance card in about one second from my highly organized wallet. He asked for my registration, which is supposed to be in the white folder in the glove box. He shined his flashlight into the back seat, where my raincoat was casually tossed on the back seat and my camera bag had been on the floor with my tripod for a couple weeks.
I dug through the white folder – no registration. And I stared at the glove box crammed with papers representing five years worth of service records, five years of registration renewals and who knows how many paychecks for the lumberjacks who felled the trees to make all that paper. (Hey, they gotta eat, too.)
There are times when being a packrat pays off. This was not one of them. Every piece of paper I pulled out had two names on it – mine and X-Man’s, except that this past March when I renewed my tags, his name was taken off, which at least made it easier to identify the old stuff. The cop was still standing there with his flashlight. “Just keep looking, Ma’am, I’ll be right back.” Back at the cruiser, he did whatever it is they do back there, while I rifled through my colossal stack of junk, chucking the old papers into a growing pile on the passenger seat to either file or discard when I got home, unless of course I was detoured to jail for not having my paperwork. And I was thinking, “Be calm. Be calm,” while wearing a shirt with ‘Jagermeister’ emblazoned across the chest, which probably didn’t look good at that particular moment.
I finally found the precious piece of paper, and remembered yet again at another supremely inconvenient time that the duplicate title ordered through the DMV back in March had never arrived. The cop was back at the window, asking me again how much I’d had to drink and inviting me to step out of the car to join him on the sidewalk so he could check my eyes. In an agonizing exercise that felt like it took forever, he had me follow his finger with my eyes. To my left, to my right, stop in the middle, back to the left, the right, the middle, up, up, up, down, down, down. Cripes. Then he decided to let me go on my way, with a warning to be careful, because he “could see I’d had a little to drink, and if I got pulled over again…” I thanked him and asked if he had given me my license, which he had not – it was still clipped to his chest pocket. Maybe that was part of his test.
I drove my paranoid, now hyper-alert self home, thankful for having called it an early night. This time, though, I turned the headlights on. By the light of the next day, I finally cleaned out the danged glove box and purging the rest of the papers in there. It was long past the time for some cleanup.
In front of Austin Peay, the light at College Street and University Avenue turned yellow with enough time for me to stop before it turned red. A police cruiser came from University Ave to my right and made a u-turn in the intersection with the college logo that looks a lot like the mark used by Associated Press – a traffic move which I happen to know is an illegal maneuver in Clarksville. The next thing I knew, it was behind me with the blue lights flashing in my rear view mirror. And I’m thinking, “awwwww, fudge.” Except it wasn’t fudge. When the light turned green, I crossed the intersection with my right turn blinker on, obediently pulled over to the side of the road, hit the flashers, and stopped.
The giant spotlight came on, blinding me in my side view mirror with nearly enough eyeball splitting force to trigger a migraine. And the officer was standing at my window, which I had already rolled down. “Ma’am, you don’t have your headlights on.” Errr… crap on a stick. “Really? Oops.” Easy enough to miss – that stretch of road is as bright as day with forever long stretch of lights from the car dealerships. He asked if I’d been drinking and where I was coming from. “Umm… I’m coming from Trivia night at the Deli and I had a beer and some cheese fries.” I did not share my new knowledge about potatoes with the officer.
He asked for my license, which I produced with my insurance card in about one second from my highly organized wallet. He asked for my registration, which is supposed to be in the white folder in the glove box. He shined his flashlight into the back seat, where my raincoat was casually tossed on the back seat and my camera bag had been on the floor with my tripod for a couple weeks.
I dug through the white folder – no registration. And I stared at the glove box crammed with papers representing five years worth of service records, five years of registration renewals and who knows how many paychecks for the lumberjacks who felled the trees to make all that paper. (Hey, they gotta eat, too.)
There are times when being a packrat pays off. This was not one of them. Every piece of paper I pulled out had two names on it – mine and X-Man’s, except that this past March when I renewed my tags, his name was taken off, which at least made it easier to identify the old stuff. The cop was still standing there with his flashlight. “Just keep looking, Ma’am, I’ll be right back.” Back at the cruiser, he did whatever it is they do back there, while I rifled through my colossal stack of junk, chucking the old papers into a growing pile on the passenger seat to either file or discard when I got home, unless of course I was detoured to jail for not having my paperwork. And I was thinking, “Be calm. Be calm,” while wearing a shirt with ‘Jagermeister’ emblazoned across the chest, which probably didn’t look good at that particular moment.
I finally found the precious piece of paper, and remembered yet again at another supremely inconvenient time that the duplicate title ordered through the DMV back in March had never arrived. The cop was back at the window, asking me again how much I’d had to drink and inviting me to step out of the car to join him on the sidewalk so he could check my eyes. In an agonizing exercise that felt like it took forever, he had me follow his finger with my eyes. To my left, to my right, stop in the middle, back to the left, the right, the middle, up, up, up, down, down, down. Cripes. Then he decided to let me go on my way, with a warning to be careful, because he “could see I’d had a little to drink, and if I got pulled over again…” I thanked him and asked if he had given me my license, which he had not – it was still clipped to his chest pocket. Maybe that was part of his test.
I drove my paranoid, now hyper-alert self home, thankful for having called it an early night. This time, though, I turned the headlights on. By the light of the next day, I finally cleaned out the danged glove box and purging the rest of the papers in there. It was long past the time for some cleanup.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Being Thankful
It’s the annual day for giving thanks, here in the incredible land of plenty.
This is what I am thankful for ….
Family – the one I was born into and the others that have taken me in as one of their own along the way
Boyfriend – Wade is supportive, smart, artistic and funny and sometimes I don’t think I deserve him
Friends – we may not see each other much, but we always know we have each other
Country – and the good fortune to be born in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave
Meriwether – the stray cat who found us and chose to stay – he’s great company and highly entertaining
Job – I still have one, even in the tough economy
Co-Workers – we sometimes annoy each other, but we're a talented bunch and a great team/work family
Health – blessed with good genes, come from hearty stock, and am grateful for it
Thanks Be.
This is what I am thankful for ….
Family – the one I was born into and the others that have taken me in as one of their own along the way
Boyfriend – Wade is supportive, smart, artistic and funny and sometimes I don’t think I deserve him
Friends – we may not see each other much, but we always know we have each other
Country – and the good fortune to be born in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave
Meriwether – the stray cat who found us and chose to stay – he’s great company and highly entertaining
Job – I still have one, even in the tough economy
Co-Workers – we sometimes annoy each other, but we're a talented bunch and a great team/work family
Health – blessed with good genes, come from hearty stock, and am grateful for it
Thanks Be.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Fine Furniture
My taste in furniture has shifted. Once, it was all formal and proper and Victorian-era – a living room set with camel back sofa and matching loveseat and Queen Anne coffee and side tables in cherry wood; a fancy, proper dining set with china cabinet to hold the fine English bone china, also in cherry; marble top dressers and a sleigh bed with a six foot tall headboard in a gorgeous tiger oak.
In my imaginary bedroom in the arts and crafts style bungalow in my head I have a Mission-style bedroom set, but in my real bedroom in the generic white brick ranch house it’s still the vintage veneer set circa 1930/40 I bought from my dad’s old neighbor back in the 1990s and have since moved into seven different residences in two states. In my uber-cool, urban high-rise apartment (that I do not rent, own or have any assurance exists beyond a page torn from a magazine and that could be a set constructed in a warehouse just for the article), the furnishings are sleek, modern, chrome and cool. Yeah, I probably won’t buy any of that stuff any time soon, either.
I don’t tend to buy new furniture when I move somewhere. For one thing, I already have a bunch of stuff and then I would need to figure out what to do with it. The real reason, however, is that I never think I will stay put anywhere more than six months or so, and why go through all the trouble and expense of outfitting a temporary resting stop. Then, one or three or seven years later I am still in the same place with the same furniture I was bored with eight years ago.
There is, however, one furnishing that has captured my attention and with which I have been enchanted for many, many years. It is the one item for which I might be convinced to part with a serious wad of cash. Maybe. It’s a magical thing (no, not a flying carpet, although that would be cool, too), a mechanized piece of furniture and if I had one, it might take some real convincing to get me to ever leave the house. It’s better than any recliner, sleep sofa or expensive fancy number bed.
The model of the item with which I am currently acquainted is called the “Quantum 400,” upholstered in vinyl, with a small rolled pillow. My heart skips with joy when I see it. It’s the massage table at my chiropractor’s office – a padded couch/table/bed of sorts, with a roller that massages the back from butt to shoulders and back down again. A timer, variable firmness on the rollers (I like the hard-core setting, evidently). I’m tempted to get a job with a chiropractor just so I could use that thing on my lunch hour. Every day. A couple weeks ago, I asked how much one would cost, and the tech at the office said “Oh, $5,000.” I think it might be worth it. Of course, I’d have to divest some of the mid- to late-twentieth century collection of clutter to make room for it.
After a divorce where I walked away from a lot of things I once loved – the house with the stained glass windows in the double front doors, some amazing neighbors, and most of the furniture (and yes, the man), my decorating style accidentally sidestepped to an eclectic mash-up of castoffs, which is still a disproportionate overtone of “the look.” My elegant white leather dining chairs cohabitate in a room with a vintage cabinet with drawers and an antique mirror from Korea, a crackle-painted dresser that masquerades as a sideboard and now houses the allegedly wi-fi printer we can’t seem to get to run wirelessly.
In my imaginary bedroom in the arts and crafts style bungalow in my head I have a Mission-style bedroom set, but in my real bedroom in the generic white brick ranch house it’s still the vintage veneer set circa 1930/40 I bought from my dad’s old neighbor back in the 1990s and have since moved into seven different residences in two states. In my uber-cool, urban high-rise apartment (that I do not rent, own or have any assurance exists beyond a page torn from a magazine and that could be a set constructed in a warehouse just for the article), the furnishings are sleek, modern, chrome and cool. Yeah, I probably won’t buy any of that stuff any time soon, either.I don’t tend to buy new furniture when I move somewhere. For one thing, I already have a bunch of stuff and then I would need to figure out what to do with it. The real reason, however, is that I never think I will stay put anywhere more than six months or so, and why go through all the trouble and expense of outfitting a temporary resting stop. Then, one or three or seven years later I am still in the same place with the same furniture I was bored with eight years ago.
There is, however, one furnishing that has captured my attention and with which I have been enchanted for many, many years. It is the one item for which I might be convinced to part with a serious wad of cash. Maybe. It’s a magical thing (no, not a flying carpet, although that would be cool, too), a mechanized piece of furniture and if I had one, it might take some real convincing to get me to ever leave the house. It’s better than any recliner, sleep sofa or expensive fancy number bed.
The model of the item with which I am currently acquainted is called the “Quantum 400,” upholstered in vinyl, with a small rolled pillow. My heart skips with joy when I see it. It’s the massage table at my chiropractor’s office – a padded couch/table/bed of sorts, with a roller that massages the back from butt to shoulders and back down again. A timer, variable firmness on the rollers (I like the hard-core setting, evidently). I’m tempted to get a job with a chiropractor just so I could use that thing on my lunch hour. Every day. A couple weeks ago, I asked how much one would cost, and the tech at the office said “Oh, $5,000.” I think it might be worth it. Of course, I’d have to divest some of the mid- to late-twentieth century collection of clutter to make room for it.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sexy Things
This past weekend, my eyes were privileged to behold one of the sexiest sights I have ever had the good fortune to behold live and in person. The magnitude, the glory, the sheer magnificence of it was truly breathtaking.
My vision took place on Saturday morning, which started out like any ordinary Saturday morning, with me fighting the awakening, desperate for more sleep but unable to achieve it, finally conceding defeat, slipping out of bed and putting on a pot of coffee. Junior had already quietly arisen from his bed, crept with the stealth of a ninja out of his room and downstairs to play video games. I settled onto the couch to practice poor posture and check my far too numerous email accounts and Facebook updates to see what had transpired in my cyber world over the past ten hours since my last check on things. Because it was Saturday, I would be heading to yoga class, but that was still a couple hours away.
When Boyfriend got up, he did his usual ‘wake up’ activities – smoke a cigarette out on the porch, grab a cup of coffee, head to the office off the kitchen to check on his own cyber world. Then he started cooking breakfast – bacon and scrambled eggs. All was peaceful and normal in the household. And then, after breakfast, things got interesting.
From my perch in the living room, laptop balance on my crossed legs, I could see Boyfriend in the kitchen rummaging around in the cabinets with cleaning sprays, scrub pads and paper towels. I conducted a brief (remote) orientation to the kitchen cleaners under the sink and the bathroom supplies in the bathroom closet which was less a guided tour and more of me barking coordinates from the couch. “bottom shelf, bathroom closet next to the paper towels," and "under the sink, on the right hand side. No, the right hand side…..”
And the next thing I knew, that hunk of manliness was in the shower getting intimate with the tile, going all sassy on the soap scum. This is the category of work I refer to as “invisible work” because when it’s done regularly, you don’t notice it, and when it’s not done, you may not notice for a while, then suddenly one day, it’s a case of “ewwwww…..when did that happen?”
He started his mission before I left for the gym, and finished while I was gone. On my way out, I popped into the bathroom to thank him for busting his butt, because lately, he has become a major player in the upkeep of the household. The yard was his territory (he can mow and mulch like a landscaper and his chain saws skills are stupendous), but lately he’s been taking his A-game inside, too. He’s always made the bed better than I do, so when he does it, it looks like hotel housekeeping just visited or maybe a drill sergeant is on his way. He’s been visiting the grocery store and throwing down some great meat meals. Even with his musical talents and his abilities in the visual arts, this act – cleaning the bathroom, was still quite possible the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen him do. I’ve seen him in a shirt and tie. He has some casual outfits that can still stop me in my tracks. But he has never looked sexier than when he was in a wife-beater tee shirt and wielding the tub and tile spray. Oh, baby.
My vision took place on Saturday morning, which started out like any ordinary Saturday morning, with me fighting the awakening, desperate for more sleep but unable to achieve it, finally conceding defeat, slipping out of bed and putting on a pot of coffee. Junior had already quietly arisen from his bed, crept with the stealth of a ninja out of his room and downstairs to play video games. I settled onto the couch to practice poor posture and check my far too numerous email accounts and Facebook updates to see what had transpired in my cyber world over the past ten hours since my last check on things. Because it was Saturday, I would be heading to yoga class, but that was still a couple hours away.
When Boyfriend got up, he did his usual ‘wake up’ activities – smoke a cigarette out on the porch, grab a cup of coffee, head to the office off the kitchen to check on his own cyber world. Then he started cooking breakfast – bacon and scrambled eggs. All was peaceful and normal in the household. And then, after breakfast, things got interesting.
From my perch in the living room, laptop balance on my crossed legs, I could see Boyfriend in the kitchen rummaging around in the cabinets with cleaning sprays, scrub pads and paper towels. I conducted a brief (remote) orientation to the kitchen cleaners under the sink and the bathroom supplies in the bathroom closet which was less a guided tour and more of me barking coordinates from the couch. “bottom shelf, bathroom closet next to the paper towels," and "under the sink, on the right hand side. No, the right hand side…..”
And the next thing I knew, that hunk of manliness was in the shower getting intimate with the tile, going all sassy on the soap scum. This is the category of work I refer to as “invisible work” because when it’s done regularly, you don’t notice it, and when it’s not done, you may not notice for a while, then suddenly one day, it’s a case of “ewwwww…..when did that happen?”
He started his mission before I left for the gym, and finished while I was gone. On my way out, I popped into the bathroom to thank him for busting his butt, because lately, he has become a major player in the upkeep of the household. The yard was his territory (he can mow and mulch like a landscaper and his chain saws skills are stupendous), but lately he’s been taking his A-game inside, too. He’s always made the bed better than I do, so when he does it, it looks like hotel housekeeping just visited or maybe a drill sergeant is on his way. He’s been visiting the grocery store and throwing down some great meat meals. Even with his musical talents and his abilities in the visual arts, this act – cleaning the bathroom, was still quite possible the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen him do. I’ve seen him in a shirt and tie. He has some casual outfits that can still stop me in my tracks. But he has never looked sexier than when he was in a wife-beater tee shirt and wielding the tub and tile spray. Oh, baby.
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