Today it snowed. It began in the morning, with lazy, floaty flakes that drifted in the air, sideways and downwards and loopy and swirly and criss-crossed the road in paisley patterns.
For most of the morning, I sat in my office in my pajamas, cropping images and working on some Christmas gifts. Usually, I would have slipped on my favorite sweat pants -- the gray ones with the white stripes down the sides and the drawstring in the waist, but this morning, they were in the laundry. It was a chance to practice sitting around in PJs for the roller derby team Christmas party, which has a jammies theme I've been reluctant to buy into. In fact, if you ever see me in WalMart wearing pajamas or anything that looks like pajamas, you can assume something has gone terribly, horribly wrong. Like maybe my house blew up and all that remains are my pajamas, most of which are a bazillion years old.
Sitting in my hideous and unflattering pink pajamas, I was chilled from the drafts from the two walls of windows. For one thing, I was wearing half the usual number of layers for December day wear. I drank coffee and multiple cups of fruit tea to stave off the chill and realized that unless the temperature at the jammie party is at least 80 degrees, I'll freeze my arse off. Nope, no jammies for me, unless I layer three or four pairs, which would be nuts because I don't even own that many.
I finally finished monkeying with photos, got them uploaded, and dressed with the intention of going to the skating rink for open skate, (aka in our derby circle as "Skate Church"). Skate church dress for me is jeans and a long sleeve tee shirt, and in the cold weather, like now, my team logo hooded sweatshirt. With my knit hat on, I finally raised my body temperature enough to stop shivering.
The snow was still blowing around and sticking to the ground. A herd of at least a dozen deer ran through my yard, high-tailing it from the direction of the houses and road and into the woods behind the house. I debated blowing off Skate Church, a reversal of my earlier resolve to actually get there right at 2:00 when it begins instead of my usual 2:30 or 3:00. I finally got off my butt and went.
At 4:00, the rink DJ announced it was still snowing and cautioned, kiddingly, that when we left the rink, our "skating experience might continue." At 5:00, it was blustery and blowing snow in every direction.
The roads were covered up and there was no indication any of our many salt and brine trucks had been out. The main roads were snow covered and the lane markings couldn't be seen. Several times I experienced the sensation of the pumping action of my anti-lock brakes, and uttered "oh, oh, oh, crap!" While on the tough-to-navigate 101st Parkway, I debated stopping at Kroger for milk and baking supplies and Walgreens for the photo prints I ordered in the morning. I was already out, so what the heck? And stopping then meant avoiding the agggravation of a cat meowing angrily when his cries produced no refreshing milk. He'd already been on a two-day hunger strike/meow-fest that ended only when I got more Meow Mix to replace the food he didn't like.
Kroger was less packed with people and more full of bread and milk than I expected. At the checkout, I chose the lane with the mile of empty conveyor belt. It turned out the customer had forgotten her Kroger card and gone out the car to get it. Really? I thought it was a joke at first, that we were standing there doing nothing. My few items were all arranged on the belt, so there was no turning back. When my stuff was finally being checked out, the girl packing the groceries into my ecologically-friendly reusable bags was lecturing the cashier about laying the milk down on its side "so it doesn't fall over." She packed my two bags, then left me trapped in the checkout row by my empty cart and the cart she'd set my groceries in. As she stood there staring vacantly into space, I considered shoving the cart closest to me to bust my way out, but instead, cleared my throat while thinking, "Ah ... doofus, help me out here." She helped clear the logjam so I could leave.
In the vestibule, I decided to leave the cart in the store and carry my bags two to the car. I picked up one bag and nearly ripped my shoulder out.
When I was in high school, I worked in a grocery store. In the olden days of paper sacks, we were trained in bagging -- things like "keep the bag square -- no bulges" and "don't put all the heavy stuff in one bag." Apparently, these archaic basics are no longer taught at grocery store orientation and the rocket scientist who packed my bag had a different philosophy. I've noticed, usually as the handles to the plastic store bags are shredding in the parking lot, that many baggers operate under a different model than what I was taught.
The first bag removed from the cart, the one that nearly crippled me, held a quart of coffee creamer, a half gallon of milk, five pounds of flour, four pounds of sugar (the chic new size in sugar), a pound of butter and a can of pineapple chunks (1 lb., 4 oz.). The other bag held a loaf of bread and a backage of cookies. There's some balanced packing for you. I set the bags back in the cart and began to repack them. A thought stream was tearing though my brain, the gist of which was "What idiot puts ALL the heavy stuff on one bag?" but the tone was harsher and the words were richer and more colorful. The kind that might bar my entry into heaven.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
What Luck
It’s holiday time. That means gift shopping. And stress. Traffic. And stress. Potluck holiday parties. The biggest stress of all.
I totally get the concept of potluck. Everyone brings something, and everyone eats a bunch of stuff. The term “potluck” has origins in “the luck of the pot,” which suggests there is a factor of mystery, potential risk, you know … “luck.” With luck, the food items will be great and you’ll like at least one of them (probably the one you brought in).
What I don’t get is the sign-up sheet to list what we’re bringing – and not just “side dish” – the menu Nazis usually want details. What side dish? What’s in it? I don’t know. I’ll decide the night before and the end result will be completely dependent upon what time I actually arrive home and how much time is available for its preparation. It is highly likely that my contribution to the event will be whatever is available at Kroger on my way to the event. I am rarely home (awake) long enough to make myself a proper supper never mind whip up a potluck dish. Unlike some potluck participants I have known in the past, my dish is not an attempt to win a popularity contest.
In my mind, once the menu planning comes into play, there is no luck involved in the potluck. It’s now a catered event. Might as well just bring in Martha Stewart and have her start dishing out assignments. My friends who specialize in improvising and accuse me of over-planning everything will probably be surprised by this, but I hate the management and planning aspects of a potluck, which just feels like more of the logistics I have to deal with at work every day.
As if having to commit to a particular dish isn’t enough, there is the scrutiny of the list to deal with. Hearing someone whine for a week before the no-luck-involved potluck that “Nobody signed up for green bean casserole!” can really add a layer of poop icing to the crap cake. You know what? If the damned green bean casserole is that important to you, bring it yourself. I don’t know what it is, I don’t care if we have it, I don’t want to hear about it, and I will not be badgered into making it, whatever it is.
With three potlucks on my immediate horizon, I am stressing over them all, and haven’t signed up for anything yet. I expect the harassment to begin any minute now, and having to decide one to two weeks in advance what I am going to make and commit to it in writing on a sign-up sheet is stress I don’t need. Seriously, I can’t even decide a day in advance what to wear to work, or four hours in advance what to have for lunch. This is one big reason why I eat so much ramen – it’s fast. I can decide to eat, and in five minutes, be eating. If I could predict what I’d have time to fix (or feel like making) two full weeks from now, I could set myself up with a job in fortune telling.
Just trust people will bring something, and if you are lucky, they will. I like to live life on the edge. Or maybe I just have great luck.
I totally get the concept of potluck. Everyone brings something, and everyone eats a bunch of stuff. The term “potluck” has origins in “the luck of the pot,” which suggests there is a factor of mystery, potential risk, you know … “luck.” With luck, the food items will be great and you’ll like at least one of them (probably the one you brought in).
What I don’t get is the sign-up sheet to list what we’re bringing – and not just “side dish” – the menu Nazis usually want details. What side dish? What’s in it? I don’t know. I’ll decide the night before and the end result will be completely dependent upon what time I actually arrive home and how much time is available for its preparation. It is highly likely that my contribution to the event will be whatever is available at Kroger on my way to the event. I am rarely home (awake) long enough to make myself a proper supper never mind whip up a potluck dish. Unlike some potluck participants I have known in the past, my dish is not an attempt to win a popularity contest.
In my mind, once the menu planning comes into play, there is no luck involved in the potluck. It’s now a catered event. Might as well just bring in Martha Stewart and have her start dishing out assignments. My friends who specialize in improvising and accuse me of over-planning everything will probably be surprised by this, but I hate the management and planning aspects of a potluck, which just feels like more of the logistics I have to deal with at work every day.
As if having to commit to a particular dish isn’t enough, there is the scrutiny of the list to deal with. Hearing someone whine for a week before the no-luck-involved potluck that “Nobody signed up for green bean casserole!” can really add a layer of poop icing to the crap cake. You know what? If the damned green bean casserole is that important to you, bring it yourself. I don’t know what it is, I don’t care if we have it, I don’t want to hear about it, and I will not be badgered into making it, whatever it is.
With three potlucks on my immediate horizon, I am stressing over them all, and haven’t signed up for anything yet. I expect the harassment to begin any minute now, and having to decide one to two weeks in advance what I am going to make and commit to it in writing on a sign-up sheet is stress I don’t need. Seriously, I can’t even decide a day in advance what to wear to work, or four hours in advance what to have for lunch. This is one big reason why I eat so much ramen – it’s fast. I can decide to eat, and in five minutes, be eating. If I could predict what I’d have time to fix (or feel like making) two full weeks from now, I could set myself up with a job in fortune telling.
Just trust people will bring something, and if you are lucky, they will. I like to live life on the edge. Or maybe I just have great luck.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Treasure Hunt
The Red River Sirens will be in the Clarksville Christmas Parade. We’ll be easy to spot – we’ll be the really cool looking ladies in the awesome black hoodies with the (NEW!) team logo on the front (in silver!), waving from our gorgeous and creative illuminated float and walking alongside it handing out candy.
What was NOT easy was finding the parade information for this year. Several weeks ago, I searched for it, because we needed an entry form and the parade theme for this year. Yes, they are themed – and not just “Christmas.” It seemed simple enough – search on “Clarksville Christmas Parade,” right? Any monkey could do it. Yeah, right….
The search on the keywords “Clarksville TN Christmas Parade” pulled up the entry forms for the 48th, 49th and 50th annual parades, which was nice, but this year’s is the 51st. There were stories of past parades and lists of winners. A visit to the City of Clarksville website (a co-sponsor) yielded nothing. The first time I searched, I somehow found it through an ad for the Downtown Association, which showed the date for the parade (which passes through downtown) and had a link to the entry form. Voila! Success! The form was retrieved and saved to the desktop of my lhome computer. Now I know how it felt to find one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.
In the course of things and upon my return to the ‘Ville from Thanksgiving visiting in the land of the Pilgrims, I picked up the entry check and a printed version of the form from a teammate (thanks, Heartless!), and proceeded to fill it out so it could be submitted to the Parks and Recreation Department. While filling in the info by hand at my desk at work (damned non-editable PDF files!), of course I make a mistake, used the correction tape and made a mess of that, and decided to print off a new form when no bosses were harassing me. That led to the second ridiculous search for the form, because I had messed up the printed one someone else found, and the PDF was at home.
I searched on “Clarksville Jaycees” (the other co-sponsor) which yielded listings of the organization in several directories and info about the Easter Egg Hunt (in 2008). Apparently hiding things is a special talent of this particular organization. The link titled “Christmas Parade Entry Form and Rules” (eureka!) near the top of the search results was, alas, for the 49th Annual Parade. You know, the one in 2008. And there was a list of the 2009 parade winners. It was all the more frustrating because I had already done this once. The form was right there on the desktop of my computer at home. But unless I could get Moose to unlatch his cage, fire up the computer and email it to me, it was of no use. And I didn’t have time in a 60 minute lunch hour to race across town (8 minutes each way in easy traffic), get the file, take it back to work to print it, (no ink in home printer) fill it out, and deliver it.
I have always had great research skills, but this was really putting them to the test. The search continued, using every combination of relevant keywords I could think of, including the name of the organization where I thought I saw the ad for the parade on the first go-round, and the most obvious – “Clarksville TN 51st Annual Christmas Parade,” which yielded a story in daily newspaper from December 1, which said, in its entirety, “There’s a parade Saturday. It’s downtown.” I finally found the blasted form through an online news source buried in an article about “Downtown for the Holidays.”
Man, it’s like this is the “Top Secret” themed parade, and it will be a surprise if there are any floats besides ours in it. I think the team deserves a prize just for the ridiculous level of nonsense it took to learn anything about it. In any event, it got done, and on time. The form turned in was clean and neat, with a separate sheet attached that describes the awesomeness of our “Tribute to Clarksville” themed float. Go to the parade if you want to see it. It’s Saturday, December 4 at 5:00. Wave to us.
What was NOT easy was finding the parade information for this year. Several weeks ago, I searched for it, because we needed an entry form and the parade theme for this year. Yes, they are themed – and not just “Christmas.” It seemed simple enough – search on “Clarksville Christmas Parade,” right? Any monkey could do it. Yeah, right….
The search on the keywords “Clarksville TN Christmas Parade” pulled up the entry forms for the 48th, 49th and 50th annual parades, which was nice, but this year’s is the 51st. There were stories of past parades and lists of winners. A visit to the City of Clarksville website (a co-sponsor) yielded nothing. The first time I searched, I somehow found it through an ad for the Downtown Association, which showed the date for the parade (which passes through downtown) and had a link to the entry form. Voila! Success! The form was retrieved and saved to the desktop of my lhome computer. Now I know how it felt to find one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.
In the course of things and upon my return to the ‘Ville from Thanksgiving visiting in the land of the Pilgrims, I picked up the entry check and a printed version of the form from a teammate (thanks, Heartless!), and proceeded to fill it out so it could be submitted to the Parks and Recreation Department. While filling in the info by hand at my desk at work (damned non-editable PDF files!), of course I make a mistake, used the correction tape and made a mess of that, and decided to print off a new form when no bosses were harassing me. That led to the second ridiculous search for the form, because I had messed up the printed one someone else found, and the PDF was at home.
I searched on “Clarksville Jaycees” (the other co-sponsor) which yielded listings of the organization in several directories and info about the Easter Egg Hunt (in 2008). Apparently hiding things is a special talent of this particular organization. The link titled “Christmas Parade Entry Form and Rules” (eureka!) near the top of the search results was, alas, for the 49th Annual Parade. You know, the one in 2008. And there was a list of the 2009 parade winners. It was all the more frustrating because I had already done this once. The form was right there on the desktop of my computer at home. But unless I could get Moose to unlatch his cage, fire up the computer and email it to me, it was of no use. And I didn’t have time in a 60 minute lunch hour to race across town (8 minutes each way in easy traffic), get the file, take it back to work to print it, (no ink in home printer) fill it out, and deliver it.
I have always had great research skills, but this was really putting them to the test. The search continued, using every combination of relevant keywords I could think of, including the name of the organization where I thought I saw the ad for the parade on the first go-round, and the most obvious – “Clarksville TN 51st Annual Christmas Parade,” which yielded a story in daily newspaper from December 1, which said, in its entirety, “There’s a parade Saturday. It’s downtown.” I finally found the blasted form through an online news source buried in an article about “Downtown for the Holidays.”
Man, it’s like this is the “Top Secret” themed parade, and it will be a surprise if there are any floats besides ours in it. I think the team deserves a prize just for the ridiculous level of nonsense it took to learn anything about it. In any event, it got done, and on time. The form turned in was clean and neat, with a separate sheet attached that describes the awesomeness of our “Tribute to Clarksville” themed float. Go to the parade if you want to see it. It’s Saturday, December 4 at 5:00. Wave to us.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Candy Sales
Now that carwash season is over for a few months, the derby girls of Red River Sirens needed some other methods of fundraising. Right now, it's candy sales. Those really good chocolate bars made by World's Finest, just like the schools sell.
I picked up my box of 50 candy bars on the weekend before Thanksgiving and took it into the office. I was smart enough to leave it there, knowing that if they were in the house, I'd eat them. All of them. Anyone who knows me and my history with chocolate will not be surprised by this. I can make a box of Valentine chocolates disappear in something approaching a world speed record. I used to smuggle my Halloween candy to bed with me and eat it all (except those nasty NECCO wafers, which should be banished from the candy kingdom). When I was about 9 or 10, I ate my multi-pound solid chocolate cross during that tiny window of time between Easter egg hunting and the morning's church service. This is my special superpower and I embrace it. Need to rid your home of some Godiva? You know who to call.
The first day I had the box in the office, I sent an email around the office saying there were candy bars for sale. One boss bought a couple for his wife (nice!). Later that day, when we were stuck in a meeting for several hours and I was glazing over, he suggested I bust out the candy bars. Ka-ching! Five candy bars sold to get us through the rest of the meeting. And sure enough, Monday night, I wanted a candy bar something fierce, but they were at work. Maybe that's why I wanted one so much.
Tuesday brought another marathon meeting on the same project. When the head of the historical research team came in, he was waving a dollar bill and asking for another candy bar. My first repeat customer! They are really good, which is why they can't be in the house. At least I know myself well enough to come up with the work around. Unfortunately, 'out of sight, out of mind' is not working on the candy front. It has become more of a case of 'absence makes the heart grow fonder.' Seriously, I just ate the rest of a jar of chunky peanut butter in desperation over having no chocolate at home, and knowing there is a half a box worth at work.
Upon returning to town yesterday, I realized that as much I would love a chocolate bar, they were all in my locker at work. I had to visit a teammate at her work to pick something up, and took money inside in case she had some for sale there. She did, and I bought the last one. It was the W.F. Crisp, which I realized only today stands for "World's Finest" Crisp and not the much cruder thing I kept seeing, knowing it wasn't that, and yet still giggling inside my head ... WTF Crisp?
Today was my first day back in the office after Thanksgiving vacation, and candy sales were brisk. Every time I returned to my desk, there were fewer candy bars and more money. Nice! I love a product that sells itself. Some mysterious benefactor in the office (I have no idea who) may have been anticipating a rough day and bought five candy bars when I was preparing a cup of coffee. I hope it wasn't my return that triggered the need ... but hey, if it sells candy.
I have limited myself to one candy bar a day. Ok, ok, some days there are two. And then there are the long nights of no candy. I tried taking one home one night, but ate it in the car. It was gone before I even reached the stop sign at the end of the street I work on. The one that is spitting distance from where I park.
I briefly considered including chocolate bars with Christmas gifts, but the self-knowledge is sufficient enough to be realistic. Christmas is still 24 days away, and I couldn't even make it through a ten minute ride home with a candy bar. I am surprised I have held out as well as I have with a box of candy bars on my desk at work. Luckily, I am so busy, I don't really have time to think about it. The meetings lasting three and four hours that keep me away from my desk help, too. Turns out those meetings are good for something after all.
I picked up my box of 50 candy bars on the weekend before Thanksgiving and took it into the office. I was smart enough to leave it there, knowing that if they were in the house, I'd eat them. All of them. Anyone who knows me and my history with chocolate will not be surprised by this. I can make a box of Valentine chocolates disappear in something approaching a world speed record. I used to smuggle my Halloween candy to bed with me and eat it all (except those nasty NECCO wafers, which should be banished from the candy kingdom). When I was about 9 or 10, I ate my multi-pound solid chocolate cross during that tiny window of time between Easter egg hunting and the morning's church service. This is my special superpower and I embrace it. Need to rid your home of some Godiva? You know who to call.
The first day I had the box in the office, I sent an email around the office saying there were candy bars for sale. One boss bought a couple for his wife (nice!). Later that day, when we were stuck in a meeting for several hours and I was glazing over, he suggested I bust out the candy bars. Ka-ching! Five candy bars sold to get us through the rest of the meeting. And sure enough, Monday night, I wanted a candy bar something fierce, but they were at work. Maybe that's why I wanted one so much.
Tuesday brought another marathon meeting on the same project. When the head of the historical research team came in, he was waving a dollar bill and asking for another candy bar. My first repeat customer! They are really good, which is why they can't be in the house. At least I know myself well enough to come up with the work around. Unfortunately, 'out of sight, out of mind' is not working on the candy front. It has become more of a case of 'absence makes the heart grow fonder.' Seriously, I just ate the rest of a jar of chunky peanut butter in desperation over having no chocolate at home, and knowing there is a half a box worth at work.
Upon returning to town yesterday, I realized that as much I would love a chocolate bar, they were all in my locker at work. I had to visit a teammate at her work to pick something up, and took money inside in case she had some for sale there. She did, and I bought the last one. It was the W.F. Crisp, which I realized only today stands for "World's Finest" Crisp and not the much cruder thing I kept seeing, knowing it wasn't that, and yet still giggling inside my head ... WTF Crisp?
Today was my first day back in the office after Thanksgiving vacation, and candy sales were brisk. Every time I returned to my desk, there were fewer candy bars and more money. Nice! I love a product that sells itself. Some mysterious benefactor in the office (I have no idea who) may have been anticipating a rough day and bought five candy bars when I was preparing a cup of coffee. I hope it wasn't my return that triggered the need ... but hey, if it sells candy.
I have limited myself to one candy bar a day. Ok, ok, some days there are two. And then there are the long nights of no candy. I tried taking one home one night, but ate it in the car. It was gone before I even reached the stop sign at the end of the street I work on. The one that is spitting distance from where I park.
I briefly considered including chocolate bars with Christmas gifts, but the self-knowledge is sufficient enough to be realistic. Christmas is still 24 days away, and I couldn't even make it through a ten minute ride home with a candy bar. I am surprised I have held out as well as I have with a box of candy bars on my desk at work. Luckily, I am so busy, I don't really have time to think about it. The meetings lasting three and four hours that keep me away from my desk help, too. Turns out those meetings are good for something after all.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Airport Hospitality
After waking at what felt like the butt-crack of dawn after days of sleeping in until as late as 10:30, Mom delivered me to the TF Green Airport in Providence, Rhode Island. We weren’t sure what traffic would be like around Worcester on a workday morning, and for some reason, I thought my flight was at 10:20, but it was really at 10:50. The traffic getting there was tolerable even with road construction and the heaviest volume seemed to be headed in the opposite direction. Consequently, there were a couple hours with which to entertain myself before my flight.
Baggage check-in was quick for me, but not for the woman two kiosks away. I don't know what the specifics of the situation were, but her suitcase was partially open on the scale, exploding jackets like one of those trick cans of nuts with the snakes in it. There was a puffy black quilted down coat hanging out and she was trying to jam a black glossy fur (or maybe fake fur) into it, and clothes were hanging out the sides onto the scale. She was waving a hot/cold thermal bag and asking the attendant "Will they check EVERY SINGLE item in here?" I am not sure if she was genuinely dense, had never flown before, or if it was some kind of an act. Maybe it was an airline "secret shopper" test for customer service. She had been there at the kiosk for the entire time I was in line, with eight or nine people checking in between us.
The clerk at my check-in kiosk rolled her eyes (ever so slightly, in the most polite manner) as she handed me my gate number and luggage claim ticket. When our eyes met, I said, "And for this morning's entertainment ..." She said, "Yeah, no kidding." She smiled, looking relieved the drama was not her station, and then I was off to the nearly empty security queue. In virtually no time, I was through the procedures and on the other side. No body scan. No groping. Just the regular level of disrobing (jacket, scarf, shoes) and a quick walk through the funhouse doorway or portal to hell or whatever it is, depending upon the day.
The airport shops featured the usual array of overpriced college (Brown University) and professional sports team branded tee shirts, sweatpants, hoodies and ball caps, but as much as I liked some of them, I could not justify $24.99 for a ball cap. My analysis for expenditures is simple – "How many hours do I have to work to pay for Item X?" I didn't like the answer for the $24.99 ball cap. Ditto for the $19.99 tee shirt. I barely spend that much on groceries in any given week, or on clothing items for work, where I occupy most of my quality awake time. Blame growing up hearing "We can't afford it." Blame the Frugal Finn gene bestowed upon me at birth. Blame the wage differential that has me earning my 1999 New England income in 2010 Tennessee. Blame whatever you want. I am not paying that kind of money for a ball cap unless one of the New England Patriots or Boston Red Sox are handing it to me in person and taking me to dinner afterward. And it better not be some third string player or bench warmer, either. I want a personal encounter with the A Team for that kind of money.
I did get a couple books for 50% off at the Read and Return cart – there is no problem justifying two books for $21. There was only a slight twinge when I stopped for a bottle of (overpriced) water on the way to my gate. The twinge had less to do with the cost of the water and more with the sales transaction.
The woman at the kiosk greeted me with “Good morning princess! You are my first customer today!” Well, good morning to you, too. There was an accent, but I couldn’t tell from what region of the planet. “Is that all for you sweetheart? Thank you very much honey! Here is your change darling.” She was trotting out every candy covered term of endearment possible, and I wondered what chapter of the ESL book these were from. “Have a great day, lovely.” Wow. That was a heavy dose of sweetener for so early in the morning. I’ve had long term relationships that didn’t use that many pet names throughout their entire run, never mind in one 30-second exchange. I wondered if that was the daily ‘first customer’ treatment, and considered hanging around a bit to see if she talked to the second customer like that, or if I was really the special, lovely, honey princess she had just built me up to be in my head. But then I figured why push it. Why spoil the fantasy? Why not bask in a glow of specialness for just a few minutes? Thank you water lady!
Baggage check-in was quick for me, but not for the woman two kiosks away. I don't know what the specifics of the situation were, but her suitcase was partially open on the scale, exploding jackets like one of those trick cans of nuts with the snakes in it. There was a puffy black quilted down coat hanging out and she was trying to jam a black glossy fur (or maybe fake fur) into it, and clothes were hanging out the sides onto the scale. She was waving a hot/cold thermal bag and asking the attendant "Will they check EVERY SINGLE item in here?" I am not sure if she was genuinely dense, had never flown before, or if it was some kind of an act. Maybe it was an airline "secret shopper" test for customer service. She had been there at the kiosk for the entire time I was in line, with eight or nine people checking in between us.
The clerk at my check-in kiosk rolled her eyes (ever so slightly, in the most polite manner) as she handed me my gate number and luggage claim ticket. When our eyes met, I said, "And for this morning's entertainment ..." She said, "Yeah, no kidding." She smiled, looking relieved the drama was not her station, and then I was off to the nearly empty security queue. In virtually no time, I was through the procedures and on the other side. No body scan. No groping. Just the regular level of disrobing (jacket, scarf, shoes) and a quick walk through the funhouse doorway or portal to hell or whatever it is, depending upon the day.
The airport shops featured the usual array of overpriced college (Brown University) and professional sports team branded tee shirts, sweatpants, hoodies and ball caps, but as much as I liked some of them, I could not justify $24.99 for a ball cap. My analysis for expenditures is simple – "How many hours do I have to work to pay for Item X?" I didn't like the answer for the $24.99 ball cap. Ditto for the $19.99 tee shirt. I barely spend that much on groceries in any given week, or on clothing items for work, where I occupy most of my quality awake time. Blame growing up hearing "We can't afford it." Blame the Frugal Finn gene bestowed upon me at birth. Blame the wage differential that has me earning my 1999 New England income in 2010 Tennessee. Blame whatever you want. I am not paying that kind of money for a ball cap unless one of the New England Patriots or Boston Red Sox are handing it to me in person and taking me to dinner afterward. And it better not be some third string player or bench warmer, either. I want a personal encounter with the A Team for that kind of money.
I did get a couple books for 50% off at the Read and Return cart – there is no problem justifying two books for $21. There was only a slight twinge when I stopped for a bottle of (overpriced) water on the way to my gate. The twinge had less to do with the cost of the water and more with the sales transaction.
The woman at the kiosk greeted me with “Good morning princess! You are my first customer today!” Well, good morning to you, too. There was an accent, but I couldn’t tell from what region of the planet. “Is that all for you sweetheart? Thank you very much honey! Here is your change darling.” She was trotting out every candy covered term of endearment possible, and I wondered what chapter of the ESL book these were from. “Have a great day, lovely.” Wow. That was a heavy dose of sweetener for so early in the morning. I’ve had long term relationships that didn’t use that many pet names throughout their entire run, never mind in one 30-second exchange. I wondered if that was the daily ‘first customer’ treatment, and considered hanging around a bit to see if she talked to the second customer like that, or if I was really the special, lovely, honey princess she had just built me up to be in my head. But then I figured why push it. Why spoil the fantasy? Why not bask in a glow of specialness for just a few minutes? Thank you water lady!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Home School
I am not a teacher. Some of my friends are, and others are in school to earn their certification and licensing to teach. The closest I have come to teaching was at the ballet studio I danced with in high school, where I taught three-year-olds how to skip and do plies, elementray school girls how to do more advanced movements, and suffered harrassment and heckling from my sister and her friends while leading their class. Until that time, teaching was high on the list as a possible career, but teaching dance classes effectively eradicated that notion. Forever. The idea of dealing with students gave me chills for years and resulted in the choice of business and marketing for a college degree.
While working as a writer in Worcester, my bosses instituted a new form of personal workplace torture when they assigned me the task of training new writers in our writing templates and protocol. I was convinced their confidence in me was completely misdirected, and relieved we had very low turnover and few new hires. There was never negative feedback, physical violence or psychological scarring resulting from my tutelage, (of which I am aware), so I guess it went okay.
Occasionally, my friends exhibit blatant signs of insanity and suggest I become a teacher. They'll casually say something outrageous like "You have a Master's degree, you should teach business or marketing." On the inside, my laughter is bubbling up as if some comedian is on stage, but all effort and energy is directed to maintaining composure and saying something benign and intelligent like "Oh, really? You think so? Huh. Hmmmm." This is followed by serious questions like "What are you, nuts?" "Have you suffered a recent head injury?" "When did you start doing stand-up comedy?"
My visit home continued into a school week, and my bold sister let the girls stay home from school on Monday so they could spend more time with me. While flattering, this development struck terror in the schoolgirl who still lives in me. The one who always yearned for perfect attendance, but was thwarted by recurring bouts of strep throat. The guilt over my niece's school skipping is equivalent to that one time in junior high when I skipped school with a classmate and we walked around West Fitchburg all day in the rain, dumb enough to think the swimming party at McTaggart's Pond was still happening. The rest of the party skipped school too, but they were all smart enough to stay in bed.
My aversion to teaching made my choice of activity with the nieces on the day officially marked "Hooky" on the family calendar more of a surprise. I decided we would play "Home School." There were no tears or protests over this plan, so it seemed acceptable. We started our day with Cooking /Life Skills class, where the oldest niece made pancakes with the youngest, and the middle niece and I set the table with plates garnished with Clementines, syrup and hot cocoa. The second half of Life Skills was cleaning up after breakfast, before we moved on to the next module -- writing (blogs). We spent an hour writing, the youngest (age 6) crafting her tale about her loose tooth, the middle (8) telling the story of our Thanksgiving dinner, the oldest (11) relating her version of our roller skating adventures. As for mine, well, y'all are looking at it.
There was a formal lesson plan for Home School Day, developed by the middle niece and me. After blog writing, it's Physical Education (crunches and pushups), Math (focusing on Christmas budgets!), lunch, and ice skating (more Physical Education). I have visions of being accosted by a truant officer when we arrive at the ice rink at 1:30 in the afternoon on a school day, but I am armed with a story -- this is Home Schooling! As long as they don't ask for a license or something official from the fine Commonwealth. Maybe I'll just carry the day's lesson plan (lettered in pencil on notebook paper) with me.
While working as a writer in Worcester, my bosses instituted a new form of personal workplace torture when they assigned me the task of training new writers in our writing templates and protocol. I was convinced their confidence in me was completely misdirected, and relieved we had very low turnover and few new hires. There was never negative feedback, physical violence or psychological scarring resulting from my tutelage, (of which I am aware), so I guess it went okay.
Occasionally, my friends exhibit blatant signs of insanity and suggest I become a teacher. They'll casually say something outrageous like "You have a Master's degree, you should teach business or marketing." On the inside, my laughter is bubbling up as if some comedian is on stage, but all effort and energy is directed to maintaining composure and saying something benign and intelligent like "Oh, really? You think so? Huh. Hmmmm." This is followed by serious questions like "What are you, nuts?" "Have you suffered a recent head injury?" "When did you start doing stand-up comedy?"
My visit home continued into a school week, and my bold sister let the girls stay home from school on Monday so they could spend more time with me. While flattering, this development struck terror in the schoolgirl who still lives in me. The one who always yearned for perfect attendance, but was thwarted by recurring bouts of strep throat. The guilt over my niece's school skipping is equivalent to that one time in junior high when I skipped school with a classmate and we walked around West Fitchburg all day in the rain, dumb enough to think the swimming party at McTaggart's Pond was still happening. The rest of the party skipped school too, but they were all smart enough to stay in bed.
My aversion to teaching made my choice of activity with the nieces on the day officially marked "Hooky" on the family calendar more of a surprise. I decided we would play "Home School." There were no tears or protests over this plan, so it seemed acceptable. We started our day with Cooking /Life Skills class, where the oldest niece made pancakes with the youngest, and the middle niece and I set the table with plates garnished with Clementines, syrup and hot cocoa. The second half of Life Skills was cleaning up after breakfast, before we moved on to the next module -- writing (blogs). We spent an hour writing, the youngest (age 6) crafting her tale about her loose tooth, the middle (8) telling the story of our Thanksgiving dinner, the oldest (11) relating her version of our roller skating adventures. As for mine, well, y'all are looking at it.
There was a formal lesson plan for Home School Day, developed by the middle niece and me. After blog writing, it's Physical Education (crunches and pushups), Math (focusing on Christmas budgets!), lunch, and ice skating (more Physical Education). I have visions of being accosted by a truant officer when we arrive at the ice rink at 1:30 in the afternoon on a school day, but I am armed with a story -- this is Home Schooling! As long as they don't ask for a license or something official from the fine Commonwealth. Maybe I'll just carry the day's lesson plan (lettered in pencil on notebook paper) with me.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Church Guest
Traveling home for Thanksgiving means a break from the norm and spending time with family. This is a mixed blessing. The part where work is barely a thought is a relief. Hanging with the family is fun. Monday morning when I don't have to get up for work will be amazing. The parts where I miss fun things like Sunday afternoon skate church at Magic Wheels and Monday night practice are slightly less great. But not impossible.
Luckily, my hometown has a skating rink nearby, and even luckier, my sister and nieces were willing to spend two afternoons there during my stay. They were seeing it to that packing my skates was worth the effort. My peeps have my back.
The oldest niece (11) wanted to skate when I was home in the summer, but we never scheduled time for it, and the next thing we knew I was headed back to Tennessee. That's kind of how vacation time works -- if it isn't nailed down as a plan before I board the plane north, the chance of it happening is reduced. Greatly. Much like work, fun expands to fill the time available. Just like the little sponge "magic" farm animals and dinosaurs that grow when water is added.
On Black Friday there was a five-hour open skate at Roll On America, with half-price admission for bringing in a wishbone. We hadn't even indulged in our dining table crushing family feast yet, but my sister, the clever Martha Stewart of the family, has an inventory of wish bones she saves to tie onto birthday gifts for a "birthday wish," so we were covered. All of us. The rink was also having a coat drive, so we received free passes for another visit in exchange for coats the girls had outgrown.
We skated a few hours on Friday on the smooth, shiny, yellow and blue floor where the derby track was marked out with smallpieces of black tape. Friday there was a girl there skating in knee and elbow pads who seemed to be a derby girl. I wanted to talk to her, but we seemed to be on opposite timelines for being on the floor -- when I was off the rink she was on it, and then she was gone altogether. I guess I should have chased her down on the floor, but that felt stalker-esque. The price of procrastination. I pay it often.
Sunday afternoon at the rink, there were several derby girls clustered in a corner near the entrance to the Laser Tag room. A couple of my wheels were getting a bit loose, so I headed for their ranks, figuring if anyone in the place had a tool (beside the rentals dude), one of them would, and maybe I'd make a couple new acquaintances. Liz loaned me her tool and was the only one there who even acknowledged my presence in their cluster. It was a sharp contrast to the welcoming attitude of the Red River Sirens, who always seem to be on the lookout for anyone who looks remotely like a derby sister or is a decent skater. And then we talk with them. I guess there is something real to Southern Hospitality after all.
Liz told me they had their skills test coming up this week and she was getting nervous. I meant to wish her luck on the way out, but I couldn't find her. There I go again with the infamous procrastination and lost opportunity cost.
We skated. And it was good. The floor was smooth. The music was decent. The games requiring the clearing of the floor were minimal. Kids were everywhere, but it wasn't too bad. Maybe I was just enthralled by the shiny patina of the floor. The youngest of the nieces was on skates for her second time -- the first being Friday. She was a persistent little trooper and never gave up. She'd skate a lap and come off the floor to have us guess how many times she'd fallen. The middle niece skated in the driveway over the summer, had developed her skating legs and did a great job. She skated for hours and never fell. The oldest one plays ice hockey and was a whiz on her inlines. My friend and her daughter came and were great skaters, too. The young'un knew how to handle inlines, and even tried the quads. Heck, I could send over a whole roster for a junior league if there was one.
We skated until we were done skating and then we headed out. Unlike church church where you have to fill out a guest card, skate church is a low profile, no follow-up gig.
Luckily, my hometown has a skating rink nearby, and even luckier, my sister and nieces were willing to spend two afternoons there during my stay. They were seeing it to that packing my skates was worth the effort. My peeps have my back.
The oldest niece (11) wanted to skate when I was home in the summer, but we never scheduled time for it, and the next thing we knew I was headed back to Tennessee. That's kind of how vacation time works -- if it isn't nailed down as a plan before I board the plane north, the chance of it happening is reduced. Greatly. Much like work, fun expands to fill the time available. Just like the little sponge "magic" farm animals and dinosaurs that grow when water is added.
On Black Friday there was a five-hour open skate at Roll On America, with half-price admission for bringing in a wishbone. We hadn't even indulged in our dining table crushing family feast yet, but my sister, the clever Martha Stewart of the family, has an inventory of wish bones she saves to tie onto birthday gifts for a "birthday wish," so we were covered. All of us. The rink was also having a coat drive, so we received free passes for another visit in exchange for coats the girls had outgrown.
We skated a few hours on Friday on the smooth, shiny, yellow and blue floor where the derby track was marked out with smallpieces of black tape. Friday there was a girl there skating in knee and elbow pads who seemed to be a derby girl. I wanted to talk to her, but we seemed to be on opposite timelines for being on the floor -- when I was off the rink she was on it, and then she was gone altogether. I guess I should have chased her down on the floor, but that felt stalker-esque. The price of procrastination. I pay it often.
Sunday afternoon at the rink, there were several derby girls clustered in a corner near the entrance to the Laser Tag room. A couple of my wheels were getting a bit loose, so I headed for their ranks, figuring if anyone in the place had a tool (beside the rentals dude), one of them would, and maybe I'd make a couple new acquaintances. Liz loaned me her tool and was the only one there who even acknowledged my presence in their cluster. It was a sharp contrast to the welcoming attitude of the Red River Sirens, who always seem to be on the lookout for anyone who looks remotely like a derby sister or is a decent skater. And then we talk with them. I guess there is something real to Southern Hospitality after all.
Liz told me they had their skills test coming up this week and she was getting nervous. I meant to wish her luck on the way out, but I couldn't find her. There I go again with the infamous procrastination and lost opportunity cost.
We skated. And it was good. The floor was smooth. The music was decent. The games requiring the clearing of the floor were minimal. Kids were everywhere, but it wasn't too bad. Maybe I was just enthralled by the shiny patina of the floor. The youngest of the nieces was on skates for her second time -- the first being Friday. She was a persistent little trooper and never gave up. She'd skate a lap and come off the floor to have us guess how many times she'd fallen. The middle niece skated in the driveway over the summer, had developed her skating legs and did a great job. She skated for hours and never fell. The oldest one plays ice hockey and was a whiz on her inlines. My friend and her daughter came and were great skaters, too. The young'un knew how to handle inlines, and even tried the quads. Heck, I could send over a whole roster for a junior league if there was one.
We skated until we were done skating and then we headed out. Unlike church church where you have to fill out a guest card, skate church is a low profile, no follow-up gig.
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