A Life of Adventure

The Adventure is Almost Beginning

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 01:47:00 +0000

We’ve made a list.

It includes all the boat chores that need to be done. We need to fabricate a fuel tank that holds more diesel than my car can carry. (Seven years ago we installed a “temporary” fuel tank.) Also on the list are things like finally installing the anchor windlass we bought 6 years ago. We bought the chain to go with it. Six years ago. It’s been sitting in Maggie and Charlie’s yacht rigging shop since then. They used to tease us about it. Now they use the chain’s container as a table.

I put in for two weeks vacation in July, and got approved. I also requested two weeks unpaid in August. I don’t think I’ll get the August time, so we’ll have to figure something out with that.

I grabbed a book from the library about where we will sail to. Todd read some of it last night and used Google pedometer to plot how far away our destination is. 405 miles.

Destination: Chipman Point Marina in Orwell, Vermont. We will sail east through Long Island Sound to New York City. We’ll have the masts taken down and head up the Hudson River and into Lake Champlain.

We’re at that exciting and overwhelming time at the start of the trip. There is a lot to do; a lot of phone calls to make, a lot of plywood to cut to build the prototype for our custom fuel tanks, a lot of time spent trying to figure out why the radar won’t work, and a lot of calls to Raytheon technical support.

There’s a lot to do at work to make sure my absence won’t stress out my co-workers and boss.

There are provisions to plan out and buy.

There are details to arrange, like sailing the boat to Essex, Connecticut the weekend before the trip, then taking the train back to Rhode Island.

Then we need to figure out how we’ll get back to RI from Vermont.

Spreadsheets have been made; measurements have been scrawled in notebooks.

And we're loving every minute of it.

Burnin' Rubber

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 01:23:00 +0000

Nemo's got this whole exercise thing worked out.

Birthday Week: Day 4 and 5 and a Computer Virus

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 01:44:00 +0000

Birthday week has come to a close. It breezed right by me, in a sugar rush haze of chocolate, cupcakes and Girl Scout Cookies.

On Thursday morning, the day of my actual birthday, my dear friend Charlie brought me a box of chocolates from the world's best chocolate shop, The Chocolate Delicacy. The label on the box said "Calorie Consuming Anti Matter Chocolate," and then the other label had the atomic symbol on it. Of course, the box had all my favorites in it, because Chocolate Dave knows what I like after having been diving with me and eating post dive chocolates with him.

Then I met Todd for Mexican for dinner. He presented me with a group of papers stapled together with a riddle on it. He'd bought me tickets to see Willy Porter again (swoon) in April. But he won't be around to see the show with me. So he hooked up my friend Dennis from work and his girlfriend Nikki to go with me.

Then on day 5 he baked me a chocolate cake, and got me a device from Amazon that will measure how much electricity (and money) the lights and devices in our house use. Which I think will be fascinating to play with. And maybe it will help me to bitch less about our electric bill every month. So, it'll bring peace to him as well.

Also on day 5 I caught a computer virus, which was both good and bad. It was bad because I didn't get the chance to work on the book, or the freelance project I'm working on. But it was also good because it forced me to unplug for a weekend. Todd just finished fixing it a bit ago.

Thank you, love, for an amazing birthday week, and for spoiling the hell out of me once again.

Birthday Week: Day 3

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 18:12:00 +0000

On the third day of birthday week
My true love gave to me
A red velvet cuh-uh-up-cake.

And then this morning I ran 5 miles on the treadmill to keep up with the excess consumption of goodies.

Birthday Week: Day 2

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 21:27:00 +0000

Birthday week, day 2 brought two boxes of Caramel Delites. My favorite.

And they're great with Twisted Tea.

Birthday Week: Day 1

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 12:15:00 +0000

It happens the same way, and pretty frequently too. The doorbell at work rings. One of my co-workers who sit near it answer it. They groan and say, "Beej? Really? Again?"

Todd likes to send me things at work. He sent me flowers last year on the first day of spring. He sent me flowers this year on the first day of February. I've gotten them for Groundhog's Day. I've gotten them just because.

Yesterday an Edible Arrangement arrived--chocolate covered pears and apples. The card read "Happy Birthday Week!"

The women rushed in to share, because I ALWAYS share in my bounty. And then they rolled their eyes, because it's my birthday week. I get presents when it's not even my birthday. (Hell, he's gotten me presents on HIS birthday. Figure that one out.)

Is it wrong that I was pushing for a birthday month? Not necessarily for gifts, more for chores. For example, "I shouldn't have to chase the dog to the neighbor's again. It's my birthday month." Eventhough I often call Todd "Excellent Husband," he's not buyin' into the whole birthday month thing.

Mistaken Identity, Again

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 20:57:00 +0000

It happened again on Friday. I walked into Subway to get lunch. I rarely go there for lunch, and normally pack a lunch to eat at my desk. Then I spend my lunch hour huddled over my laptop in my car to work on whatever I am writing.

“Hi Debbie,” the woman behind the counter said to me. The first time she said that to me, 4-5 times ago, I looked at her puzzled. This time I ignored her and placed my order.

“You’re not Debbie, are you?” she asked me, while she laid out my turkey and provolone on a 6” piece of wheat bread.

“No, I’m not.”

“I’ve asked you that before, haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s OK.”

“You look just like this woman Debbie I know,” she told me, again. Debbie has some long and complicated Italian last name. (Yeah, because Polish last names are so much easier.) She told me the Italian name, again.

“Is she Italian?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm… I am Polish,” I explained, hoping that it would help her to not think I look like Debbie.

But then, it must be that Polish Mediterranean skin of mine throwing her off

It Must Be my Mediterranean Skin

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 01:53:00 +0000

It was a slow day at Jacques Penney. That’s what I called JC Penney when I worked there when I was a teenager. I said it with a heavy faux French accent. We were all standing around, me and a few women I worked with who were also bored. These were older women. They had husbands and kids. They worked for Jacques on nights and weekends for extra money.

“Ugh, my skin is peeling from this sunburn,” one of them women scratched her shoulder blades against a display. I joked about taking one of the hands off a mannequin so scratching would be easier.

She looked me up and down. It was summer. I was 17 and tan. “You don’t burn, do you?”

“Nope,” I smiled back at her. “I think about the sun and I get tan.” Then I paused, looked up and to the right, as if deep in thought. Then I showed her my arm, “See, it’s already more tan.”

“Well, you’re Polish. You have that Mediterranean skin,” she replied, thoughtfully.

I conjured a map of Europe in my head. The summer before I had vacationed in Germany, Poland and Italy with my family. It took a long time to drive to Rome from Krakow, Poland.

Pop quiz, Internet! Do you know why it took a long time to drive from Krakow to Poland?

It’s because Poland is nowhere damn near the Mediterranean Sea, my friends.

Hijacking Greta

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 12:20:00 +0000

The other day I read in the Providence Journal about an old lady who received a phone call from her grandson. The grandson lived in Florida, and she hadn’t talked to him in awhile. He calls her up and said “Grandma, I’m in Canada and I got arrested. I need $2,000 to post bail.” The grandma told him that she’d call his parents, and he was all like “NO! They can’t ever find out, they’ll be so mad at me. Can we please keep this between us?” She wired the grandson some money to some location in Canada and then called him back on his cell to tell him that she’d wired the money.

Then her worst nightmare came true. The grandson said “What are you talking about? I’m not in Canada. I’m having lunch with my co-workers in Florida…” She’d been taken for a $2,000 ride, and of course that money’s gone.

Then just yesterday I got an email from my friend Greta. Apparently she was in the UK, been mugged at gunpoint, and needed some money so she could settle up with the hotel and fly home that night. She promised to pay me back when she got home.

The problem? Greta was not in the UK. Greta lives in Florida. Even though I don’t talk to Greta every day, I knew that she was not on a “last minute vacation to London.” Luckily I knew enough not to wire Greta the $2,500 she’d asked for. (Where the hell did she stay that she needs $2,500 to “settle the hotel bill” and how much caviar did she get from room service??)

Greta’s email account had been hacked. Her facebook page had been hacked too. The hacker posed as her and chatted to her friends online trying to get them to send money. Her friends knew that Greta was not in the UK. One even said “I am texting with Greta right now. You are not Greta. I just saw her this morning.” The hacker then disconnected from the chat and retreated. Greta’s friends know better, and have not given the hacker a dime.

Internet, if you get an email or a phone call about a friend of yours that is in trouble please verify it before you act. One little phone call to the grandson’s cell phone would have saved the grandma $2,000.

The Boobie Dry Cleaner

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 12:58:00 +0000

The way she leaned against the counter, it pushed her boobs into display even more. That’s the thing I never liked about going into that dry cleaner, was this young woman behind the counter. She was pretty enough, but she shoved her big ol hooters up and out of her shirt on display. I wonder if she ever had the chance to know what eye contact looked like.

I went to that dry cleaner every other week while I had the dive shop. It was on the way, and was the last one nearby that I hadn’t yet boycotted for some ridiculous reason. I did that a lot back then. I had a mental list of the dry cleaners I didn’t want to ever set foot in again, and now I cannot remember the reason for any of them. Over the time I’d been going to the “Boobie Dry Cleaner,” as I’d begun calling it, I became friendly with Kayla, the one with the boobs.

I went in one night on my way home from the shop. Kayla didn’t smile. Her boobs stood at attention, but she didn’t smile like she usually did.

“Hey, how are you?” I asked.

“My boyfriend and I just broke up,” she sighed.

“Oh no! How long have you been together?” I asked. She told me it had been a few weeks. I tried to smile sympathetically, but couldn’t seem to muster one up for a 20 year old girl who had broken up with her weeks-long boyfriend.

She went on to tell me that she had such a great time with him. He was older; I gathered that he was at least in his thirties or maybe forties. He took her to all the “right” clubs. He bought her jewelry. And now she’d need to find another guy to do all those things for her. It was catastrophic.

I couldn’t resist. I asked her why she needed all that in her life. What was so great about going to the “right” clubs if she couldn’t get along with the guy who brought her there? She looked at me with a puzzled look on her face.

“The way I see it,” I paused to choose my words carefully. “If you really like a guy then it doesn’t matter where you guys go together. No matter where you go, it will always be fun.”

She considered for a moment while I told her about the dates that Todd and I had been on when we were first together. He was 20, I was 23. We were flat broke and our idea of a date was cooking dinner together in my apartment. There was a supermarket a few blocks away. We’d walk there and spend Saturday afternoon wandering the aisles, picking out the ingredients and laughing. He really knew how to make me laugh, too. I have a very vivid memory of him speaking French to a cantaloupe. I have no idea what he said to it, but it was funny as hell as he tapped the top of it and held it to his ear. It’s those memories that make me smile still, 13 years later.

Kayla raised her eyebrows at me incredulously. “And you married him after that?”

Maybe I Did Have a Weird Childhood

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 11:25:00 +0000

Even though I have four siblings, I spent a lot of time on my own as a child. My brothers are 4 and 8 years older than me, and my sisters are 5 and 14 years older than me. While the age difference is nothing right now, when we were kids, it was a great divide that screamed “You and I have nothing in common!” There were no kids my age in the neighborhood, which contributed to my not-really-an-only-child-but-kinda-an-only-child life back then.

When I was 4 years old, my oldest sister was graduating high school and heading off to college, while my brother Kaz—4 years older than me—was entering the 3rd grade and playing on the “Major League” little league team. I was barely hitting the ball off the tee. (See above, great divide.)

Throughout my childhood we played endless hours of wiffle ball in the summer, and of course Kaz and the boy next door could hit the ball way further than I could. They would round the bases while I scrambled to field the ball and try to tag them out. The games that my siblings played were all too old for me, and I constantly lacked the skill to compete. I was the little sister that tagged along, yipping at the heels of my older siblings. My choices were yipping or staying home. Staying home meant helping Mom with the cleaning or ironing, and who wants to do that?

Then someone, I don’t know who, took pity on me and bought me a set of jacks. I remember the plastic molded jacks were in a plastic-y drawstring bag with a rubber ball. There were no instructions with the game, and I had no idea how to play jacks. I studied the contents of the set with a scientific fascination. The jacks certainly looked interesting. Why were some prongs rounded while the others were pointy? I didn’t know. I twisted them around in my fingertips, and then tried to spin one of the jacks on its end on the surface of the coffee table. I was disappointed that they wouldn’t spin the way a coin would spin. It would have been cool to see how many I could get spinning at the same time. No dice. I couldn’t stack them on top of each other like blocks, or lean them against each other like I would when building a house of cards.

I lined up the jacks end to end on the length of the coffee table and examined them. They didn’t look like they would be that much fun to play with as they uselessly tilted on their axis; I couldn’t get them to balance so that they looked like plus signs. I left them on the table and bounced the rubber ball against the picture window. I left a perfect round smudge on the glass. I wiped it off with the curtain, so Mom wouldn’t see it and then turned my attention back to the jacks in formation on the coffee table.

“What the heck am I supposed to do with these things?” I puzzled. There was no Internet, so it’s not like I could anonymously look it up and learn. I didn’t want to ask anyone how to play for fear of looking stupid. Even I knew that everyone knew how to play jacks. Well, everyone except for me. Was it some sort of childhood instinct that I lacked?

And now it’s an adult instinct I lack. If I understand it correctly, you’re supposed to bounce the ball and see how many jacks you can pick up before the ball hits the table again, right? Where’s the fun in that?? Who thought of that? I’ll bet it was someone who wanted to make cleaning up the toys a game, so the kids would tidy up after themselves. I can picture some misguided and frazzled mom, “OK, kids, I am going to bounce this ball. Let’s see how many things you can pick up before it lands…. Ready??? GO!!!”

Temptation

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 12:54:00 +0000

The red heart-shaped box of chocolates called to me from the kitchen counter. I can smell them all the way from my spot on the end of the couch. I saw Beej eat one of them earlier, before she and Todd turned off the kitchen lights and headed out to the hot tub. She smiled while she chewed on the caramel; I know that caramels are her favorite. Todd’s favorite is dark chocolate cherry cordials. I like them both the same. But then, I never met a bite of people food I didn’t like. I am Labrador, the garbage disposal of the canine world.

Sometimes just the smell of people food is good enough. When Todd and Beej cook, I like to hang out on the kitchen floor. They patiently step over me as they retrieve cooking implements from this drawer or that cabinet. If I am lucky they’ll drop something; on the rare occasion that I don’t notice, Beej will tap her toe near it so I know where I can score a bite.

The competition on the kitchen floor is stiff with my brother Nemo hanging around. Nemo is a beagle, and has the second most powerful nose in our world. His nose directs him to fallen morsels before mine can recognize it. I tend to watch where things fall, while he sniffs them out. If I direct my attention elsewhere for a moment he’ll swoop in and score. His nose is so powerful I swear he can smell a burger grilling on the other side of Narragansett Bay on a summer evening. I prefer to focus on the more attainable food items on the counter where he can’t reach. He can fantasize about distant grilling burgers all he wants; I tend to lean toward the tangible and immediate.

I sat on the kitchen floor and let the blissful smell of the chocolates prey on my senses. I lie down on the kitchen floor and allow the saliva to moisten my front paws. The memory of the flavor of chocolate is fresh in my mind. Not long ago I scored a pan of brownies. Before that I had secured half a box of cherry cordials. And then the voice in the back of my mind starts to chant.

“Chocolate.”

“Chocolate.”

“Chocolate.”

I squirm under my desire to taste chocolate once again. I pace on the kitchen floor, trying to silence the chanting. But it only gets louder.

“CHOCOLATE.”

“CHOCOLATE.”

“CHOCOLATE.”

“CHOCOLATE.”

I bark, in an effort to silence the voice. Then I press my nose into the trash can to rid my nose of the smell of chocolate. Beej just took the trash out before she and Todd went outside. The bag is empty, I think. I need to be sure. Maybe there’s something in there that will stop the chanting.

The aluminum trash bin topples over on its side. I wedge my nose under the lid and tug the bag out with my teeth. I firmly grip it and shake my head back and forth. It’s empty, except for a few small items they must have thrown in there. A tag from a shirt she bought at Old Navy, bah! A paper towel with some pancake scraps on it, score! The chanting is silenced to a whisper, until I realize that there’s nothing else in the bag. Then it starts up again even louder and more urgently this time.

“CHOCOLATE.”

“CHOCOLATE.”

“CHOCOLATE.”

“CHOCOLATE.”

My front paws slide on the surface of the counter, my nose inches toward the shiny red cardboard heart. Beej had slid it to the center of the counter, where she’d hoped it would be out of my reach. I swat at it with my front paw until it’s at the edge of the counter. I step down and move closer to the edge, and then use my front paws to swat again. It inches closer and closer to the edge with each swat. I know that I can bat my paw just one more time and the chocolates will fall to the floor.

The bamboo plant in the ceramic pot crashes to the floor. I rescue the cardboard box from the puddle before it gets soggy. I carry it over to my bed and work the lid off the top. Nemo beelines to the bed and tries to snag a bit of my treasure. I cover the box with my front legs and snarl until he retreats. He circles the bed waiting for me to let my guard down; not likely, brother.

The chocolate melts on my tongue and I am deliriously happy. The room spins a bit as I delight in the smooth and sweet flavor. I chew slightly on the caramel until it’s soft enough to coat the inside of my mouth. Nemo leans in to take a whiff; I let him have a piece too.

The heart-shaped box is empty; I lie on my back basking in the afterglow and sigh contentedly. Then I hear the footsteps. Then I hear their voices as they approach the back door. They are talking and laughing; they had a nice time soaking in the hot tub. Frantic, I run upstairs into the guest bedroom. I flatten myself against the far side of the bed in the shadows.

“Oh no!” Beej moans. “Griffen! What the hell? BAD DOG GRIFFEN!”

“Where is he?” Todd asks.

“I don’t know, but he’s dead meat,” Beej says. “Shit! The chocolates that Spencer got me for Valentine’s Day! He ate them. Goddam it! I only got to eat one of them!”

Todd found me. I honestly thought that he wouldn’t think to look there. I listened as he called to me from downstairs, and then as he came up the stairs and walked into our bedroom. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and pulled me up. I resisted and tried to let my weight hold me down against the carpet. Todd is strong when he’s mad.

Ashamed I carefully entered the kitchen. Beej had righted the trash can and she was cleaning up the bamboo’s broken pot. Todd rolled up a newspaper and swatted me on the nose.

“BAD DOG, GRIFFEN! BAD BOY!” he yelled as he swatted.

I wish I could say “I know. I know I am a bad dog. I couldn’t help myself.” I left the kitchen as soon as I could and tucked my tail between my legs to protect myself. I stood by the bottom of the stairs and listened to them talk about me.

“He’s 8 now. It’s ridiculous that we can’t leave him for half a fucking hour in here, you know?” Beej complained.

“I know. I just think that his little brain just shuts off when there’s something on the counter that he wants,” Todd explained. He caught my eye, “Look at him, he looks so sad.”

“Good. He should be,” Beej replied. I listened as they finished cleaning up the mess. Todd sat on the bottom step and scratched my hips. I hung my head until Beej walked in. I looked up at her expectantly.

“Pet him, he’s so sad,” Todd pleaded.

“No. I will not reward his bad behavior,” Beej replied. “He will learn that his behavior is unacceptable if his pack shuns him.”

“Beej, he’s not thinking about the consequences when there’s chocolate on the counter. He’s not going to remember being shunned the next time he gets tempted.”

“Well, too bad. I don’t want to pet him right now. I am mad at him. He’s a bad dog,” she pointed at me and emphasized the words “bad” and “dog.” I bowed my head. Then she stormed up the stairs and went to the bathroom sink to wash her face. I stood in the doorway and watched her while she ignored me, and then she went to bed without saying goodnight.

Happy Birthday to One Crazy Bastard

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 12:02:00 +0000

Ladies and gentlemen of the Internet, today is a day unlike any other. On this very day, on some undisclosed year probably long long ago, our friend the Taoist Biker vroomed his way into the world. Please join me in wishing dear TB a happy birthday.

Sto lat,* TB! I hope you have an awesome day.

*Sto lat (stuh lot) is the Polish equivalent of Happy Birthday. It quite literally translates to “100 years.” Which means that I wish you’d live 100 years.

You Know Who I Feel Bad For?

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 17:56:00 +0000

Women with facial hair, that’s who.

I cannot think of anything more unfortunate for a woman, in terms of physical appearance, than facial hair. There’s no way to hide it. Even if a woman shaves it, it’ll eventually come back as stubble. Waxing is even worse, because the hair has to be a certain length for it to take to waxing.

I was at lunch with my fellow jurors at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) cafeteria when I happened to spot a young woman’s misfortune. She was in line in front of me and dressed in 80’s splendor… fuchsia pants tucked into big floppy socks. A worn pair of Keds on her feet. Her shirt was a wild swirling mishmash of color and checkerboard patterns that just screamed “I was sewn in 1985.” A zillion bobby pins held her hair from the right side of her head and swept it over the top of her head so that it cascaded down by her left ear.

But it was her chin that caught my attention. It was noon and she was already sporting more than a five o’clock shadow on her cheeks, jaw and chin. When she turned to face me, I saw it on her upper lip as well. The stubble was thick. It was obvious that she’d had to shave it at one point and desperately needed to again.

I tried not to stare. But of course I stared. I looked at anything I possibly could to keep my eyes off her beard. I read and re-read the menu on the wall. I watched the short order cooks grill up a few quesadillas. I talked to my fellow jurors about the case we’d heard that morning. We’re always careful never to speak in specifics when we go to lunch together. We, obviously, never mention names or places that would reveal anything about the case. The case we’d heard that morning was pretty juicy, but I couldn’t get my mind off this poor young girl with her beard.

Was she ashamed of it? Did she get made fun of? Obviously she’d been stared at; I am living proof of that. I’ll bet anything that the kids in her high school had some sort of name for her. I cringed at the idea that this poor girl probably got called “Hairy Cousin It” or something equally awful. Was it hard for her to get dates?

I don’t think I will ever freak out about a zit ever again.

Unsetting the Sun

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 00:28:00 +0000

I gunned the engine on Todd’s car, racing to the peak of the Newport Bridge. The sun had just set, but I hoped that the gained altitude at the top of the bridge we’d see just a sliver of the newly set sun over the horizon.

“You did it!” Todd cheered from the passenger seat. “You’ve just unset the sun.” I clapped for a second then replaced my hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel.

It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. We’ve just celebrated our 12th Valentine’s Day together. We were drowsy from the weight of the Mexican food in our bellies and from the day’s activities.

The day started off with a fresh batch of heart shaped pancakes I’d made. We ate them in bed and let the dogs have whatever we couldn’t finish. Valentine’s Day is a family affair in our house, after all.

Before we knew it we were in the car and crossing over Narragansett Bay on the Newport Bridge. We arrived at the horse barn were soon we saddled onto our horses and headed for a ride on Third Beach.

It was a wonderful ride, but I’ve discovered that I really don’t like it when horses trot. It’s bouncy and jarring. It’s hurty where my butt repeatedly slammed into the saddle. Galloping, however, is great. The horse gets into a smoother rhythm that doesn’t send me bluntly bobbing up and down on the hard leather saddle.

Todd had a much better time on this ride than he did on the one on South Padre Island on our honeymoon. The last horse left in the barn was a young stallion that had been broken for about five minutes. Long story short, his horse pestered another horse into kicking him square in the chest. The force of the kick sent Todd’s horse, with Todd on the back, sprawling sideways on the beach. From there the ride went downhill.

Today, however, Todd and his horse—Jenny—were the best of friends. She listened to his commands, she did not ever send them ass over teakettle. He rode in front of me while I watched from behind. I watched him move up and down in his saddle while trotting and listened to him talk to Jenny and remind her that she’s a “good girl.”

He looked over his shoulder at me with a big smile on his face, and I could tell that my Valentine was having a wonderful ride.

This is quite possibly the best picture of Todd I've ever taken. Happy Valentine's Day, Love.

Hemmed In

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 01:09:00 +0000

With the exception of the hair salon I’ve gone to for the last 8 years, I haven’t been a consistent consumer of services. I don’t always go to the same supermarket, and go for the one that’s the most convenient. I haven’t used the same dry cleaner consistently, except for the last year or so when I’ve managed to find one that comes to my house to take the dirty clothes away and bring clean ones back a few days later. I don’t often get things like massages, manicures and pedicures—but when I do, I don’t go to the same place all the time.

But I will most definitely keep going to the tailor I discovered recently. I haven’t consistently used a tailor, and have walked around with my pants either too short or too long. My recent discovery of the tailor will not only ensure that my pants are the correct length, but will also provide me with excellent blog fodder.

I went back to the tailor last week. I had bought a pair of cargo pants on clearance, but of course they were too long. (My legs are too long for the “regular” length women’s pants, but too short for the “long” length. Don’t even get me started as to why women’s clothing manufacturers don’t size their pants by the inch, like men’s clothing manufacturers do. This is something I will never ever understand.) These cargo pants fit me just right. They make my legs look long and slender. The cargo pockets on the outsides of my thighs aren’t too bulky, either. The only thing I don’t like about these pants are the front pockets, so in addition to getting them hemmed I’ve asked the tailor to sew the pockets shut.

I put the pants on, behind the curtain that doesn’t close all the way. He chalked lines where the hems will go, and then we discussed the pockets. He examined the pockets and then he proceeded to jam his hands down the front of my pants so he could pin the pockets closed. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a strange man’s hands jammed down the front of my pants… I think the last time was when Todd and I started dating. I had assumed that when I’d gotten married there wouldn’t be any more strange men jamming their hands down the front of my pants. Boy was I wrong.

It was entirely innocent. The tailor was just doing his job, and there was no funny business. Still, it was an entirely unexpected thing to have happen to me. I mean, if I am going to have a strange man jam his hands down my pants I wish he’d been about 60 years younger and better looking. I also wish he didn’t have a ridiculously obvious toupee.

On Friday I picked up my freshly hemmed pockets sewn in cargo pants. The tailor had the TV behind the counter on. Last time he was watching a Jerry Springer wanna-be, this time he was watching a nature show on PBS. Two black bears were pouncing on each other and rolling around.

“I like these shows,” the tailor gestured to the TV. “You know that bears don’t eat meat?”

“Really? I thought they liked salmon,” I replied. The tailor paused for a minute, to consider whether bears eat salmon or not.

“Maybe you’re right,” he directed his attention to the TV, the bears were still rolling around together, “But I can’t tell. They are fighting or making love?” He watched the screen intently, waiting for the distinction to become obvious.

“I’m not sure,” I laughed. Then I mentally scanned my closet for other articles of clothing in need of alterations.

What in the Hell is Going on in New Orleans?

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 01:08:00 +0000

CNN blared from the TV in the bedroom while I stood at the bathroom sink primping and preening. Todd calls my getting-ready-to-go-anywhere routine “primping and preening.” He says I take longer to get ready than anyone he knows. It’s not that I take a long time. It’s just that on some days I have a hard time being quick about it, and that’s what makes it seem like a long time. His idea of getting ready is rolling out of bed and standing under the shower for .5 seconds. Then he whips on some clothing and leaves; I have to go around with the extinguisher to put out the fire left behind in his footprints. And that, too, adds on to my getting-ready-to-go-anywhere routine. So, really the length of time it takes me to get ready is all Todd’s fault.

Todd’s been travelling quite a bit these last few weeks. To fill the house with noise in the morning I’ve had CNN on the bedroom TV. Normally I have it on the living room TV while I am eating breakfast and packing lunch in the kitchen. But now that he’s not still in bed while I am primping, I can put it on in the bedroom and turn it way up. He would probably get really annoyed with me if I did that while he was here.

On Monday morning the newscasters were talking about celebration in the streets of New Orleans. I paused and listened for a moment (which probably added onto the time it takes me to get ready in the morning) because I wanted to know what the residents of New Orleans were celebrating about. I set down the hairdryer I was just about to switch on and listened intently. The good folks in New Orleans have had a rough time of it in the last decade, and I smiled at the thought of them partying in the streets.

But then I thought about New Orleans and how they party in the streets every February. It’s too early for Mardi Gras, what the hell are they partying about now? Do they ever stop partying? And then I grew a bit annoyed at how these people party in the streets when the people of Providence cannot be bothered to have a citywide celebration like that. And what the hell is wrong with the people of Providence that they can’t have a big party like Mardi Gras?

I cut my mental rant short and listened some more and learned that New Orleans’s football team was in the Super bowl* and they won. Oh yeah, the Super Bowl was on Sunday. New Orleans has a football team? How did I not know that? And how has the Super Bowl eluded me once again? I really ought to pay more attention. And I tell myself that every single year and yet I never do.

*Spell check flagged the word “Superbowl.” When I right clicked on it, Microsoft Word suggested “Super bowl” or “Superb owl.” Maybe next year, with my increased awareness of this big football game, I’ll call it the “Superb Owl.”

Why Is That?

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 00:08:00 +0000

“So, what do you do?” I overheard at a party.

“This is John, he’s a software engineer,” I heard at another party.

“So, you’re an attorney. What’s that like?” I overheard somewhere else.

Not many people ask me what I do for a living. And you know what? I really don’t mind that I don’t get asked. I wonder why people don’t often ask me that question. Is it that I don’t look like someone who is gainfully employed? No. It’s probably because whenever I am in a social setting I tend to talk about the things I like to do. I talk about the stupid things my dogs do. I talk about our sailing adventures and our diving adventures. Then I forget that I even have a job that I could be talking about, because I am having fun talking and hearing about vacations and listening to funny stories.

When Todd and I were at Kalahari, we stood in line at the boogie boarding ride. The line takes a long time because we have to wait for every single person ahead of us to take a turn navigating a boogie board on a perpetual wave. I struck up a conversation with the couple in line behind us. Then Todd asked me what they did for a living.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask,” I replied. Then I thought about it some more. “You know, I don’t like asking people what they do for work. I’d rather ask what they like to do. That’s always more interesting anyway.” He shrugged and thought about it for a second and acknowledged I was right.

We rode the boogie board, and I managed to get up onto my knees before the force of the water sent me flying up to where the wave ends. The lifeguard greeted me with an outstretched towel in case my bathing suit ceased to cover up the goods. (Which I thought was great of them to do. At Schlitterbahn in South Padre Island, TX I involuntarily flashed my boobs at all of the people in line, and at all the people on the balcony of the café above. Good times.) We headed to the hot tub bar after boogie boarding. You have to enter the hot tub to belly up to the bar. Then the hot tub flows under the exterior wall of the building so that we could enjoy our drinks in the tub outdoors. A perfect situation, really.

We soaked and drank. As usual, I eavesdropped on the conversations around us. I listened to a man bitch about his job to his friend. Blah blah blah blah… I tuned out the conversation. Then they went inside after one of the men said to the other “You should just be a man about it and sleep with other women.” (What??) We took their place along the side of the tub and listened to other people talk about their jobs.

I asked Todd, “Why is it that we’re at the biggest indoor water park in the nation, sitting in an awesome hot tub on a Saturday night with these fabulous drinks in our hands listening to people talk about work? Isn’t there anything else for people to talk about?”

Is it that we’re overworked? Are so many of our waking moments spent working or worrying about work?

What do you think, Internet? Why do people talk about work so much?

A Day in the Life

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 23:56:00 +0000

“Hooooooneeeey?” Todd called out from the shower.

I opened the bathroom door and called, “What?”

“Will you go to the store today and get me some more shampoo? I ran out,” he asked.

“What, you don’t know where the store is?”

“I got married so I wouldn’t have to do things like buy myself shampoo.”

Then I debated as to whether I want to try to force him to buy his own shampoo. Then find myself in CVS on the way home buying his shampoo because I cannot resist his Tractor Beam of Cooperation.

A few days later I returned home from work to find all the thermostats in the house registering a cool 53 degrees. I lit a fire, put the tea kettle on, and piled blankets on top of me after applying fleece clothing in multiple layers. I think I had on my ski pants, with four of his flannel shirts. But I did leave a flannel for him, because that’s just the kind of wife I am.

“Why is it so cold in here?” he asked. He had just removed his coat, then thought better of it and put it back on.

“The furnace isn’t working,” I grumbled.

“Did you call the oil company?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you know how to fix everything. I thought you might want to look at it first.”

He looked at it, managed to get it to work for approximately 4 seconds before it turned off again. In that 4 seconds I applauded his skills and declared that he is “All that is man.” And then the furnace turned off, and I said “That’s OK. You’re still all that is man, but it’s still cold in the house too.”

He asked me to call the oil company to get a repair man to come out. I declined.

“I got married so I wouldn’t have to do things like deal with repair men.”

Me? Not So Bright

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 23:52:00 +0000

I am not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. But let me tell you what was bright. The interior light of my car, as it shone when I walked into the garage on Thursday morning. It was still shining from the night before, when I had pulled the car up to the mailbox when I got home from work. I had switched on the interior light so I could see what I was doing as I pulled the mail from the box.

The light continued to shine as I closed the mailbox and drove down the driveway and into the garage. It continued to shine as I pushed the button and closed the garage door. It continued to shine as I gathered my things and went into the house.

It was still on as I waited for the repair man who was due to arrive at 5:30. It was still on when the repair man actually showed up at 6.

It remained on as I debated whether or not to take the car down to the truck stop to fill it with gas. I would have done it on the way home, but was rushing to meet the repair man who was a half hour late anyway. It remained on as laziness won out, and the “Ah, screw it, I’ll do it tomorrow on the way to work,” and the comfy, fleecy sweatpants slid over my hips and tied at my waist.

It was still illuminated when I read before falling asleep. It was still illuminated as I slept. It was still illuminated as I ran 4 miles on the newly repaired treadmill on Thursday morning. It was still illuminated as I showered, dressed, fed the dogs, ate, and got freaked out over the mysterious foot prints on the deck.

Then it was shining as I walked into the garage so that I could get into the car, start it, and leave for work.

Only it didn’t start. At all. The ignition verfed, snurged, spat and clicked. I gave up and took the truck (a.k.a. the meat wagon, because it’s bright red and huge) into work.

On Friday morning we jump started the car and let it run for about 15 minutes as I ate breakfast and packed lunch. It takes me 20 minutes to get to work; 35 minutes would be enough to get the battery up to snuff. I got behind the wheel, shifted into reverse, and the engine silenced. I started the car again, shifted into reverse, and the engine cut out again.

Then I turned the key just so the ignition would verf, snurg, spit and click again. Without enough energy to move, my poor little jeep barricades the driveway. With the interior light off.

It’s Not That I Am a Fraidy-Cat

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 23:02:00 +0000

Well, maybe I am. A little bit.

For the next few weeks, Todd will be on what I call the Great American Nerd Tour 2010. He will visit something like 10 cities in the next 3 weeks or so, and then he’ll go to Vegas for a conference sometime in February. (I can’t remember when, and I really should pay better attention.) While he's traveling he has lots and lots of meetings schedules where he'll talk about technological things that contain lots of initals and lots of acronyms.

On Sunday night we came home from Kalahari. I unpacked the suitcase, and on Monday morning he re-packed it and headed back to the airport. He hopped a plane to San Diego. When he was done evading IT groupies as they threw undergarments at him (held together by duct tape), he flew to San Francisco. Then on Wednesday hopped a red-eye back to Providence and stumbled into work on Thursday morning.

I’d been alone in the house since Monday. I enjoy being alone, and used to live alone before I moved in with Todd at the ripe old age of 24. I look forward to having the place to myself for a few days, so long as the lights stay on. But now that I am so used to living with my big strong man, the bliss of being alone for a few days is slightly tainted with trepidation.

I mean, any psycho could be hiding out in the woods that surround my house at any given moment. And surely that psycho will have a freshly sharpened axe. And that psycho will know enough to bring steak bones for the dogs. Hell, my dogs would settle for a tennis ball as payment and grant anyone access to the house. The psycho isn’t psycho enough to kill my dogs, just me.

On Wednesday morning before I left for work (on time, thank you very much) I put the dogs out the front door. I walked out with them. Of course, they caught the scent of something and walked around the back. I followed them through the gigantic puddles that formed back there from the snow melt and recent rain. They finished their business and led me up the deck stairs, where I saw wet foot prints leading up the stairs to the back door. I hadn’t walked on the deck at all that morning.

Let me say this again. There were wet foot prints leading to my door. And they weren’t mine. My heart pounded in my chest. Was it the psycho with the tennis balls and the freshly sharpened axe? I frantically scanned the tree line around the house for evidence of the psycho. Then looked back at the foot prints. The tread didn’t match my “dog chasin’ shoes.” (Yes, I have a pair of shoes devoted to this purpose. I can slip them on quickly when they bolt, and always leave them by the back door. Next to them are my Crocs, that I wear when we walk to the hot tub from the door.)

I opened the back door, which I hadn’t locked the night before when I went to bed. I thought my hands were shaking, but it was actually the dogs nosing at them demanding treats for coming straight home after pooing. I stepped onto the deck again and looked at the foot prints. I bent down and traced them with my fingers.

They weren’t wet. They were frozen. Wet shoes had made these tracks at one point and the surface of the deck was so cold that the pattern froze. I examined the tread pattern and compared it to my dog chasing shoes and confirmed they didn’t match. I went back to the boot tray, just inside the door, to look for a more logical explanation. My paint splattered Crocs sat in the tray.

The night before I’d worn my Crocs instead of the dog chasin’ shoes. I had unlocked the back door and let the dogs out. They took off down the trail behind the house, and in the dark I splashed through an ice-cold puddle near the chicken coop as I chased them. I cursed my choice of footwear as the water penetrated the holes and drenched my socks. Once I lured the dogs back to the deck, the Crocs sloshed and squeaked as I walked.

I picked up one of the Crocs and held it near the frozen foot print. A perfect match.

Recurring

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 01:35:00 +0000

I softly knocked on the half open door. The blinds were closed on his office window, so I couldn’t tell if he was concentrating on something and whether I would be interrupting him.

“Yeah,” he called out. He said it with a flat tone of voice, and I couldn’t tell what kind of day he was having. You never could tell with Greg, and no matter how hard I tried I could never seem to get him to smile. I practiced jokes in the bathroom mirror every morning, trying to perfect my delivery. My jokes were met with an awkward silence, and after a few months I gave up and resigned myself to serious workdays in a confining, gray workplace.

“Um,” I cleared my throat. I threw pleasantries out the window after a few months of working there too. Greg wasn’t much for pleasantries. “I have my ideas for the ads for the online campaign. Want to hear them?” I shifted my weight as I stood in the door, conscious of his gaze. He swiveled in his chair, after pressing the “save” command on his keyboard. His face always held an expression I could never decipher. It contained irritation, mixed with curiosity and a twist of sarcasm. It wasn’t exactly a sneer, but it wasn’t entirely indifferent either. This time he raised his eyebrows as if to say “Oh, this ought to be good.” Only he didn’t think it would be good at all. In fact, his expectations of me had become quite low.

He had two chairs facing the front his desk. I discovered on the day of my job interview that one of them squeaked loudly. Occasionally I forgot and sat in the squeaky one. On those days the squeak completely threw off my game. It distracted me every time I fidgeted uncomfortably while being scorched by Greg’s stare. With every squeak his stare grew harder. I couldn’t remember which one squeaked, and after debating for a few seconds I sat in the left one. It squeaked as I sat in it, and it would look weird if I got up and moved into the other one. So I stayed with Ol Squeaky.

He pulled a special wet wipe from his second drawer, and proceeded to wipe the lenses of his glasses with it. The smell of the cleaning solution wafted and stung my nostrils. It smelled like cheap citrus vodka. I gagged a bit, and tried to cover it up by clearing my throat again. Not for the first time I wondered how he could wear his glasses after he’d used those noxious cleaning wipes. The smell alone would make anyone’s eyebrows fall out; Greg’s were intact, however. They were probably strengthened by all the sneering.

Greg replaced his glasses, and then wordlessly folded his hands on his desk. I’d learned in the few months I’d worked for him that this was my cue to begin. I set my notes on the edge of his desk, careful not to let my things mix with anything on his desk. Greg’s desk was sacred ground where my papers were strictly forbidden from fraternizing with his. I imaged one of his pure-bred printouts having to sheepishly inform him that she’d gotten knocked up by flea-bitten mongrel notepad. Greg would passive-aggressively inform the printout that she was a tramp and no longer welcome in his office. The print out would then fold itself inward, slink out of the office and swan dive into the shredder next to the photocopier.

Speaking rapidly and wildly tapping my pen against my thigh, I presented my ideas. I held up my rudimentary sketches, explained the concepts and the sites where the ads would run. He raised his eyebrows at the stick figures I'd drawn. I wish I'd hired some sort of artist to help me prepare for this presentation. Maybe next time I'd hire a sculptor.

When I was done, he leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands, as if in prayer, and rested his mouth on his finger tips. He stared, blankly, at his desk. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. Was it the brass clock in the shape of a ship’s steering wheel? Was it the decorative pen set that he’d glared at me for using once? Was it the picture that I'd mistakenly thought was of his mother, but learned it was really of his wife? Then he fixed his gaze back on me. I knew this expression, because I’ve seen it on his face before. It was the “You are by far the stupidest person I’d ever met” expression. The stomach acid rose through my esophagus and I could taste its metallic flavor on the back of my tongue. It was the same flavor I’d experienced that very morning when I had grasped the guardrail and vomited on the side of the highway on the way to work in preparation for this very meeting. My palms began to sweat; I braced my hands against my thighs to stop the spasm in my quadriceps.

I felt myself fold inward and slink toward the door, like so many sullied pure-bred printouts. I cautiously avoided the shredder as I made my way back to my office. I paused at the water cooler to wash the taste of puke out of my mouth.

I flopped in my chair and scanned my emails, thankful that my office mate was not at her desk. I didn’t want to talk about it. She and I had spent weeks brainstorming ideas for the campaign. She, the employee that he interacted favorably with, was convinced he’d love our ideas. She appeared at the door not two seconds after I sat down.

“How’d it go?” she asked when she took her seat.

“I have to start all over again.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. And that’s the problem. I wish he’d just fire me and get it over with already.”

I thought these nightmares would have stopped by now.

You Know What I Love About Water Parks?

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 01:31:00 +0000

I love the rides, but water parks aren’t ALL about the rides for me. I love the easy access to junk food, because who doesn’t love instant access to dippin’ dots, or waffle cones oozing with frozen deliciousness. But it’s not just the ice cream either, and I can’t believe I just wrote that. I love ice cream. A lot.

It’s the people watching. I love people watching. And what’s great about going to a water park on a sunny day is that I can check out people all day long and nobody knows it because I am wearing sunglasses. Checking people out at an indoor water park is a lot harder. Nobody wears sunglasses at an indoor water park; I have to take care to keep my ogling subtle.

All day long at a water park I am surrounded by half naked people, and I am constantly fascinated at how each person I see has a unique shape. You could put two women in an identical bikini in the exact same size, and it will look different on each one. So, yes, I do stare at people at the water park. And it probably makes me look weird and pervy. But really, I am admiring the art of the human body and not only the sexual aspects of it.

Speaking of art, another thing I get to see at water parks on most of the half naked bodies are tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. Every time I go to a water park I am constantly amazed at what people were willing to permanently etch onto their skin.

At Schlitterbahn in San Antonio I saw a man with the Ford logo tattooed onto his back. This dude liked his truck so much he got the swirly Ford cursive name on the blue oval tattooed across is back. There was no registration or trade mark on it, so I wonder if the company can sue him now? I didn’t see anyone with a Toyota or Honda logo on their person, and really wish I had so I could see Toyota tatt man and Ford tatt man duke it out.

At Six Flags in New England I saw a man with the entire cast of the Simpsons tattooed on the small of his back. Dude liked the cartoon, so he got it inked in. Every single character too.

At Wet N Wild I saw a man with a Care Bear on his shoulder. Ooooh, manly!

At Kalahari I saw a man whose arms were covered in various tattoos. On his forearm he had a bottle of booze next to a naked woman. Beneath them a ribbon swirled, on which it said “Stewed and Screwed.” Classy! Dude will never regret that one, I’m sure.

Todd and I struck up a conversation with a man in a hot tub at a ski resort once. He had some Asian characters tattooed on his forearm. Todd asked the guy what the characters meant, and the guy rattled off a bunch of things like “Strength, wisdom, integrity… blah blah blah…”

“So, how do you know it doesn’t say ‘American asshole’ on it, or something?” I asked, not being able to contain my inner smartass. Who am I kidding? There is nothing inner about my smart ass. It’s out there in front, snickering at just about everything I see. But I am always suspicious of things written in languages I don’t know how to read. (When we bought Sabine, her name was Tara Vana. Supposedly that means “Crazy Man” in Tahitian. But I know it actually meant “Loser American Dickweed.” That is the only thing that “Tara Vana” could possibly mean.)

The man chuckled and said “Well, I looked it up on the Internet before I got them done.”

Todd and I looked at each other, and I could tell we were both thinking the exact same thing, my inner smartass shut her trap before saying,“Yeah, because everything on the Internet is true, right?”

Kalahari

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 01:10:00 +0000

In the last few years we’ve come to consider ourselves water park aficionados. We tacked on a week to our honeymoon so that we could go to San Antonio, TX to visit Schlitterbahn—the nation’s largest outdoor water park. (Then we visited Schlitterbahn’s sister park on South Padre Island, TX too.) We’ve been to Wet n Wild, Six Flags New England’s water park, Six Flags Atlanta’s water park, Aquatica, Discovery Cove, Blizzard Beach, Six Flags Great Escape Lodge in Lake George, NY, and a few more I can’t recall at the moment. Before I knew Todd, I’d been to Action Park in New Jersey as well.

At Christmas Todd surprised me with a trip to Kalahari, located in the booming metropolis of Sandusky, Ohio. Kalahari is the largest indoor water park in the nation. It has a dozen or so rides, one of which is a water roller coaster that was clearly designed to mimic Schlitterbahn’s Master Blaster. There were two funnel rides, one was a tube ride, the other was a slide that ended in a funnel. There were rides on which we had to ride a mat, and there were others that we just rode on our butt. The park also included a giant wave pool beach under a specially designed ceiling that allows UV rays to penetrate so that park visitors can get a suntan while playing in the waves.

The only thing I didn’t like about this park was that the rides were all in complete darkness. The tubes were constructed of opaque fiberglass that didn’t allow light to penetrate. As a result we did not have a sense of where we were going as we slid down the tube. I’ve come to appreciate this variety at other parks, when only a few of the slides are in complete darkness. The innate thrill of not knowing which way the tube will bend, and whether I will be dropped down a steep incline at any given second, is an exciting change from sliding down the tube in the sunlight.

However, every single ride in complete darkness creates an unsettled queasy feeling, especially when riding backward. Toward the end of the first day I started feeling motion sick because my eyes could not detect motion in the dark, and conflicted with my body which clearly detected motion. I do not get motion sick. I am the kind of girl who can ride 7 different roller coasters in under 3 hours and still eat a funnel cake at the half way point. I am the kind of girl who remains at the helm, beer in hand, in 8-10 feet waves hollering at the heavens “Is this all you’ve got??” while my husband “feeds the fish” off the back of the boat. He gets motion sick. I do not. Yet, over the weekend I got my quease on while riding in complete darkness at Kalahari.

But there were other things going on a Kalahari that took the edge off the queasiness. We headed over to the spa and took in a deep tissue couples massage. We took advantage of the opportunity to play with a 9 week old Bengal tiger cub. Twice. We rubbed her belly while she tried out her baby tiger roar on us; the only response she received was 'Awwwwwww!' We went to the hot tub bar, bellied up and received our fancy tropical drinks while soaking in a hot tub. Then we carried the drinks outside--and that was the only time we'd been outdoors for the entire weekend.
But other than the complete darkness, I would totally do Kalahari again—maybe next winter to beat the February cabin fever.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again

noreply@blogger.com (Beej) — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 00:22:00 +0000

I am currently attending a 2 day training session for work. I've been looking forward to it since I enrolled a month ago, as I am an academia junkie. The other reason why I've been looking forward to this particular training session is because of the location. It's in Burlington, Massachusetts in the same building where I worked in my first post-college job.

It was August 1996 when I first walked into the building and rode the elevator to the 5th floor. It was just as the dot.com wave was cresting. I wore a suit and heels on my first day, because at age 22 I thought that's what I was supposed to do. I quickly learned that the mid-90's dot.com office attire did not include suits. I had a window cube, and my cube mate, Tamara, became a fast friend. On my first day she wore jeans and a Miller Lite T-shirt. The suit went to the back of my closet, and never surfaced again until it went to it's final resting place at the local Salvation Army.

I worked for a software company that offered training sessions to the customers on how to use the software. It was my job to set up the training sessions--make sure the training room on the first floor was set up, order catering, make sure the students knew where to go, etc. On the days that we ran classes I started work at 8, and had my pick of leftover pastries and sandwiches. Even better than the free lunches was the paid over time. I got time and a half for the extra hour that I came in early, and for the hours I stayed late. I skipped lunch breaks to bulk up the OT. I logged about $4,000 in over time my first year, which was awesome because as a 22 year old I was paid nearly nothing.

I ended up leaving the company in February 1998. I was almost 24 and ambitious. I wanted to move out of the administrative role I was in at the software company. (Not only did I coordinate all the training, I also did crap like process expense reports, and whatever else needed doing. One of my big tasks was faxing things because the engineers didn't understand how to use the fax machine, despite the gigantic sign I posted with step by step instructions.) The company didn't have anywhere for me to move up to, so I decided that "Quit your way to the top" would be my motto, and I left. It was the kind of company that hired a 32 year old man to be the VP of sales, and made a very big deal about how young he was. But couldn't seem to find a way to promote me, despite my wanting to move up and grow.

I haven't set foot in this building since I left in 1998. But the sense of "I haven't left" took over as I drove into the parking lot this morning. I saw a green Jeep Grand Cherokee parked where a former co-worker parked back then and even thought to myself "Oh, Bill's already here." Then I blinked and thought "No, Bill's not here. It's been 12 years. Bill's long gone. He probably doesn't even have that car anymore, either."

When I walked in, I saw that the atrium inside hadn't changed a bit. The office fronts had changed only slightly. I entered on the second floor, and looked down to where the training room was on the first floor. I was hoping that my class today would have been held in "my" training room, but it's wasn't. I fought the urge to go up to the fifth floor and demand to see if my cube was still there. The company is no longer there. It was acquired and moved out of the building in 2002.

I walked into the office on the second floor where the training was being held. There was a cafe area where the company put out a spread of cereal, pastries, bagels, and coffees. There were two bottles of syrup for flavoring the coffee. There was a fridge filled with sodas, juices and water. It was the kind of spread that dot.coms used to put out for their employees. Sandwiches were served for lunch, and at 2 they served us ice cream as well. I looked around me one more time and thought "Is it 1996? Where am I? When am I?"

After the training got out, I went to the mall near the office. I shopped a bit, then hit the food court--where Tamara and I went on my first day. The food court had an Indian restaurant, and it was on that day that I had tried Indian food for the first time. Tonight I walked into the food court and quite literally jumped up and down at the sight of the Indian restaurant still in it's spot in the food court. I ordered channa masala for dinner, the same thing I'd had that day with Tamara.

All these fond memories of my time there came flooding back to me today. I was working at this job when Todd and I started going out in 1997. We had eaten a picnic lunch under a tree beyond the parking lot one day. It was leftovers from the fantastic Italian meal we'd gotten in Boston's North End the night before. He used to visit and bring goodies for my co-workers--bagels, or cookies. It was impossibly sweet of him, especially since he was broke and couldn't afford to do that. He did it anyway.

But it's not just the fond memories of being in that building. It's the fond memories of that time in my life. I had my first apartment, in which I lived alone. I moved to a new city and made new friends. I played my guitar all the time and played shows. I was 10 pounds lighter. I was 14 years younger. I was more ambitious about my career. It was my first job out of the 14 jobs I've worked since.

Everything looks the same around here, just a little more developed since 1998. And somehow it looks smaller.