Things That Annoy Or Depress Me On The Way To Work
1. The little girl who is always still walking to school 5 minutes after the bell has rung
2. Sudden and unpredictable 15-car back-ups at a stop sign that has no traffic 85% of the time
3. Street names that are repetitive (Wild Oaks, Winter Oaks, River Oaks), fake British (Redfearn), pompous (Even Mist), or just illogical (Lake Tide)
4. Old men waiting for the bus in the rain
5. Kemp Conrad
Things That Make Me Happy On The Way To Work
1. 112-year-old men jogging
2. Drake and Zeke talking to or about writers
3. Being ahead of schedule
4. Tracks 2, 6, 9 and 13
5. The increasing proximity to hot tea and Gmail
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Money Changes Everything
This isn't generally a political blog, but I just have to say one thing. Barack Obama is going to be the next president of the United States, and here's how I know.
My drive to work takes me through the very well-heeled suburbs of Memphis, where the rich folks with no silly idealistic notions about giving back to the city have ensconced themselves behind ornamental wrought iron. It's an area that, during the last two elections, has demonstrated nothing but support for our current administration. But this year? This year, there's something new out here. It is small but not at all silent. It is the Obama/Biden yard sign, and it is everywhere.
Sure, there are still McCain signs around, but not nearly as many as I'd expect in what's usually a conservative stronghold. I'm not saying Obama will win Tennessee, but the signs point to a shift that I think is nationwide. The fact that there are any Obama signs at all shows that the people you'd think would be okay with the status quo, the people who should be least affected by the literal and figurative climate changes, have had enough. And when the rich people want change, change is going to happen.
Of course, there are also numerous signs supporting John Willingham's ambiguous run for unnamed office, so it may be that the rich people have just gone crazy.
Postscript: I am informed that the area where I work is technically in the city and not the suburbs, but I think that's hooey. Maybe the ZIP code officially belongs to Memphis, but when you're 12 miles from downtown, you aren't In The City anymore. My parents live 12 miles from downtown Minneapolis, and you have to pass through three distinct suburbs to get there. Ridiculously sprawling city boundaries do not an urban area make.
My drive to work takes me through the very well-heeled suburbs of Memphis, where the rich folks with no silly idealistic notions about giving back to the city have ensconced themselves behind ornamental wrought iron. It's an area that, during the last two elections, has demonstrated nothing but support for our current administration. But this year? This year, there's something new out here. It is small but not at all silent. It is the Obama/Biden yard sign, and it is everywhere.
Sure, there are still McCain signs around, but not nearly as many as I'd expect in what's usually a conservative stronghold. I'm not saying Obama will win Tennessee, but the signs point to a shift that I think is nationwide. The fact that there are any Obama signs at all shows that the people you'd think would be okay with the status quo, the people who should be least affected by the literal and figurative climate changes, have had enough. And when the rich people want change, change is going to happen.
Of course, there are also numerous signs supporting John Willingham's ambiguous run for unnamed office, so it may be that the rich people have just gone crazy.
Postscript: I am informed that the area where I work is technically in the city and not the suburbs, but I think that's hooey. Maybe the ZIP code officially belongs to Memphis, but when you're 12 miles from downtown, you aren't In The City anymore. My parents live 12 miles from downtown Minneapolis, and you have to pass through three distinct suburbs to get there. Ridiculously sprawling city boundaries do not an urban area make.
Monday, October 20, 2008
#36
I can remember the first time I walked into Mothersville and was greeted warmly and ebulliently by the sling-wearing mama behind the counter. In the 5+ years since then, I've had the privilege of getting to know that amazing woman and counting her among my best friends. And so in honor of her birthday, I present:
36 Things I've Learned About Kristy
1. Her atheism does not preclude superstitious gestures at railroad crossings, yellow lights, and lamp posts.
2. She does not wear gold jewelry, ever.
3. She can eat the spiciest foods, but crusty bread is her mouth's kryptonite.
4. She is probably planning something very ambitious right now.
5. Any bristlings toward authority and structure are trumped by the passion she has for her work and her students.
6. If her kids could be safely and happily transplanted for a week, she would be on an outbound international flight within the hour.
7. She is averse to nicknames.
8. She would kick ass at any cooking-based reality program that requires quickly coordinating and preparing a meal for a small army of people.
9. She does not suffer fools gladly, and flakes even less so.
10. She has yenta'd a lasting marriage between the "Simply ..." line of juices and vodka.
11. She is not afraid of confrontation and can disagree without holding a grudge.
12. She is not afraid of anything that can't kill her or her loved ones.
13. She knows way more about Days of Our Lives than you'd expect.
14. Her tendency to think in complete, correct, witty sentences allows her to write her column in about 14 minutes.
15. Her only outward signs of drunkenness are conversational repetition and throwing up.
16. She offers advice humbly, even when she knows something up, down and sideways.
17. She loves giving unexpected gifts.
18. She gains no joy from the suspense of keeping something a surprise.
19. She considers ice cream an acceptable dinner, but sandwiches not.
20. She doesn't like the stereo cranked up.
21. She is quick to apologize.
22. She loves her some Oxford comma.
23. She is highly squeamish about the gastrointestinal functions of humans over age ten.
24. She doesn't want to hear about how that thing causes cancer.
25. She can name nearly every plant, tree or flower she sees.
26. She remembers almost everything.
27. She really, really does not want another dog. Ever. Really.
28. Given the option, her shoes will be off.
29. She can be as deeply absorbed in young adult pop fiction as medieval literature, and vice versa.
30. She protects herself from the evening news and other sources of unnecessary negativity.
31. Her smile can fill an entire room, and the absence of it can suck all the air out.
32. She actually likes break-out groups and will happily volunteer to speak for the team.
33. She finds baking to be too constrictive.
34. Her dedication to her family is immeasurable and unwavering.
35. She is highly skeptical of compliments about her appearance.
36. She is stunning.
Happy Birthday!
36 Things I've Learned About Kristy
1. Her atheism does not preclude superstitious gestures at railroad crossings, yellow lights, and lamp posts.2. She does not wear gold jewelry, ever.
3. She can eat the spiciest foods, but crusty bread is her mouth's kryptonite.
4. She is probably planning something very ambitious right now.
5. Any bristlings toward authority and structure are trumped by the passion she has for her work and her students.
6. If her kids could be safely and happily transplanted for a week, she would be on an outbound international flight within the hour.
7. She is averse to nicknames.
8. She would kick ass at any cooking-based reality program that requires quickly coordinating and preparing a meal for a small army of people.
9. She does not suffer fools gladly, and flakes even less so.
10. She has yenta'd a lasting marriage between the "Simply ..." line of juices and vodka.
11. She is not afraid of confrontation and can disagree without holding a grudge.
12. She is not afraid of anything that can't kill her or her loved ones.
13. She knows way more about Days of Our Lives than you'd expect.
14. Her tendency to think in complete, correct, witty sentences allows her to write her column in about 14 minutes.
15. Her only outward signs of drunkenness are conversational repetition and throwing up.
16. She offers advice humbly, even when she knows something up, down and sideways.
17. She loves giving unexpected gifts.
18. She gains no joy from the suspense of keeping something a surprise.
19. She considers ice cream an acceptable dinner, but sandwiches not.
20. She doesn't like the stereo cranked up.
21. She is quick to apologize.
22. She loves her some Oxford comma.
23. She is highly squeamish about the gastrointestinal functions of humans over age ten.
24. She doesn't want to hear about how that thing causes cancer.
25. She can name nearly every plant, tree or flower she sees.
26. She remembers almost everything.
27. She really, really does not want another dog. Ever. Really.
28. Given the option, her shoes will be off.
29. She can be as deeply absorbed in young adult pop fiction as medieval literature, and vice versa.
30. She protects herself from the evening news and other sources of unnecessary negativity.
31. Her smile can fill an entire room, and the absence of it can suck all the air out.
32. She actually likes break-out groups and will happily volunteer to speak for the team.
33. She finds baking to be too constrictive.
34. Her dedication to her family is immeasurable and unwavering.
35. She is highly skeptical of compliments about her appearance.
36. She is stunning.
Happy Birthday!
Friday, October 17, 2008
Hail To Purple, Hail To White
My ten-year college reunion weekend begins today. And, as is probably apparent by now, I’m not there.
When I first started getting notices about the reunion, I immediately tossed them aside, thinking “I won’t know anyone, no one will know me, it’s too far to travel for an awkward evening out.” But as the date has approached, I’ve found myself surprisingly nostalgic about Northwestern and wishing, just a little, that I could go back to pay a visit.
I wouldn’t call my college years “typical.” I was a teenage convert to Mormonism, so my religious practice created a wall between me and the normal university experience, be it Big Ten or Top Ten (of which NU was, ahem, both). Although living in a dorm where other residents were observing Ramadan and Passover, it didn’t feel quite as oppressive or bizarre as one might assume. I missed out on some things I think I would have enjoyed, but I also had a good excuse to avoid things that would’ve just annoyed me, too. Regrets, I have a few … but I don’t have a criminal record, so I guess it’s a wash. In all, I really enjoyed the educational experience, I have fond memories of my work experience, and I’ve just accepted the fact that four years is too short a time for me to forge a lasting social experience.
I’ve always thought about reunions being a chance to reconnect with people, which is mostly why I wasn’t originally very interested in attending mine. I’m sure I had a lot of great classmates, but I didn’t take the opportunity to know very many of them. The few names that do spring to mind when I think about my years at Northwestern are mostly people that I worked with or went to church with, and most of them weren’t in my actual graduating class anyway. And the ones that were - well, that's what Facebook is for, right?
But as I’ve been bombarded by e-mails and glossy brochures about the reunion, I’ve also realized that there’s a reason that reunions and homecoming are always linked. That school was my home for four years, a home I entered, essentially alone, at 17-years-old. I was lucky to have my sister on the other side of campus my first year, but she was the only family within 400 miles. Other than the seven members of my high school class who also ventured to Evanston, the remaining 7000 or so faces were unfamiliar.
Within months, however, the campus and town were as known to me as anywhere I’d ever lived. Living on foot brought every detail closer, and I knew the streets and shortcuts better than the city I’d just left with a year-old driver’s license. It’s a beautiful campus and was, at the time, a quiet, charming, lakeshore town (an inexplicable hunger for condos and chain stores has apparently hit the town planners in recent years). Even in the times that I didn’t feel completely at ease with my place in the student body, I felt comfortable in my surroundings.
During every change of season, I think about how it felt to walk to class – in the crisp, riotously-colored fall with the smell of drying leaves thick as smoke; in the frigid, lake-blown winter when trying to move faster only increased the burn in your ears and the likelihood of falling on the ever-icy sidewalk between south campus and Tech; in the soft, spongy spring with crocuses trying desperately to push through the slushy mud.
I wouldn’t say the 21-year-old who fought to stay awake during Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s commencement address was a fully formed adult, but I did grow up at Northwestern. I learned how to navigate public transportation, order Mongolian barbecue, and manage a staff of highly unpredictable music majors. I worked very, very hard and earned a degree that has opened doors to me ever since. As a writer, having Northwestern on my resume has attracted attention I wouldn’t have otherwise received. I didn’t have the rowdy, reckless, best-years-of-my-life kind of college experience people usually celebrate at their reunions, but it was a good time, a meaningful time, and a time I will never forget.
When I first started getting notices about the reunion, I immediately tossed them aside, thinking “I won’t know anyone, no one will know me, it’s too far to travel for an awkward evening out.” But as the date has approached, I’ve found myself surprisingly nostalgic about Northwestern and wishing, just a little, that I could go back to pay a visit.
I wouldn’t call my college years “typical.” I was a teenage convert to Mormonism, so my religious practice created a wall between me and the normal university experience, be it Big Ten or Top Ten (of which NU was, ahem, both). Although living in a dorm where other residents were observing Ramadan and Passover, it didn’t feel quite as oppressive or bizarre as one might assume. I missed out on some things I think I would have enjoyed, but I also had a good excuse to avoid things that would’ve just annoyed me, too. Regrets, I have a few … but I don’t have a criminal record, so I guess it’s a wash. In all, I really enjoyed the educational experience, I have fond memories of my work experience, and I’ve just accepted the fact that four years is too short a time for me to forge a lasting social experience. I’ve always thought about reunions being a chance to reconnect with people, which is mostly why I wasn’t originally very interested in attending mine. I’m sure I had a lot of great classmates, but I didn’t take the opportunity to know very many of them. The few names that do spring to mind when I think about my years at Northwestern are mostly people that I worked with or went to church with, and most of them weren’t in my actual graduating class anyway. And the ones that were - well, that's what Facebook is for, right?
But as I’ve been bombarded by e-mails and glossy brochures about the reunion, I’ve also realized that there’s a reason that reunions and homecoming are always linked. That school was my home for four years, a home I entered, essentially alone, at 17-years-old. I was lucky to have my sister on the other side of campus my first year, but she was the only family within 400 miles. Other than the seven members of my high school class who also ventured to Evanston, the remaining 7000 or so faces were unfamiliar.
Within months, however, the campus and town were as known to me as anywhere I’d ever lived. Living on foot brought every detail closer, and I knew the streets and shortcuts better than the city I’d just left with a year-old driver’s license. It’s a beautiful campus and was, at the time, a quiet, charming, lakeshore town (an inexplicable hunger for condos and chain stores has apparently hit the town planners in recent years). Even in the times that I didn’t feel completely at ease with my place in the student body, I felt comfortable in my surroundings. During every change of season, I think about how it felt to walk to class – in the crisp, riotously-colored fall with the smell of drying leaves thick as smoke; in the frigid, lake-blown winter when trying to move faster only increased the burn in your ears and the likelihood of falling on the ever-icy sidewalk between south campus and Tech; in the soft, spongy spring with crocuses trying desperately to push through the slushy mud.
I wouldn’t say the 21-year-old who fought to stay awake during Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s commencement address was a fully formed adult, but I did grow up at Northwestern. I learned how to navigate public transportation, order Mongolian barbecue, and manage a staff of highly unpredictable music majors. I worked very, very hard and earned a degree that has opened doors to me ever since. As a writer, having Northwestern on my resume has attracted attention I wouldn’t have otherwise received. I didn’t have the rowdy, reckless, best-years-of-my-life kind of college experience people usually celebrate at their reunions, but it was a good time, a meaningful time, and a time I will never forget.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
No Sleep Til Brooklyn
Hey, Mr. Baby? I ran across this Wikipedia entry I thought you might be interested in. I'd read it to you, but a week of stocking your all-night milk buffet has rendered me unable to move my eyes in a steady fashion, let alone comprehend the finer points of Internet medical research.
Sleep Deprivation
Generally, lack of sleep may result in:
* aching muscles
* blurred vision
* clinical depression
* colorblindness
* daytime drowsiness and naps, excessive daytime sleepiness (EDS)
* loss of apetite
* decreased mental activity and concentration
* depersonalization/derealization
* weakened immune system
* dizziness
* dark circles under the eyes
* fainting
* general confusion
* hallucinations (visual and auditory)
* hand tremors
* headache
* hyperactivity
* hypertension
* impatience
* irritability
* lucid dreaming (once sleep resumes)
* memory lapses or loss
* nausea
* nystagmus (rapid involuntary rhythmic eye movement)
* psychosis-like symptoms
* sleep paralysis (while awake)
* pallor
* constipation
* slowed reaction time
* slurred and/or nonsensical speech
* sore throat
* stuffy nose
* weight loss or gain
* severe yawning
* delirium
* symptoms similar to alcoholic intoxication
Sleep Deprivation
Generally, lack of sleep may result in:
* aching muscles
* blurred vision
* clinical depression
* colorblindness
* daytime drowsiness and naps, excessive daytime sleepiness (EDS)
* loss of apetite
* decreased mental activity and concentration
* depersonalization/derealization
* weakened immune system
* dizziness
* dark circles under the eyes
* fainting
* general confusion
* hallucinations (visual and auditory)
* hand tremors
* headache
* hyperactivity
* hypertension
* impatience
* irritability
* lucid dreaming (once sleep resumes)
* memory lapses or loss
* nausea
* nystagmus (rapid involuntary rhythmic eye movement)
* psychosis-like symptoms
* sleep paralysis (while awake)
* pallor
* constipation
* slowed reaction time
* slurred and/or nonsensical speech
* sore throat
* stuffy nose
* weight loss or gain
* severe yawning
* delirium
* symptoms similar to alcoholic intoxication
Thursday, October 09, 2008
I'm Taking What They're Giving
Facebook status messages that would appear on my profile if I stayed logged in throughout my workday (instead of just at lunch. And breaks. Don’t you judge me!):
SAM has been up for three hours but is just now starting her day.
SAM is waiting patiently for the Earl Grey to make her functional.
SAM is observing the Cubicle Law that says you only say “bless you” to sneezing people in the same aisle.
SAM is plotting a way to make friends with the Recruiting team because they always seem to be having a good time and frequently disparage Sarah Palin.
SAM is going to Lisa’s Lunchbox. (Der.)
SAM is pleased to discover that “Ice Breakers Pomegranate Lemon-Aid Mints” contain no actual mint.
SAM is frustrated that the only items recycled by her office are soda can pull tabs.
SAM is probably not impressing anyone by sitting with her foot under her, but it’s the only way to make a rolling desk chair agree with the after-effects of two back labors.
SAM is on her 3:30 tiny vanilla crème cookie break.
SAM is attempting to ignore her neighbor’s 3:35 Afrin-spray break.
SAM is putting her tattoo-covering cardigan on before meeting with upper management.
SAM is very, very sleepy.
SAM feels guilty about leaving at 4:45 to get her baby, even though she gets here before everyone else.
SAM can't remember where she parked. Again.
SAM has been up for three hours but is just now starting her day.
SAM is waiting patiently for the Earl Grey to make her functional.
SAM is observing the Cubicle Law that says you only say “bless you” to sneezing people in the same aisle.
SAM is plotting a way to make friends with the Recruiting team because they always seem to be having a good time and frequently disparage Sarah Palin.
SAM is going to Lisa’s Lunchbox. (Der.)
SAM is pleased to discover that “Ice Breakers Pomegranate Lemon-Aid Mints” contain no actual mint.
SAM is frustrated that the only items recycled by her office are soda can pull tabs.
SAM is probably not impressing anyone by sitting with her foot under her, but it’s the only way to make a rolling desk chair agree with the after-effects of two back labors.
SAM is on her 3:30 tiny vanilla crème cookie break.
SAM is attempting to ignore her neighbor’s 3:35 Afrin-spray break.
SAM is putting her tattoo-covering cardigan on before meeting with upper management.
SAM is very, very sleepy.
SAM feels guilty about leaving at 4:45 to get her baby, even though she gets here before everyone else.
SAM can't remember where she parked. Again.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
On Guard
My morning commute takes me to or near five schools, and I can’t help but observe the various forms in which crossing guards appear. And now so can you. Lucky!
The City K-8: Miss M’s school has two guards working the busy intersection during rush hour. I think of them as Good Cop and Crazy Cop. Crazy Cop is the first person we encounter in the mornings and I can hear her whistle thweeting from three blocks away, along with her distinctive Macy Gray voice. She chats up everyone at the corner, whether they understand her random observations or not. Her partner, Good Cop, is less social, but has a friendly, calm presence and always goes out of her way to help me and Mr. Baby across the street even when there aren’t any schoolkids going our way. These two must have one of the toughest guard gigs in the city, but they handle it smoothly, even when dealing with the idiots who try to dump their kids out of their minivans in the middle of Memphis morning traffic.
The City Junior High: I guess older kids don’t need as much direction, or this school just has the laziest crossing guard ever. She sits in her car until a sufficient number of kids has gathered, and then she sloooowly pulls her Stop sign out of the trunk and saunters into the intersection. Most of the kids are already across by the time she’s in place.
The City Parochial School: I very rarely see any children needing help to get through this fairly quiet corner, but when they do, they are greeted by Dorothy Dandridge in an orange vest. Maybe it’s the sun pouring directly into my eyes as I drive east, but there’s something strangely angelic about this guard. I never notice her entering the intersection until she’s in the middle of it. It’s like she floats.
The Suburban Boys School: The only male crossing guard I encounter is an energetic presence who actually deals more with vehicle traffic than pedestrians. His job seems mostly to be about making sure Escalades get in and out of the parking lot safely. To counter this anti-social assignment, perhaps, he smiles and waves and says good morning to drivers once he releases them from his forced stop.
The Suburban Elementary: This crossing guard is so listless and schlumpy and seemingly useless that it almost makes me want to hit her with my car just to see the expression – any expression – on her face. She never uses her whistle or gives cars any warning; she just ambles out into the street in a way that makes me think she could be leaving a trail of slime behind her, limply holds up her Stop sign for the shortest period possible, and then shuffles back to the sidewalk. There are no traffic lights in the area, so you’d think she’d put a little more effort into keeping speeding vehicles at bay, but I guess that would get in the way of her crippling apathy.
The City K-8: Miss M’s school has two guards working the busy intersection during rush hour. I think of them as Good Cop and Crazy Cop. Crazy Cop is the first person we encounter in the mornings and I can hear her whistle thweeting from three blocks away, along with her distinctive Macy Gray voice. She chats up everyone at the corner, whether they understand her random observations or not. Her partner, Good Cop, is less social, but has a friendly, calm presence and always goes out of her way to help me and Mr. Baby across the street even when there aren’t any schoolkids going our way. These two must have one of the toughest guard gigs in the city, but they handle it smoothly, even when dealing with the idiots who try to dump their kids out of their minivans in the middle of Memphis morning traffic.
The City Junior High: I guess older kids don’t need as much direction, or this school just has the laziest crossing guard ever. She sits in her car until a sufficient number of kids has gathered, and then she sloooowly pulls her Stop sign out of the trunk and saunters into the intersection. Most of the kids are already across by the time she’s in place.
The City Parochial School: I very rarely see any children needing help to get through this fairly quiet corner, but when they do, they are greeted by Dorothy Dandridge in an orange vest. Maybe it’s the sun pouring directly into my eyes as I drive east, but there’s something strangely angelic about this guard. I never notice her entering the intersection until she’s in the middle of it. It’s like she floats.
The Suburban Boys School: The only male crossing guard I encounter is an energetic presence who actually deals more with vehicle traffic than pedestrians. His job seems mostly to be about making sure Escalades get in and out of the parking lot safely. To counter this anti-social assignment, perhaps, he smiles and waves and says good morning to drivers once he releases them from his forced stop.
The Suburban Elementary: This crossing guard is so listless and schlumpy and seemingly useless that it almost makes me want to hit her with my car just to see the expression – any expression – on her face. She never uses her whistle or gives cars any warning; she just ambles out into the street in a way that makes me think she could be leaving a trail of slime behind her, limply holds up her Stop sign for the shortest period possible, and then shuffles back to the sidewalk. There are no traffic lights in the area, so you’d think she’d put a little more effort into keeping speeding vehicles at bay, but I guess that would get in the way of her crippling apathy.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Behind Blue Eyes
Miss M has been making regular visits to Dr. Fred since she was just over two years old. We’d noticed that her left eye didn’t always seem in alignment with her right, and even though we could never get that phenomenon to recur in a doctor’s office, our family practitioner referred us to a pediatric ophthalmologist. Dr. Fred couldn’t get her eye to drift on cue, either, but he said one of the most logical and reassuring things a doctor can say: “You’re the mother, so you know better than anyone.” He had us come back in six months, and at that point, Miss M’s occasionally lazy eye was threatening to become downright slothful. The vision in that eye had weakened and the muscle control was dramatically worse (contrary to what you’d expect, strabismus is actually caused by a muscle pulling too tightly rather than the opposite). So at that point, we began a treatment plan that involved patching her good eye to strengthen her weaker one, with the routine ranging from two to eight hours a day. Things would be better for awhile, and then when we’d ease off the patching, they’d worsen again. After two years of this, including a month of having Miss M spend every waking hour with one eye covered only to have the dramatic improvement begin to regress six months later, we decided that the only permanent solution was surgery. It wasn’t easy to send a four-year-old under the knife, but knowing we’d ended our battles over The Patch made things a little easier.
That surgery was a year ago, and every follow-up visit since then has shown that it was a great success. So when Miss M had a regular check-up with Dr. Fred this week, I figured it would just be a routine visit. It was a total surprise, then, when the appointment ended with a prescription for glasses and … siiiiiiiiigh … four hours a day of patching. Turns out that left eye just hasn’t completely gotten with the program, and to keep it from returning to its old wandering ways, it needs to be both corrected (what the glasses are for) and strengthened (what the patch is for).
After determining that I wouldn’t let her get the thick, dark blue, cats-eye frames that made her look like a tiny Mad Men extra, Miss M lost all interest in the prospect of getting a new facial accessory. She hated everything she tried on, she hated me for putting them on her, and she hated that she had to have them in the first place. And that’s the treatment option that doesn’t involve adhering a giant Band-Aid to her eyelid. Oh, this is going to be fun.
I have to admit, though, that my feelings about having a glasses-wearing daughter are mixed. Part of me – the part that donned specs at age 9 – is crushed by the awareness that there is a social stigma involved. It’s an outward sign of physical weakness and a dividing line drawn between her and her peers. She’s already noticed that no one else in her class wears them, and whether or not 5-year-old understand why, there’s always an assumption that someone with problem eyes has other physical shortcomings. The kid in glasses – and especially the girl in glasses - never gets picked first for the kickball team. I feel that my adult self is still very largely informed by the image of myself that was created during my adolescence, and that image was shaped by the perception that I was quiet, studious and unathletic. By the time I got contacts in high school, it was too late. The mold was set.
On the other hand, as the mother of a preternaturally beautiful daughter, I have to admit that I’m a little relieved that there will be some small barrier between her gorgeousness and the world. It’s nice to think that she may be taken a little more seriously than if her saucer-sized, seafoam eyes were out there unshielded. Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses? Great! More time for homework! (Although the current slathering after Fey/Palin, depending on your leanings, seems to be close to dispelling that myth.)
Mostly, though, I just want her vision to be clear and strong, so if this is what it takes, so be it. How the world sees her isn’t nearly as important as how well she can see the world.
That surgery was a year ago, and every follow-up visit since then has shown that it was a great success. So when Miss M had a regular check-up with Dr. Fred this week, I figured it would just be a routine visit. It was a total surprise, then, when the appointment ended with a prescription for glasses and … siiiiiiiiigh … four hours a day of patching. Turns out that left eye just hasn’t completely gotten with the program, and to keep it from returning to its old wandering ways, it needs to be both corrected (what the glasses are for) and strengthened (what the patch is for).
After determining that I wouldn’t let her get the thick, dark blue, cats-eye frames that made her look like a tiny Mad Men extra, Miss M lost all interest in the prospect of getting a new facial accessory. She hated everything she tried on, she hated me for putting them on her, and she hated that she had to have them in the first place. And that’s the treatment option that doesn’t involve adhering a giant Band-Aid to her eyelid. Oh, this is going to be fun.
I have to admit, though, that my feelings about having a glasses-wearing daughter are mixed. Part of me – the part that donned specs at age 9 – is crushed by the awareness that there is a social stigma involved. It’s an outward sign of physical weakness and a dividing line drawn between her and her peers. She’s already noticed that no one else in her class wears them, and whether or not 5-year-old understand why, there’s always an assumption that someone with problem eyes has other physical shortcomings. The kid in glasses – and especially the girl in glasses - never gets picked first for the kickball team. I feel that my adult self is still very largely informed by the image of myself that was created during my adolescence, and that image was shaped by the perception that I was quiet, studious and unathletic. By the time I got contacts in high school, it was too late. The mold was set.
On the other hand, as the mother of a preternaturally beautiful daughter, I have to admit that I’m a little relieved that there will be some small barrier between her gorgeousness and the world. It’s nice to think that she may be taken a little more seriously than if her saucer-sized, seafoam eyes were out there unshielded. Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses? Great! More time for homework! (Although the current slathering after Fey/Palin, depending on your leanings, seems to be close to dispelling that myth.)
Mostly, though, I just want her vision to be clear and strong, so if this is what it takes, so be it. How the world sees her isn’t nearly as important as how well she can see the world.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Step Two: There's So Much We Can Do
And did I mention how well he takes direction?
Last night, after a day spent hurling out a stomach virus, Mr. Baby got up on his dehydrated little legs and took his first independent steps. He actually looked like he'd done it before and sort of seemed embarrassed to have been caught looking so adept at it. And then he refused to do it again.
Another milestone passed at hyper-speed.
Last night, after a day spent hurling out a stomach virus, Mr. Baby got up on his dehydrated little legs and took his first independent steps. He actually looked like he'd done it before and sort of seemed embarrassed to have been caught looking so adept at it. And then he refused to do it again.
Another milestone passed at hyper-speed.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Gimme Three Steps
You're adorable, Mr. Baby. No one's denying that. But next week? You turn fifteen months old. I don't want to, you know, pressure you or anything, but a lot of fifteen-month-olds can walk. Not all of them, of course. But, um ... a lot of them. A majority, I'd say. And the ones who can't tend to have mothers who can't help but wonder if there's some developmental abnormality causing their kid to be on the far side of the normal spectrum, even though that's what the spectrum is for.
I'm trying not to worry, let alone panic. I know you have some amazing physical skills that some pre-schoolers are still mastering. And I know that you inherited my cautiousness; I've never seen a baby so aware of his surroundings and the requirements to travel safely within them. If you put your foot out and don't touch something solid, you stay put. So, I just wanted to let you know, in case it hasn't been proven to you yet, that the ground isn't going anywhere. It's going to be right there every time you reach for it, at least until college. Which I can't promise will be true about my lower back.
I'm trying not to worry, let alone panic. I know you have some amazing physical skills that some pre-schoolers are still mastering. And I know that you inherited my cautiousness; I've never seen a baby so aware of his surroundings and the requirements to travel safely within them. If you put your foot out and don't touch something solid, you stay put. So, I just wanted to let you know, in case it hasn't been proven to you yet, that the ground isn't going anywhere. It's going to be right there every time you reach for it, at least until college. Which I can't promise will be true about my lower back.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The Way We Were
A while back, I posted about the sense of loss I felt about being so geographically distant from the places I grew up. My Memphis friends rarely see a week go by that they don’t run into an old teacher or fellow Girl Scout or the stoner-turned-Republican from high school. Being a creature of habit and a fan of familiarity, moving as often as I have in my life has been very disruptive in frequent short-term ways, but it’s also created a long-term chasm between my past and present.
And then I found the wormhole through that chasm: Facebook. I knew it was for me the minute I saw it. A social utility? There is not a tool I need more!
I quickly connected with all my local friends, and then plundered the rolls of my high school and college classes. At that point, my Facebook friend list looked pretty much like my current email address book. But then I got to wondering … what would happen if I entered the graduating classes of the schools I would have attended if the twists of my father’s career path hadn’t dragged us across the Midwest and back?
With just a little bit of fibbing, I slid into the virtual hallways of my Michigan non-alma-mater, the high school I’d have eventually reached if I’d stayed in the nascent freaky-gifted program I was in during our one year in the wilds of Plymouth, MI. Thanks to the fact that I still have that class’s attendance roll memorized, I was able to spot the few other survivors; they even had a reunion page running. I also located my former next-door neighbor, a close friend during that year who completely vanished from my radar after I made my first solo plane trip to visit her the summer after 4th grade.
And then I cranked the Way Back Machine all the way to my educational beginnings. I hypothetically joined the graduating class of our Pittsburgh school district, where I lived between the ages of 3-to-8-years-old. I scrolled through a few pages before seeing any familiar names and had almost given up when I stumbled across a former neighbor and frequent playmate. When she responded to my friend request (which included a note in case she didn’t recall the sturdy little blonde girl who moved out of the neighborhood in 1985), she said that whenever she busted out the Strawberry Shortcake dolls with her daughters, it reminded her of playing at my house. I’m still awaiting confirmation from someone who I’m 90% sure was one of my closest childhood friends, which would officially make her my first Facebook classmate ever: we went to pre-school together.
Unlike MySpace, all of the personal pages on Facebook are private by default, so you can’t see anyone’s current information (other than name, possibly location, and sometimes a tiny picture) unless you knock on their virtual door and ask them to let you in. I guess this is where the social part comes in, and it’s the part that’s the most stressful for me. I know exactly whose friendship I requested, and I have a mental list of the people who chose not to offer it. In that way, it’s a little more like high school (and junior high) than I’d like. But for the most part, people are welcoming and friendly and indulgent of my nostalgic basking. It’s not quite the same as running across your old Mathlete teammate at Target, but at least I don’t have to worry about how my hair looks.
And then I found the wormhole through that chasm: Facebook. I knew it was for me the minute I saw it. A social utility? There is not a tool I need more!
I quickly connected with all my local friends, and then plundered the rolls of my high school and college classes. At that point, my Facebook friend list looked pretty much like my current email address book. But then I got to wondering … what would happen if I entered the graduating classes of the schools I would have attended if the twists of my father’s career path hadn’t dragged us across the Midwest and back?With just a little bit of fibbing, I slid into the virtual hallways of my Michigan non-alma-mater, the high school I’d have eventually reached if I’d stayed in the nascent freaky-gifted program I was in during our one year in the wilds of Plymouth, MI. Thanks to the fact that I still have that class’s attendance roll memorized, I was able to spot the few other survivors; they even had a reunion page running. I also located my former next-door neighbor, a close friend during that year who completely vanished from my radar after I made my first solo plane trip to visit her the summer after 4th grade.
And then I cranked the Way Back Machine all the way to my educational beginnings. I hypothetically joined the graduating class of our Pittsburgh school district, where I lived between the ages of 3-to-8-years-old. I scrolled through a few pages before seeing any familiar names and had almost given up when I stumbled across a former neighbor and frequent playmate. When she responded to my friend request (which included a note in case she didn’t recall the sturdy little blonde girl who moved out of the neighborhood in 1985), she said that whenever she busted out the Strawberry Shortcake dolls with her daughters, it reminded her of playing at my house. I’m still awaiting confirmation from someone who I’m 90% sure was one of my closest childhood friends, which would officially make her my first Facebook classmate ever: we went to pre-school together.
Unlike MySpace, all of the personal pages on Facebook are private by default, so you can’t see anyone’s current information (other than name, possibly location, and sometimes a tiny picture) unless you knock on their virtual door and ask them to let you in. I guess this is where the social part comes in, and it’s the part that’s the most stressful for me. I know exactly whose friendship I requested, and I have a mental list of the people who chose not to offer it. In that way, it’s a little more like high school (and junior high) than I’d like. But for the most part, people are welcoming and friendly and indulgent of my nostalgic basking. It’s not quite the same as running across your old Mathlete teammate at Target, but at least I don’t have to worry about how my hair looks.
Monday, September 15, 2008
One Moment In Time
After a full week of sleepless, nurse-a-thon nights, Mr. Baby finally had a calm evening, only waking up twice (that I remember) overnight and exhibiting a rare respect for my personal space. And instead of jolting awake at 6:30 and cry-crawling around the house while I try desperately to get the three of us ready in the morning, he slept until it was time to take Miss M to school. And then he gently and happily woke up, smiling and talking while I changed his diaper and put him in warmer clothes for the 57-degree walk to school. He was his usual content, drowsy self during our morning walk, but as I took him back out of the stroller and got ready to drop him into his carseat for the ride to Mama KT’s, I noticed something was different. His body had a weight and concentration. He wasn’t wiggling or trying to look around for the nearest small animal. He was melted into me, his arms around my neck, his autumn-cool cheek against mine.
He was hugging me.
I stood there in the street, the car door open, and hugged him back. I knew he’d cry when I put him down. I knew he’d cry when I dropped him off. I held his soft, sleepy body as long as I could, because I knew that moment of peace and comfort would be the best thing in my day.
He was hugging me.
I stood there in the street, the car door open, and hugged him back. I knew he’d cry when I put him down. I knew he’d cry when I dropped him off. I held his soft, sleepy body as long as I could, because I knew that moment of peace and comfort would be the best thing in my day.
Monday, September 08, 2008
I Want To Take You Out To The Fair
So instead of our usual backyard party, I decided to go all out and take Miss M and her two best buds, C and S, to the Delta Fair for her birthday. I thought this was a brilliant idea, especially since there was a free circus on-site. We'd get in for the nominal admission fee and have a relatively inexpensive day of fun and fair-time frolic. As it turns out, my math was a little off. But fortunately, so was theirs.
The Delta Fair, By The Numbers
Fee for that "plentiful, safe parking" they advertised on the radio: $5.00
Yards parking lot was from fair entrance: 600
Admission for one adult and three five-year-olds: $23
Extra change incorrectly returned: $1
Seats available inside circus tent: 0
Feet we sat from the Globe of Death: 2
Number of hoops The Amazing Pamela hula'd at once: 10
Number of minutes between The Amazing Pamela's hula hoop act and The Amazing Pamela's trapeze act: 1.5
Total number of performers involved in The Vazquez Circus, counting the emcee: 4
Percentage of animals in the Petting Zoo that were not goats: 7
Cost of three small cups of wheat chaff to feed Petting Zoo animals: $3
Seconds it took for C to be robbed of his entire cup of wheat chaff by an especially aggressive goat: 12
Midway ride tickets purchased: 20 for $20
Average price per kiddie ride: 3 tickets
Tickets spared by carnies wrongly assuming we had wristbands: 12
Tickets wasted because Miss M would not ride anything without her mom: 2
Cost of first small Sno Cone: $2
Price paid for first small Sno Cone: $0
Minutes I contemplated going back to pay for Sno Cone after I realized I hadn't been charged for it: 0
Cost of two bottled waters: $6
Degree burn suffered by brushing against white-hot turkey leg booth while purchasing bottled waters: 2nd
Times the children lost the pieces of paper with my cell phone number that I stuck into their socks: 5
Cell phone pictures I took of each child in case we got separated and Missing Child posters were required: 1
Cash remaining in my pocket when I realized I hadn't fed anyone anything other than water and sugared food coloring: $4
Seconds I considered letting C get something out of the vending machine instead of eating fair food: 17
Times S asked to play a midway game: 17
Cost of letting three coordination-impaired children sit down at a midway game: $9
Seconds until all three children lost said midway game: 15
Surprisingly reasonable price for a large order of decent nachos: $3
Food and/or beverage items I bought for children but consumed the majority of: 4
Yards we walked out of our way so I could get a fried Snickers before leaving: 60
The Delta Fair, By The Numbers
Fee for that "plentiful, safe parking" they advertised on the radio: $5.00
Yards parking lot was from fair entrance: 600
Admission for one adult and three five-year-olds: $23
Extra change incorrectly returned: $1
Seats available inside circus tent: 0
Feet we sat from the Globe of Death: 2
Number of hoops The Amazing Pamela hula'd at once: 10
Number of minutes between The Amazing Pamela's hula hoop act and The Amazing Pamela's trapeze act: 1.5
Total number of performers involved in The Vazquez Circus, counting the emcee: 4
Percentage of animals in the Petting Zoo that were not goats: 7
Cost of three small cups of wheat chaff to feed Petting Zoo animals: $3
Seconds it took for C to be robbed of his entire cup of wheat chaff by an especially aggressive goat: 12
Midway ride tickets purchased: 20 for $20
Average price per kiddie ride: 3 tickets
Tickets spared by carnies wrongly assuming we had wristbands: 12
Tickets wasted because Miss M would not ride anything without her mom: 2
Cost of first small Sno Cone: $2
Price paid for first small Sno Cone: $0
Minutes I contemplated going back to pay for Sno Cone after I realized I hadn't been charged for it: 0
Cost of two bottled waters: $6
Degree burn suffered by brushing against white-hot turkey leg booth while purchasing bottled waters: 2nd
Times the children lost the pieces of paper with my cell phone number that I stuck into their socks: 5
Cell phone pictures I took of each child in case we got separated and Missing Child posters were required: 1
Cash remaining in my pocket when I realized I hadn't fed anyone anything other than water and sugared food coloring: $4
Seconds I considered letting C get something out of the vending machine instead of eating fair food: 17
Times S asked to play a midway game: 17
Cost of letting three coordination-impaired children sit down at a midway game: $9
Seconds until all three children lost said midway game: 15
Surprisingly reasonable price for a large order of decent nachos: $3
Food and/or beverage items I bought for children but consumed the majority of: 4
Yards we walked out of our way so I could get a fried Snickers before leaving: 60
Friday, September 05, 2008
You Are My Sunshine
My Miss M.
Five. Five! A kindergartener. A little girl. Not, in any way, a baby.
But it’s still hard for me to think about your birthday without remembering your actual day of birth, and the exhaustion and exhilaration of that long night’s journey into day. I remember the fear and the thrill, the confusion and the triumph, the pain and the delicious end of it. I remember reaching out to you, taking you out of your bed and pulling you into my own, where you slept in a warm flanneled bundle like you were still part of my own body.
When I see pictures from later in your first months, my memory is fuzzier. It’s harder to recall each stage of your growing up because you are, at any given moment, completely yourself at that exact time. You are so you. I admire and cherish your presence, the openness of your heart and the certainty of your perspective. Even when that certainty openly conflicts with reality or my own preferences, I respect that you are strong-minded and confident. I couldn’t ask for better qualities in a daughter, especially when they are joined with your sense of fairness and empathy. Senses that sometimes manifest in unpredictable ways these days, but that I know will be refined and strengthened as you grow.
Our bond can tense and slack several times within a day, or even within an hour, but I want you to know, today and every day, that I am always holding on to my end. Usually breathlessly, either from trying to keep up with you or just because I’m agog at your beauty and brains, but always tightly.
Happy birthday, my peanut, my dear heart, my best girl. I love you so much.
Five. Five! A kindergartener. A little girl. Not, in any way, a baby.
But it’s still hard for me to think about your birthday without remembering your actual day of birth, and the exhaustion and exhilaration of that long night’s journey into day. I remember the fear and the thrill, the confusion and the triumph, the pain and the delicious end of it. I remember reaching out to you, taking you out of your bed and pulling you into my own, where you slept in a warm flanneled bundle like you were still part of my own body.
When I see pictures from later in your first months, my memory is fuzzier. It’s harder to recall each stage of your growing up because you are, at any given moment, completely yourself at that exact time. You are so you. I admire and cherish your presence, the openness of your heart and the certainty of your perspective. Even when that certainty openly conflicts with reality or my own preferences, I respect that you are strong-minded and confident. I couldn’t ask for better qualities in a daughter, especially when they are joined with your sense of fairness and empathy. Senses that sometimes manifest in unpredictable ways these days, but that I know will be refined and strengthened as you grow.
Our bond can tense and slack several times within a day, or even within an hour, but I want you to know, today and every day, that I am always holding on to my end. Usually breathlessly, either from trying to keep up with you or just because I’m agog at your beauty and brains, but always tightly.
Happy birthday, my peanut, my dear heart, my best girl. I love you so much.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Welcome To A Special Place
Well, we made it. Week One of Mr. Baby's official first daycare experience is over, and we all survived intact. And in deep gratitude that we didn't get kicked out after I was 45 minutes late picking him up on his very first day. Of course that would be when the cataclysmic hurricane-leftover rains would flood the entire route between my office and midtown. Not "hm, maybe I should move into the higher lane" flooding, but "holy crap, another police cruiser blocking the road!" flooding. We were so very lucky that Mama KT - the trusted provider for many friends and neighbors - was able to take Mr. Baby in at the very last minute and already I felt like I'd blown her confidence. I know she wouldn't have held me to it, but I sent along a check for the center's dollar-a-minute late fee along with Mr. Baby's application, just because I needed to save some face and try to demonstrate that I wasn't That Mom.
Anyway, back to the baby. He had a great week, really. He only napped about half an hour the first day, but was taking 2+ hour naps by Day 2. (I've thus far resisted the urge to ask how in the heck she made that happen, since he tends to be on a 90-minute timer at home.) Every morning was a heart-breaking, ripped-from-my-arms nightmare scenario, but what with him being my second child (and fundamentally more adaptable than my first), I knew he'd be fine once the door was closed. Mama KT even said I was welcome to circle the block and come peek in the windows to be sure. I like a childcare provider who understands a mother'sneuroses needs.
He starts back up again on Tuesday after a long weekend of feverish (in all senses) around-the-clock nursing, with four - count 'em, four - teeth cutting through his gums and two more puffily on the brink. I believe Mama KT's reports that he has a good time during the day, but it's hard when he saves up all his pain and frustration for me. I'm very glad he's happy there, because it makes me feel a little bit better about being so relieved to have a break from the eight different kinds of angry coming out of him lately. I miss my happy baby, but it's nice to know someone else is getting to hang out with him.
Anyway, back to the baby. He had a great week, really. He only napped about half an hour the first day, but was taking 2+ hour naps by Day 2. (I've thus far resisted the urge to ask how in the heck she made that happen, since he tends to be on a 90-minute timer at home.) Every morning was a heart-breaking, ripped-from-my-arms nightmare scenario, but what with him being my second child (and fundamentally more adaptable than my first), I knew he'd be fine once the door was closed. Mama KT even said I was welcome to circle the block and come peek in the windows to be sure. I like a childcare provider who understands a mother's
He starts back up again on Tuesday after a long weekend of feverish (in all senses) around-the-clock nursing, with four - count 'em, four - teeth cutting through his gums and two more puffily on the brink. I believe Mama KT's reports that he has a good time during the day, but it's hard when he saves up all his pain and frustration for me. I'm very glad he's happy there, because it makes me feel a little bit better about being so relieved to have a break from the eight different kinds of angry coming out of him lately. I miss my happy baby, but it's nice to know someone else is getting to hang out with him.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
It's A Rich Man's Game
Until I get time to post about the merciful solution to my childcare disaster, I present ...
Things I Want In My Cubicle: Part 1
Decals for the beige cabinets:
Pretty wall hook to compensate for not having a cube-closet anymore:
Twin Peaks-esque lighting:
Things I Want In My Cubicle: Part 1
Decals for the beige cabinets:
Pretty wall hook to compensate for not having a cube-closet anymore:
Twin Peaks-esque lighting:
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Up All Night
My poor baby.
After the childcare plan collapse, I’ve been scrambling to find someplace for Mr. Baby to go every day. And I mean both that I’ve been scrambling for daily coverage and that the scramble happens anew every single day. This week, it’s been rare for me to know before 3pm where he’s going to be the next day. Fortunately, the only store-related credit I have remaining is with my former playgroup regulars, and St. Laura of Velasco has very kindly and lovingly taken up way more than a reasonable amount of slack as I flail about desperately trying to find a long-term solution to our babysitting needs.
In the meantime, my pleasant, easy-going baby is starting to show signs of cooperation fatigue. Our usually seamless morning drop-offs have become dramatic and teary, especially when those drop-offs involve leaving him with a total stranger in a totally strange, though fully licensed, location. I’ve had to return to the days of eating cold dinners, since nothing but me picking him up will calm his meal-time fits of separation anxiety. And our nights have regressed, with him up and nursing frequently, refusing to fall asleep without touching some part of me, flopping his half-awake body toward me and resting his head on my stomach, using me as a source of physical comfort in a way unseen since his newborn weeks.
And yes, okay, I realize that four days of somewhat unpredictable but generally familiar care isn’t going to cause permanent damage and it probably doesn’t explain every recent change in his behavior (there are pretty solid hints that he’s got more teeth coming in, plus he’s about three hours away from walking), but my guilt and stress and fear over not having the childcare issue resolved feeds into my every perception about his well-being. I just won’t feel like he’s okay until I find a place for him to be okay.
In the meantime, Miss M is taking kindergarten by storm, marching into her classroom every morning with barely a glance back in my direction. We’re struggling a little in the off-hours, as the early mornings and time-restricted lunches catch up with her, but she’s doing great while she’s there and I don’t have to think about it every minute of the day, so that’s the best I could hope for right now.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
I'm So Far Out To Lunch
"So, how's the job going?"
Well, since you asked ...
The job is good. It's an adjustment to go from the autonomy of self-employment, but that adjustment is greatly eased by the check slipped into my top desk drawer every other week. My assignments are interesting and challenging and I get really useful and positive feedback on a regular basis, which can't always be said for either retail or motherhood. My team is very friendly and generous, and although we all seem to take an interest in each other's lives, we just haven't forged a personal connection - they noticed my tattoo, but not my new haircut. And the rest of the company is ... well, I can't really say. Not because it's bad, just because I don't really know anyone outside of the three other people in my department. Those other people seem nice, when they're talking to each other in the breakroom or having work-stalling conversations over the cube walls, but I tend to feel invisible when I'm moving in their midst. I know this is partly because a) I'm conversationally stunted and will never take the opportunity to jump into a discussion uninvited, even when the women down the row are saying that breastfeeding makes babies spoiled, and b) about 25% of our division has been hired in the last quarter and so there are a whole lot of newbies walking around. And then just to complicate social matters, my team was moved down a floor last week, so those people whose shoes I was just about to get brave enough to compliment are now an even more gaping distance away.
Some people would solve this issue by putting on a brave new-kid face and charging in, confident that their charms would win out. But I've been the new kid so many times that my instinct is to lay low and hope my greenness doesn't expose me to scorn or ridicule. And just like elementary school, the biggest struggle of the day is deciding where to eat. Since the idea of sitting alone and eating lunch in the breakroom turned my stomach, I did a quick Google Map search of the area and found a restaurant within walking distance from my office. "Restaurant" might be stretching it a bit, really, but tucked inside an office building in the Ridgeway Loop, with no outdoor signage or any indication that it's there (oh, I already loved its humility), is Lisa's Lunchbox.
When I walked in the first day, Lauren at the counter took my name as well as my order. Which seemed like a fairly standard, Starbucksy thing to do, but then I noticed that she was greeting everyone who came in by name. I got a pre-boxed turkey and swiss special for five bucks (home-made chess bar and chips included) and took it back to my cubicle. The chess bar alone brought me back the next day, and when I got to the front of the line, Lauren said, "It's SAM, right?" Why, yes, it is.
The food is great (I'm deeply fond of the ham and swiss panini, which they serve with a side of ranch dressing for dippin'), but what really draws me back (multiple times a week) is the atmosphere. Not the brightly lit, styrofoam cup ambiance, but the actual tone of the place. I sit alone reading a book, but I don't ever feel like I'm by myself. I listen to the gossip behind the counter and follow the conversations with other customers. I hear Lisa talking about the challenges of small business ownership and I feel like part of the same club. These t-shirt-clad thirtysomething women (Lisa and Lauren are joined by Laura - oh, the alliteration alone delights my writing heart) seem more like my people than the other business casual corporate types sitting around me.
If you come out east to have lunch with me, know that I will suggest Lisa's. And if you're anywhere near Ridegway without me, seek it out yourself. And then go back again, because the trip's even more worthwhile when the minute you walk in, they say, "Hey, cute haircut!"
Well, since you asked ...
The job is good. It's an adjustment to go from the autonomy of self-employment, but that adjustment is greatly eased by the check slipped into my top desk drawer every other week. My assignments are interesting and challenging and I get really useful and positive feedback on a regular basis, which can't always be said for either retail or motherhood. My team is very friendly and generous, and although we all seem to take an interest in each other's lives, we just haven't forged a personal connection - they noticed my tattoo, but not my new haircut. And the rest of the company is ... well, I can't really say. Not because it's bad, just because I don't really know anyone outside of the three other people in my department. Those other people seem nice, when they're talking to each other in the breakroom or having work-stalling conversations over the cube walls, but I tend to feel invisible when I'm moving in their midst. I know this is partly because a) I'm conversationally stunted and will never take the opportunity to jump into a discussion uninvited, even when the women down the row are saying that breastfeeding makes babies spoiled, and b) about 25% of our division has been hired in the last quarter and so there are a whole lot of newbies walking around. And then just to complicate social matters, my team was moved down a floor last week, so those people whose shoes I was just about to get brave enough to compliment are now an even more gaping distance away.
Some people would solve this issue by putting on a brave new-kid face and charging in, confident that their charms would win out. But I've been the new kid so many times that my instinct is to lay low and hope my greenness doesn't expose me to scorn or ridicule. And just like elementary school, the biggest struggle of the day is deciding where to eat. Since the idea of sitting alone and eating lunch in the breakroom turned my stomach, I did a quick Google Map search of the area and found a restaurant within walking distance from my office. "Restaurant" might be stretching it a bit, really, but tucked inside an office building in the Ridgeway Loop, with no outdoor signage or any indication that it's there (oh, I already loved its humility), is Lisa's Lunchbox.
When I walked in the first day, Lauren at the counter took my name as well as my order. Which seemed like a fairly standard, Starbucksy thing to do, but then I noticed that she was greeting everyone who came in by name. I got a pre-boxed turkey and swiss special for five bucks (home-made chess bar and chips included) and took it back to my cubicle. The chess bar alone brought me back the next day, and when I got to the front of the line, Lauren said, "It's SAM, right?" Why, yes, it is.
The food is great (I'm deeply fond of the ham and swiss panini, which they serve with a side of ranch dressing for dippin'), but what really draws me back (multiple times a week) is the atmosphere. Not the brightly lit, styrofoam cup ambiance, but the actual tone of the place. I sit alone reading a book, but I don't ever feel like I'm by myself. I listen to the gossip behind the counter and follow the conversations with other customers. I hear Lisa talking about the challenges of small business ownership and I feel like part of the same club. These t-shirt-clad thirtysomething women (Lisa and Lauren are joined by Laura - oh, the alliteration alone delights my writing heart) seem more like my people than the other business casual corporate types sitting around me.
If you come out east to have lunch with me, know that I will suggest Lisa's. And if you're anywhere near Ridegway without me, seek it out yourself. And then go back again, because the trip's even more worthwhile when the minute you walk in, they say, "Hey, cute haircut!"
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Starfish And Coffee
There was so much build-up to Miss M’s first day of school that the actual event was fairly … well, anti-climactic, really. After worrying all summer and barely being able to sleep the night before (good thing I was up when the alarm went off at 5:30, because some tiny prankster with an affection for buttons and surprisingly distant reach had turned the volume aaaaall the way down), rushing around that morning getting supplies in order and barking last-minute commands to brush teeth and hair, the point of all the fuss was almost completely lost. Not that it wasn’t exciting to see her all dressed in her uniform, her new Hello Kitty backpack bumping the back of her knees as she walked up to school, but once we got through the throng of children anxiously bustling toward their various destinations, the drop-off was pretty easy. I’m sure it helped that we’d just been at the school for an orientation and tour, and that she saw familiar faces (human and canine) on the way in, and that Miss M had met her teacher and was immediately greeted by name, and especially that Connor was in the very same class in the very same room on the very same day. I’m sure it also helped that she’s been in a happy school environment for the last two and a half years, so even though this was a big new step, the idea of being away from her folks all day isn’t a huge source of trauma.
When I asked her about her day, I fully expected a contrary response, but instead she reported that it was “very, very good.” She said that she colored and did tests (“I got three wrong but about a hundred right.”) and played outside and allegedly watched a movie, although I’m not sure about that part. She made some claim about no one wanting to play with her during recess, which crushed my heart under the weight of playground rejection memories, but since she has a tendency to fabricate instances of suffering and victimization, I’m not immediately concerning myself with that issue. Especially since I can’t imagine that Connor left her sight.
Since they stagger kindergarten entry, yesterday was her only day of school this week, which gives both of us a chance to recoup and prepare for the new shift in routine. And double-check that Mr. Baby hasn’t changed the clock radio levels again.
When I asked her about her day, I fully expected a contrary response, but instead she reported that it was “very, very good.” She said that she colored and did tests (“I got three wrong but about a hundred right.”) and played outside and allegedly watched a movie, although I’m not sure about that part. She made some claim about no one wanting to play with her during recess, which crushed my heart under the weight of playground rejection memories, but since she has a tendency to fabricate instances of suffering and victimization, I’m not immediately concerning myself with that issue. Especially since I can’t imagine that Connor left her sight.
Since they stagger kindergarten entry, yesterday was her only day of school this week, which gives both of us a chance to recoup and prepare for the new shift in routine. And double-check that Mr. Baby hasn’t changed the clock radio levels again.
Friday, August 01, 2008
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