Not a Good Omen

I’m sitting in a rowboat. A doctor, with whom I am unacquainted, is rowing backward, facing me, and telling me about the swampy, foggy surroundings. He tells me how he has been studying the indigenous primates in the area for years, but there has been an incident. It turns out that a local couple, with whom I am slightly acquainted, is searching for their infant baby girl, who has evidently been stolen by the monkeys. They’re not sure she’s still alive. The hair on the back of my neck bristles and I feel a chill. The yapping calls of unseen monkeys make me scan the trees unsteadily. Thunder rumbles in the distance and dark clouds hover overhead.

I open my eyes with a start. It’s three in the morning.

Awakened by the roll of real-life thunder, I brush away the uneasy dream and reach out to JG sleeping next to me. I hate thunder. I know it’s just sound, but the sheer volume sends tremors down my back and makes my hands fly up, involuntarily, to shield my ears. It is impossible for me to relax during a storm; I clutch pillows and twitch nervously as lightning bolts blind me – an unnerving harbinger. This storm is worse than usual because I have images of a stolen baby girl and laughing chimpanzees with dangerous-looking teeth flying through my head. The vivid imagination that served me so well as a child is my downfall during the dark, wee hours when thunder booms, uninvited.

Conflicted between the heavy heat of our bedroom and the impulse to be covered and secure, I toss and turn to find a position that both deafens the noise and feels sheltered. My biceps are getting sore from the extended tension of my fingers plugged into my ears and I can’t help but slide over to JG’s side of the bed for comfort. He’s snoozing away, nonplussed by the storm, until I accidentally nudge him too strongly. “Is it the thunder?” he asks sleepily. Yes! Hence the quivering shell next to you! But I tell him to go back to sleep. It doesn’t make sense for the both of us to be awake at this hour.

The last time I look at the clock, it reads 4:34. I am exhausted. My arms are tired. I drift back to sleep, but thankfully, there are no child-stealing apes this time.

I am at work right now. I am a zombie. And there are scattered thunderstorms on the forecast every single day this week.

#98

Rattled

My office is on the second floor of a three-story complex with a variety businesses, so it’s common to hear the goings-on of surrounding units. Today, though, is different.

I hear a sound that I think would sound like a big man rolling giant metal gears over a coarse gravel driveway. Or maybe it’s an army tank clanking with a lot of loose parts as it drives across a field of scrap metal. When that noise stops, it’s replaced by the sound of an enormous rocking chair, squeaking all the while. Occasionally, there’s the sound of a super-sized socket wrench. There is creaking and thudding, which wouldn’t be so bad on its own if it were not for the accompanying shaking and movement. My desk is unsteady and my eyes are struggling to focus on a trembling monitor.

Maybe the suite below us is doing construction. I think I saw a new storefront down there, so that would make sense. In that case, the distracting noise and shaking is temporary, right?

A co-worker just took a walk to investigate and he reports that the noise is coming from a new martial arts studio. Apparently, there are three giant punching bags and correspondingly giant guys who are getting good use of them as I type here.

And that means the noise, vibration, et al, are not temporary.

Shudder.

Try Saying, "Hi"

The church JG and I attend is new and small and meets in another church’s building for Sunday service. Today, a member of the other church, a man with whom I am not acquainted, approached me and I expected a normal, good-natured conversation. Instead, I got the following (my gut reactions italicized):

He: So… is your family Vietnamese?
I: (What in the world? Oh, he’s just asking what my background is.) Uh, no, my family is Chinese.
He: Oh, sorry, my mistake.
I: (Ooh, he feels bad. Just make light of it and be nice.) Don’t worry, I can’t tell the difference sometimes.
He: If you had been Vietnamese, I would have been able to talk to you.
I: (Um, because we’re not talking right now?) Oh.
He: Well, have a nice day.

With that, the man ambled off. I guess we’re done now, I thought.

Admittedly, this episode does not come close to the ignorance displayed by the Rice Knowledge Woman, but I’m obliged to raise my eyebrow in a general expression of, “What the heck just happened here?” Besides the obvious fact that asking someone about ethnic background this bluntly is awkward and generally inappropriate, I have three major objections to the conversation.

First, I hate how I feel obligated to maintain my composure when I’m caught in these circumstances. Why is it my role to be sensitive to people’s ignorance and lack of common courtesy when it comes to race? Why can’t I just lash out with some zinger? (“I think all you middle-aged, pot-bellied, white guys look the same, too.”) Oh, right. I’m supposed to be a docile, Asian girl who giggles behind her hand and wears chopsticks in her hair.

Although this conversation did not include this pet peeve explicitly, I always become irritated when people are surprised that I don’t speak Chinese. I was born in America! Where we speak English! I was an English major, for goodness’ sake! I hardly expect to meet a third-generation European-American who speaks Italian or French or whatever, but I don’t exclaim, “Oh, really? That’s a shame! Why didn’t you try to pick it up?”

Last, but certainly not least - why didn’t this man even introduce himself? I think I may have been a little less startled if the conversation had started out with something like: “Hi, I’m Joe. I learned some Vietnamese back in the day and I was wondering what your background is.” I imagine that the interaction would have been strange nonetheless, but I think it may have felt better with a different lead-in.

I don’t mind being asked about my ethnicity, but the question is so often posed in such a coarse manner that I am completely turned off. To this man, I was no more than an Asian face. I wasn’t a person he thought to address directly and that bothers me most of all.

Here’s a little tip for those who might be interested in others’ ethnicities: To break the ice, try saying, “Hi.” It’s kind of like speaking to any other person.

#5

Shaken

I was sitting at the hotel desk, typing away to make up for a day without checking e-mail. Suddenly, the armoire holding the television shuddered noisily. The re-run of The Office skipped a beat. The floor trembled and my stomach flipped and flopped.

What was that?

I chalked it up to someone slamming their door down the hall and went along my e-mail way. The hotel where I was staying was hosting a technology conference and you never know what to expect from those rowdy techies.

Fifteen minutes later, the local NBC affiliate broke into The Office to announce that there had been an earthquake in Lafayette, which is a mere 20 miles from San Francisco. Sure, it was only a 4.2 on the Richter scale and, apparently, that’s “light” – insert finger quotes here – or something. I know San Francisco folks get used to these things, but come on! It was an earthquake! With tectonic shifting and everything! I had to hear the phrase “Richter scale” in reference to an area where I was currently located. What’s up with that?

This is why I didn’t apply to CalTech, Mom. The San Andreas Fault and I would not get along. I’ll take the predictability of good old East Coast blizzards, hurricanes, and humidity any day.

A Good Way to Kill Time

I looked at my watch. I had 20 minutes before my meeting, which should have been plenty of time to order a cake to celebrate a recent promotion in the office. I called the nearby supermarket and said that I’d like to order a cake to pick up on Thursday. The operator politely replied that she’d transfer me to the bakery, and thanks for holding.

The line went dead. I know that this is some companies’ way of putting you on hold, but I never know if that means they “accidentally” hung up on me. I had to order this cake, so I stayed on the line, hoping to hear a voice presently.

“Hi, are you holding for Mark?”
“Um, I’m trying to get to the bakery to order a cake?”
“Oh, okay, hold please.”
“But – ”

And the silence again. Okay, I thought, I know they don’t have hold music, so this is fine. But then I heard a phone ringing, like I had just dialed. What the heck?

“Who are you holding for?”
“I’m trying to reach the bakery about a cake.”
“Hold, please.”

Argh! More silence! Then, the blasted question:

“Hi, who are you holding for?”
“I’ve been on hold for fifteen minutes, trying to reach the bakery about a cake.”
“Oh, hang on.”

For the love! What does it take to order a freaking cake around here?

“Bakery, how may I help you?”

Finally!

“I’d like to order a cake to pick up on Thursday, for about 8 people.”
“Could you hold, please?”

Are you kidding me?

Two minutes later, I got a hold of a bakery person who, while taking my order, intermittently hollered to her cohorts about where random bakery equipment was located. Now, that’s what I call customer service.

Still Shaking My Head

Because I am incredibly particular about how I look in pictures, what I’m about to say may not have been all that apparent thus far. If I deem a picture good enough to put up here, then it can be verified. Please just take my word for it and trust that it is simply a preface for what I’m about to say afterward.

So, I’m Asian.

My grandparents all immigrated from China to New York City, where my parents were born. I can’t speak Chinese and I grew up in suburban, southeastern Connecticut. To any of my elementary school classmates out there, no, I still don’t know karate or Bruce Lee and I’m not related to that other Asian kid in our class.

There’s that. Now to the episode at hand.

I came across a woman this afternoon with whom I have spoken before, but not extensively. After inquiring after JG and expressing appropriate sympathy for his ailment, she suggested a fail-proof remedy:

She: Have you heard of the brat diet?
I: Sorry?
She: B-R-A-T. Bananas, rice, apple juice, and toast. It never fails. Been using it for kids and adults for years.
I: Okay, thanks. That sounds like a good idea.
She: Well, judging from your eyes, I’m sure you know a lot about rice.

Um, what?!

I bumbled around gathering my jaw up from the floor and thinking of a coherent response to this insane display of ignorance. I managed to choke out, “Oh, well, I’ve had a lot of rice in my time,” nervously chuckle, and walk away/flee. But I was actually fighting the urge to snap, “Yeah, I know a lot about rice… from when I worked in the freaking rice paddies.”

I drove home with that phrase echoing in my brain. “Judging from your eyes”?! It trumps the previous record-holder for Most Ignorant Thing I’ve Ever Heard Regarding Race (once proudly earned by the gem, “Do you speak English?”) by, oh, I don’t know – a whole darn lot. I don’t live in the most diverse of communities, but still, I was appalled. What if I had said to this overweight, middle-aged, white woman, “Judging from your build, I’m sure you know a lot about trans-fatty acids, white bread, and apple pie”? I would have felt like a total jerk, that’s what! And that feeling would have been totally deserved.

Upon relaying this exchange to JG, I asked if I had missed out on an opportunity to educate this woman amid my verbal clumsiness. He shook his head and asked, “What could you have said?” I can’t imagine that it would have been much more comfortable if I said, “I did have a lot of rice in my childhood, but what you said just now was pretty offensive to me.” Maybe it would have made a difference to the next person she encountered whose eyes indicated rice expertise. I don’t know.

Hours later, I am still dumbfounded.

Confessions of a Hander-Outer

I'm going to come out and say it: I was proud of my Halloween costume. Designed for all-day work wear, I was a princess-cut diamond ring: a black t-shirt puff-painted with a bird’s eye view of a ginormous ring, a big strand of fake pearls, and of course, a tiara. Ha. I tied with a scarecrow for Most Creative Costume at the office, you know.

It was in this regalia that I greeted our neighborhood trick-or-treaters, basket of candy in hand. Last year, in my inaugural debut as Lady with Candy, I was too nervous to properly observe this suburban ritual. I had only gone trick-or-treating once during my childhood (as an eight ball) and being on the other side of the door was a new experience for me. This year, however, I realized that there should be a few rules to this free-candy racket, at least at my house…

DO say “Trick or Treat”.
When seemingly mute children came to my door with the bags outstretched, I was half-tempted to say sweetly, “How can I help you?” so as to coerce the traditional greeting from their lips. I will allow that “Happy Halloween” is an acceptable substitute because I am all about inclusion.

DO say “Thank you”.
So, let me just go over this whole Halloween thing. Kids come to my house in costumes, rendering me unable to recognize them, so that I can give them free candy for the vague achievement of wearing something that is not their normal garb. Call me crazy, but if you thank a random guy holding open a movie theater door for you, shouldn’t you also thank the neighbor who is giving away free snacks on a fake-o holiday? In the same vein, if you’re a parent of said kid in costume, I will amend this guideline to recommend that you please strongly encourage (i.e. threateningly demand that) your kids say thank you. If you do so, it will help negate the inherent ingratitude of your little ghoul.

DO wear a costume.
What’s up with these teenagers who wear hoodies and cargos and hold out a backpack for candy? I know you’re all in it for the sweets, but come on, make an effort. I suggested to JG that, next year, we invest in those mini boxes of raisins for the kids who are clearly dodging the costume route. (And those adults, too, for that matter.) He cocked an eye at me and said, “That’s how you get egged…” Which brings me to my next guideline –

DON’T be a jerk.
In response to the egging threat, I retorted, “Isn’t that just giving in to terrorism?!” And with that, I had somehow crossed the threshold of sanity and JG didn’t press the issue. But seriously, since when does the lack of free things entitle someone to hurl eggs at someone’s house? This jerk rule isn’t confined to egging; there are other ways to exhibit jerklike behavior. For example, if you examine the (free) candy I dropped into your plastic pumpkin and give me a look like “That’s it?” Or maybe if you crane your head to sneak a peek into my basket and say, “Hey, I want a Twix!” Whatever, jerk. You can have your single Reese’s cup and enjoy it.

DON’T trick-or-treat on someone else’s behalf.
Even if your “son” can’t make it. Even if your toothless, un-costumed (see above) infant is trying his hardest to wish me a happy Halloween. If you have kids, you can afford the darn candy! One exception to this rule took form in the tiny Frankenstein in a stroller who held the bucket as his mom said “trick or treat”. Okay, you can have candy. Raisins for the rest of you, if I weren’t afraid of being egged!

DO compliment the jack o’ lanterns.
I think acknowledgement of the hard work and painstaking detail that goes into making pumpkin art this is the only way to rise above the resentment that comes from failure to comply to the above guidelines. A friendly “nice job on the pumpkins!” will go far, let me tell you.

Okay, it’s not like I didn’t have any polite, well-costumed, complimentary children at our stoop. We did have a few, including a teeny tiny little lion and a kid whose mask was disgustingly awesome with its fake-blood drip effect. I also admit that we ran out of candy (gasp of horror!) before the end of the night, forcing me to jump outside, blow out the pumpkin candles, and hop back in the house to turn off the front light. I had to avoid the eggers, after all.

Gotta love Halloween. See you next year, kids.

Soapbox E-mail

The following is an e-mail I sent out to the Today show this morning in response to a series focusing on the college application process for three high school seniors. At last, a real-world application of my high falutin' classes on rhetoric.

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To Whom It May Concern:

I've just seen the introduction to Today’s series on the college application process, and I agree that this process is very important and can be very stressful. However, as a recent college grad, I believe that there is too much emphasis right now on getting into college and not as much interest in the process of finding a job and a place to live after graduation. This second process has higher stakes and a much lower success rate, and so many students have a vague view of it.

As a high-achieving senior in high school, I was taught that once I was accepted into college, the world would be my oyster. All I had to do was get into The Right School and that was it. When I graduated from college, I had a strong degree under my belt and two internships with contacts who could give glowing references, and I was prepared to have a smooth transition into the so-called real world.

I was a fairly naive job-seeker, but I quickly came to find that I was at the mercy of hiring managers. My lack of real experience was the greatest strike against me, despite my internships. I was very diligent in tracking my resume progress, following up after the requisite ten days, and I know that out of 40 resumes submitted within a period of ten weeks, I received all of two interviews. Ultimately, I found a decent job with great benefits by the time I needed to pay my rent, but it was hardly the smooth transition I had envisioned. Although I had a marketable degree, I wasn't special - I was one of many, many college graduates vying for a fixed number of positions. I worked very hard to avoid having to move back home, and I was fortunate to find a position. I doubt that the students the show is profiling aspire to live in their parents' houses for the first year or two out of school, but that is an increasingly popular trend.

I found the process of applying to college much easier and user-friendly than that of finding a job. For me, the college application process was friendly and welcoming; they made me feel as though they wanted me to come join them at their school. Assuming I was accepted to the school, I was in a position of power, and I was able to weigh pros and cons for my future. In the job application process, however, no one other than me was invested in whether I received a job. Hiring managers looked for excuses to eliminate, whereas admissions officers looked for a wide pool of applicants. These days, each resume receives about ten seconds of face time, which is a stark contrast to the hours admissions officers spend to determine the incoming freshman class.

My intent is not to downplay the college application process but to emphasize the lack of education available for the job search. The assumption that a college education is a free pass to a well-paying, prestigious job and the opportunity for select housing is completely unfounded. While the college application process is certainly a turning point in students' lives, the job search dictates where that person will live and what standard of living is affordable; it is the potential launching pad for the future of the person's career. College only lasts for four years, but the job search can affect one's entire working life, which might last for more than forty years.

I think a series on the job search for graduating seniors in college would be a reasonable follow-up to this current series. I would recommend, however, not focusing on only high-achieving students in highly attractive courses of study; rather, a cross-sample of students of all courses of study would be more accurate. After all, I believe the most popular majors are psychology and communications, not engineering and business.

I'm sure that this e-mail address receives a lot of mail everyday, and I hope that my e-mail does not get lost in the shuffle. After living through this process, which was by far the most discouraging and desperate experience I’ve had, I feel very strongly that college students need much more education and perspective on what is waiting for them. To focus major news stories solely on the college search helps to perpetuate this myth that a college degree entitles that graduate to a well-paying, exciting career and comfortable living. I believe that is a disservice to a growing population of Americans.

Thanks for your time,

RA

Cheese with My Whine, Please

This week has been a jumble of overlong workdays, mornings that came too early, and an enduring, mysterious dry skin condition that leaves me sadly unkissable, unless I’m in the mood for some burning pain. Oh, sign me up.

When I attain this rare state that consists of edgy, hurting, and stressed, the smallest things set me off. It’s raining today…That stupid song keeps playing during my commute… They change the time of one of my favorite shows! ARGH! The nerve!

And then, I got an email that just added another one to the list.

At my company, when there’s a new hire, the hiring manager sends out an email that introduces the person and some basic stats, like start date, education, and hobbies. We also get an email address so that we can send early greetings and that person sees people’s names before the first day. I try to send a welcome email more often than not because I loved getting them when I was first hired. So I write a quick email to the new girl about who I am and what I do, and I can’t wait to meet her, and so on and so forth, and I sign my name how I like to be addressed.

That last part is the key.

I firmly believe that when you receive an email, you should address your response in the way that the person signed it. For example, I wouldn’t normally spell Tracy as Traycee, but whoever I’m emailing obviously does, so I should respect that. Even if it induces some eye-rolling on my part.

Well. The new hire wrote me back, and if my name was Traycee, she spelled it Tracy. ARGH.

It’s not like my name is some fake-o way of spelling things, but I am particular about it. I think it shows attention to detail and, again, respect, to pay attention to how your recipient wants to be addressed. I suspect that this obsession stems from my name being misspelled, wrongly capitalized, and incorrectly spaced for my entire life. Not that I have any baggage. Or whatever.

I know it's a stupid thing.

My lips still hurt.

Delay Itinerary

6:20 – I meet a co-worker in the hotel lobby to grab a cup of tea and a taxi to the airport.

7:00 – We arrive at the airport and get in line to check in, fighting a bit of disorientation because the line is so long that we mistake it for the security line. We confirm with others that we’re in the right place, and check that our separate flights are on time, which they are.

7:30 – We emerge out of the security lines grappling with shoes, computer, jacket, and carry-on with time to chat before our boarding times. I check to make sure I’ve retained my boarding pass, after last time’s misplacement fiasco in the restroom (it was turned in to my gate, thankfully), and I stow it safely in my carry-on.

8:15 – My co-worker and I part ways to head to our respective gates. My flight is now listed with an hour delay, to depart at 9:45am, so I decide to go grab breakfast in the interim. An hour delay doesn’t bother me too much because I’m hopeful that the ride home will be lighter as far as traffic goes. I end up with a disappointingly tasteless orange poppy seed muffin cap, and a guilty-pleasure Entertainment Weekly (Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn were on the cover!). I leave JG a voicemail to let him know about my later arrival back home and then get to work on my muffin and magazine, staring out at the gray landscape of airport, planes, and tarmac.

8:35 – Someone triggers an alarm on an emergency door at the adjacent gate, resulting in a high-pitched, shrill noise in a continuous, piercing tone. Children shriek, older men plug their ears, and an airline representative announces on the loudspeaker that the alarm can only be turned off by the San Francisco police, and they’re on their way. She adds, “Please keep small children away fro the emergency door because … well, please just do that.”

8:50 – The police arrive to shut off the alarm. Harried travelers applaud.

9:15 – I look up from a story on Idlewild and notice on the screen in my gate that the departure time for my flight has magically and silently changed to 10:45. A woman nearby inquires at the desk and brings back news that Tropical Storm Ernesto is imminently pounding the east coast, including Philadelphia, and there’s something going on with air traffic control. We hear an announcement that the air traffic control people have restricted the number of flights that are allowed to land per hour. If the storm lets up, the quantity of flights may increase, but each airport with flights to Philadelphia will now be notified as events warrant. In short, I will be waiting here indefinitely while air traffic control decides whether we can land, with a possibility that the flight could be cancelled.

9:30 – I call my office to form the beginnings of a contingency plan and get assurance that charging a hotel room to my company card in this situation is okay, but I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. JG calls me and commiserates on my delays, assuring me that he wants me to get home soon, but not at my cost of my sanity. I appreciate.

10:05 – The flight departure time changes to 11:45am, arriving after 8pm. An airline person finally announces a boarding call of 11:15am for this departure time. More applause from Gate 68.

10:07 – A more to-the-point representative announces that because of other weather issues around the country, “anyone traveling to Philadelphia will need to remain on this flight. Do not ask us to reroute you, because we cannot. I repeat, you are stuck on this flight.” Recent applause dies out in favor of indignant murmurs and cynical chuckles.

11:15 – We board the plane as planned, and I find that my whole section of the plane has been taken over by a gaelic football team from San Francisco, and sentences like, “Dude, this sucks, dude” dominate their conversation. I hunker down for the flight and start to doze off before the safety video.

It Hurts Me

When I booked my 9am flight to San Francisco, I knew it would be painful. When I confirmed with the airline that I should arrive two and a half hours before my flight, I flinched. When I reserved my 5:30am pickup by the shuttle service, I had a sinking feeling.

But, oh, when my alarm went off at 4:20am ... that was the worst of all. What is this strange dark morning I'm observing? The last time I saw 5am was the morning JG and I left for Ocean City, NJ, but I sure don't remember that trip, between my periods of nodding off. For this little excursion, I have to have the wherewithall to progress through all of the airport lines without dropping my e-ticket, misplacing my ID, or flipping over my roller bag. I'm not very good at the airport juggle, but I'm guessing that getting two-thirds of my normal amount of sleep won't help.

There was a time when I saw the early morning. I worked at a summer camp for two summers during college; we had to be up and at 'em bright and early, and I managed. Minus the bright. It was more of rolling out of bed, grabbing the first shirt and shorts I could see in the hazy blueness of my bunk, and staggering outside into the misty air to the long walk to the dining hall for breakfast. Or at least, it seemed long.

Ah, well, what can you do? I'd rather be sitting and waiting for my flight rather than standing in a line and wondering if I'll make it, so this being up early nonsense is definitely the lesser evil. It's still evil, though.

Time Warp

Last night, I was emailing a friend when I unconsciously referenced my “crazy week”. I saw the words appear in my message window, and I paused, thinking, Wait a minute, what day is it?

Oh, right, I remembered, it’s only Tuesday, even though it feels like Thursday, energy-wise. Even more disappointing – Thursday would mean that I would only have to work in the morning the next day so that JG and I could invade our fabulous friends’ beach house in Avalon, NJ, for a long-ish weekend away. As much as our previous vacation was an extended break, it was not so much about the alone time, so I’m looking forward to this weekend for that.

Back to reality. It was only Tuesday, and I hadn’t actually had a crazy week; I had only had a crazy two freaking days. That’s not even halfway through the week! I backspaced sadly and typed, “crazy couple of days,” with a sinking feeling.

This morning, JG asked me, “Is it Friday? Because I feel like it’s Friday.” It can’t be a good sign if my hallucinations are spreading.

Blinking Myself Awake

I watched the neon green numbers of my giant digital clock progress slowly and steadily, with each change confirming that yes, I was going to be tired in the morning. I watched the dot that designates PM hours disappear, and then started the ever-depressing calculations of how much sleep I would get. It's not so bad, I'd mutter, I can still get 5 hours and 45 minutes... or 5 hours...

And so it went. I basked in the eerie glow of my clock, chosen for its 4-inch numbers - visible from a small distance when I am without my contacts and therefore, as blind as a bat - and its irresistible, foghorn-like blast of an alarm. A conveyor belt of a to-do list cycled through my head, despite the fact that I had no way of chipping away at it. "E-mail Amy," it hummed, "Call about the guitar ... Call Dad to wish him a happy birthday - " Oh, crap! I forgot to call my dad! I rummaged on my crowded nightstand for a pen to scrawl Call Dad on my palm with thoughts of being The Bad Daughter flitting across the to-do list. Better late than never, right? Like sleep?

Come morning, after I somehow exhausted myself to sleep and had stressful dreams involving being late for flights and not wearing the right shoes for running, I woke up to the insistent blare of my alarm. I managed to rise eventually, but I did not shine.

I need a nap.

Crabcake

That’s what I’ve been lately. Unfortunately, I am not a delicious seafood patty for which the mid-Atlantic region prides itself – I’ve just been all-around grumpy. I use the crabcake label to make it sound cuter and more attractive, like I’m not a borderline jerk for no apparent reason.

I realized that I was irate last night. JG mentioned ice makers in refrigerators, and because it was SO not my idea of fun to discuss the pros and cons of appliances, I snapped, “I don’t really want to talk about this right now, so why don’t we just figure it out when we actually need to buy a fridge.” It’s phrased like a question, but I wasn’t exactly asking, and I tend to have a certain, uh, edge when I get like this. Needless to say, that shut JG up pretty quickly, and I felt like a jerk for the rest of the night. And also a raving lunatic. Who else flips out over an ice maker?

When I woke up this morning, I was still slightly nettled at nothing in particular, and I thought that maybe doing yoga might calm me down and knock me out of this funk. I do yoga because I really like stretching, and while the New Age-yness isn’t exactly for me, I usually get something out of it and end up feeling relatively relaxed and ready for the day. I went through my usual 40-minute routine, only to find that I was rusty from being on vacation, and that left me supremely annoyed by all of the meditation talk. I kept wanted to shout at the partially bald but still long-haired instructor, “Will you just shut up about your stupid inner power?! I just want to be TONED!” ... Yeah, there's that raving thing again.

Upon arriving at the office, my calendar dictated that I would get almost nothing done, because I had a total of five meetings scheduled, plus a working lunch. Getting very little accomplished is kind of inconvenient when you have at least five hours of actual work that has to get done in the day, and even more so when not one single appointment started or ended on time or even stayed remotely on task. So after this marathon of meetings, during which I kept thinking about the things I had to do (“Crap, I have to do that!” was the catchphrase of the day), I finally settled down to crank through a whole lot of work that turned out to be suitable for a trained monkey, which was, of course, yours truly. You know it’s been a long day when you affix sticky notes to your monitor and phone so that you can’t see how late you are staying at the office. I even considered leaving and finishing up at home, but I couldn’t bear to pack up my computer, run an errand that involved driving on one of the busiest roads in the area, get home, eat dinner, and still have a couple of hours of work to do. No! I was powering through!

When the work was finally done and I had schlepped my guitar to the music store, I was on my way home at last, a mere 12 hours after I first got to work. Ugh. Along the way, I was lucky to encounter drivers with either excessively bright headlights or the need to take their half of the road out of the middle, and that was FABULOUS.

But there were some of my actual favorite things, too. The roads were gloriously empty, and the woods smelled like pine and grass all mixed up, with flashes of fireflies scattered around. I followed the twilight home, and best of all, as I reached the top of the hill in our neighborhood, I saw a gorgeous hot pink cloud, tinted from what must have been a sweet sunset. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I was basically back to normal, and maybe even happy. To top it all off, JG had turkey sausage ready for dinner, and a cold root beer for me in the (non-ice-making) fridge. I was a crabcake no longer, and I was actually fun to be around tonight.

Thank goodness for a great sunset, a fast drive home, and good company. The fact that tomorrow is Friday doesn’t hurt, either.

Buckets

My little corner of the world is swimming in a steady downpour, and we've had at least 12 hours of rain today. It's not the kind of rain that makes you scared, like your car is going to drift away. It's the cold, stinging kind that makes you dread stepping outside because you know your skin is going to prick up from the tiny pellets of coldness falling from the sky, and you're going to be uncomfortably damp and chilly for the whole drive home because you're forced to run the defroster. I would even settle for the "it's so hot that this is refreshing" type of rain, but this is not even close. There isn'’t even that saving grace that maybe the rain will make the humidity lift. Just like that stubborn storm system, the humidity (the humma-DITTY, as my radio DJ said this morning) is content to camp out over the east coast. Fabulous.

Thanks to that big fat streak of green, yellow, and red on the radar, I had the scariest commute home today. I usually get nervous about driving in the rain because I'm afraid that a) I might lose control because of the water on the road, b) someone else will lose control near me, and/or c) the people behind me will get so frustrated at me for driving below the speed limit that they'll try to pass me illegally and we'll all get into a terrible accident that'll leave people hurt or at least standing in the rain. Not that I have specific fears... This is how you know that it became scary rain: I used the highest setting on my windshield wipers.

I have never used the highest setting, ever. Somehow, I always felt better knowing that I had it just in case I needed it. I know, if I never used it, then it was like I was always using the highest setting... I know it doesn't make sense. It couldn't be avoided this time, though, because the regular medium setting was just not cutting it against the torrential downpour, and I could barely see the car in front of me, much less the lines on the road. I almost felt like I was flipping up one of those plastic boxes over the red buttons that launch big missiles in movies. The crazy-fast wipers definitely helped in the visibility department, but the frantic motion keyed me up even more; it made it seem to me as if the blades were panicking because they were moving so quickly, kind of like I do when I try to kick-box. Then, I heard an incessant high-pitched beeping noise, which freaked me out even more, because I know nothing about auto repair or behavior, and the last thing I needed is to be stranded somewhere on a country road in the rain due to mysterious beeping. After this paranoid train of thought ran through my brain, I realized that it was just the panicky wipers squeaking across my windshield. That was when the lightning and thunder started. Did I mention that I hate thunder, to the point where I actually begged JG to make me a soundproof room that could double as a recording studio? Agh. I was so relieved when I was finally home, especially without hydroplaning or frustrated motorists, and I was even able to turn down the windshield wipers back to regular.

My day wasn't all bad though; I managed to get a great parking spot at work, thanks to a funny old woman who flagged me down as I prowled through the lot. It was my second time circling for the line of spots nearest to my office -– yes, the rain was that bad! - and she waved at me as she walked to her BMW. Hallelujah! It was a bright spot in a day where I watched the sky go from dark gray to light gray, and back to dark again, and I was glad to take it.