Slapping My Forehead

This morning, I discovered that, in the midst of transferring documents in preparation for reformatting my hard drive, I somehow left out the folder that held all of the digital photos from the wedding. The ones from the photographer, our almost-photographer friend, and all the others that friends and family had sent us were sent to their doom in reformatting oblivion. To make matters worse, the carnage included a slideshow from the reception that was I compiled from photos from our childhood, dating relationship, and engagement. I planned on watching with JG for a significant anniversary, but that mood-lit plan faded as the realization took hold.

No. No!

It was a moment fit for a Homeric “d’oh” and a hefty chorus of “stupid, stupid, stupid!” I clacked away at a frazzled e-mail to JG:

So, I managed to delete all of the wedding photos. And the slideshow! I think we have backups of the photographer’s ones, but everything else is gone. I want to cry.

I was at work, so I couldn’t cry. Instead, my stomach developed a hollow that ached in a nagging, guilt-inducing way. I kept checking throughout the day to see if the folder had magically appeared, but of course, it didn’t. The computer only does what you tell it to do, which is not necessarily what you want it to do. It doesn’t intuit that you’d want to reserve a folder for the rare but significant times that you need some random item out of it. I’m irritated that I retained edited versions of a graphic that I used for the ceremony program but not the spreadsheet with people’s addresses. I am so stupid.

I feel somewhat sheepish that this has upset me so deeply because I wouldn’t assume that a loss of digital pictures would have that effect. The super-pragmatic imp in my brain says reasonably, “It’s not as though you lost something of value, you know. Like your car.” But, protests the rest of me, sentimental value is valuable! I can’t slap a price tag on it, but I’d still guard it carefully. I just didn’t realize that I had to, so I didn’t … now a lot of it is gone. Maybe that’s the point.

Thankfully, JG was understanding about everything and at least we found a backup of the expensive, professional photos, so it’s not all bad. I still feel like an idiot, though.

Monday's Moral

It was raining. It was a Monday. I was running late. I had to go out of my way and pick up coffee and pastries before I got in to the office. Needless to say, I was not in a very good mood. I got up to the counter, holding my company credit card, and the barrista (Is it barristo for a guy?) said, “Oh, we only take cash and check, but we have an ATM over there.” I gritted my teeth into a smile and muttered that I would be right back. My bank was in the same shopping area, so I ran out into the rain to use their ATM to avoid that pesky surcharge.

Upon obtaining the cash, shivering in line, and then paying for bagfuls of muffins, croissants, and the like, I noticed that the slot where my ATM card usually goes in my wallet was strangely vacant. I panicked.

This would be something I would do, like forgetting my Styrofoam box of leftovers at the restaurant or the address when I need to ship a package! What if someone took it? I have to call the bank and make sure no one is debit-ing up a storm!

I grabbed the food, ran through the rain to the car, and frantically clawed through my whole wallet and purse – no ATM card. I ran back to the machine, only to find a beneficent green light blinking under the words, Insert Card Here. I took a deep breath.

The bank wasn’t open at the time, so I went to my office, trying not to overreact. I talked it over with a co-worker, who was almost positive that the ATM has a security measure to suck the card back inside the machine after maybe 30 seconds, so I followed his recommendation to call the branch itself, and lo and behold! They had my card! I walked over to pick it up -

Me: Hi, I called earlier because I left my ATM card in the machine out front.
Teller: Oh, are you RA?
Me: Yes, I am. (goes to pull out license)
Teller: Okay, I’ll be right back. (leaves, returns with card) Here’s your card and have a nice day!

Close observers will note that not only did I not have to show my photo ID to verify that I was the holder of the card, I didn’t even have to state my own name. Any random girl could have walked in and ended up with the same result! And maybe I’m just paranoid and maybe it’s just that I have a shifty bank, but honestly. What did I learn? Don’t leave the ATM card in the machine.

But that’s probably common sense already. Or something like that.

It Seemed So Real

This morning, over breakfast…

RA: So, last night, I had a dream that we got robbed. We were doing something here in the kitchen, and these two mean guys walked right in and started raiding the Tupperware cabinet.
JG: I think that says something about your protectiveness about the Tupperware.
RA: Oh, whatever. So then I’m all, “What’s going on here?” And one of the guys whipped out a gun! Then you whisked me away –
JG: Rrrr! (flexing motions)
RA: – and crammed me into a closet…
JG: Oh.
RA: And then the closet turned into a room!
JG: Um…
RA: Then I heard all this rumbling outside and you had wrangled up the two guys!
JG: Rrrr! (more flexing)
RA: And then you threw them into the room with me!
JG: Oh, sorry.
RA: One of them called me “sweetheart” and I felt dirty. And then I woke up.
JG: (pause) I’m amazed that you can remember how dreams made you feel.
RA: Well, I think it’s because I dream in first person. I never watch myself do anything. How do you dream?
JG: … I didn’t even know someone could ask that.

Jiggety Jig

It’s good to be back. I enjoyed my swanky hotel room and eating out all week, but there is a certain charm to lazing on a comfy couch in a big hoodie. I also enjoyed 10 hours of sleep in my native time zone, without a jangling wake-up call and someone mispronouncing my name.

Even though I love our little house in the suburban neighborhood, I really savor my occasional, short visits to cities, especially San Francisco. I loved walking from the office to whatever restaurant my friends had chosen that was so different from my normal fare by virtue of being on the west coast. The brisk air on my face and slapping sound of my flats on the sidewalk made me feel more engaged and aware of what I was doing, as opposed to the zoning out that usually occurs during my commutes. I delighted in the conversation over dinner, mostly because I hardly ever have the chance to spend leisure time with my west-coast cohorts. I snatch up whatever opportunity I have, which resulted in a happy hour, a lunch, and three dinners during my three-day stay. Thai, Italian, crepes, and comfort food – I happily ate it all. I enjoyed the feeling of being active and mobile, since it’s easy for me to fall into a rather sedentary mode in my normal life.

Because my hotel was a bit of a trek from my office (thank you, Macworld), I saw most of San Francisco from the passenger seat of a cab, my stomach flipping and flopping as we rolled over the hills. In one particular ride, I realized that I wasn’t craning my neck to see where we were headed; I realized that the driver had simply removed the headrest for the seat next to him. I told him that I appreciated it because I liked to take in the scenery and he chucked, saying, “It’s the open floor plan model.” Ha.

It was a good trip.

After my ride pulled up to the house and I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I breathed in the mushroomy air that defines my little town. Ah, yes. Home again, home again.

I May Regret This

I have never been one to succumb to peer pressure. I was unapologetically geeky, even before geeks were chic, thank you very much. This time, though, I just can’t help myself.

Apparently, we’re halfway through a bloggy special occasion known as De-Lurking Week and many of the sites I frequent are participating by encouraging those who read and don’t comment to come out of the woodwork, resulting in a fantastic response. Some are being charitable while others are witty, but me? I’ve been reluctant to put out this invitation because, well, I’m afraid that no one out there is actually lurking and how sad would it be if no one was there to de-lurk? Is it pathetic that I wish there were lurkers, even if that word makes stalkers and other scary people spring to mind? While I’m jumping off this bridge with everyone else, I may as well admit that welcoming a pity de-lurk is not below me, in case anyone was wondering.

Let me just say: if anyone out there reads this site and would like to prove that I’m not in an empty room, that would be very nice of you and I would really appreciate it. You don’t even have to be an official lurker because I am all about the love. Plus, I promise to respond with a friendly e-mail and many thanks for humoring me by saying hi.

Hi!