Ranting Roogies

Corporate Babble 101

2008-10-09T15:39:00.003-04:00

I'll admit it, I'm a corporate hack. I use words like "innovation," "incrementalism" and "breakthrough" in my everyday language. When I try to explain my job, I have to translate the description that comes to my mind into words that people can actually understand.

BUT--

That doesn't keep me from laughing when I see other companies putting that kind of BS out into the world at large. Case in point:

This is the new "brand identity" for the recently merged Wendy's/Arby's group. Ok, it's not terribly offensive... doesn't really do anything for me, but I didn't running screaming from the image. Their description of how they arrived at it, however?

"The Wendy's/Arby's Group brand identity is designed not only as an acronym, but as a spiral continuum, maintaining the idea of continuous, flexible movement forward," said Margaret Wiatrowski, creative director, KCSA Strategic Communications. "The overall visual direction remains neutral by introducing entirely new elements to the combined entity, both formalistically and typographically. The two entities are symbolically combined through a mutual sense of innovation, authenticity and tradition."

Um. Whatever.

Proof of Beer Goggles!

2008-09-09T17:18:00.002-04:00

A recent study in the UK found proof of beer goggles...

In the study, volunteers were randomly allocated a drink – some with alcohol and some without. Then, both groups were asked to rate the attractiveness of 20 male and 20 female faces. Those who drank the alcohol scored the faces about 10 percent higher than the non-drinkers.

The real question is: how many dates can a 10% increase in your HQ (Hottness Quotient) lead to??

Are You My Mother?

2008-09-01T18:57:00.002-04:00

First--something of an apology.

An apology because I know I expend far too much digital energy typing tales of creatures that don't speak here on this (infrequently updated) blog. I'm sure accounts with actual dialogue would be a great deal more entertaining than my latest encounter with winged and four-legged creatures. But I do this for a few reasons:

1. I'm fascinated by animals and nature. Strange things happen there. Strange things that I think are worth telling other people about.

2. Being a single woman who lives alone with a dog--you tend to get a little more attuned to animals, spending a significant amount of time around at least one.

3. I believe animals do communicate. I'm not saying they have higher order thinking and can solve complicated tasks or anything, but I do believe in their own little animal ways, they are capable of telling the rest of the world what's on their minds (even if it's something simple, like FOOD).

Don't worry--I'm not to Amy Adams status just yet, conferring with chipmunks and ordering rats and pigeons to make my house sparkle. But my interest in the natural world probably isn't going to go away. Especially not when weird things happen to me.

Do you remember the children's book, "Are You My Mother?" It's this cute little tale (which I mistakenly thought was a Dr. Seuss book until I just looked it up on Amazon) about a baby bird who loses its mom and hops all around the neighborhood, asking other creatures if they might, in fact, be the bird's mother.

This SO just happened to me.

Casey and I were out on our walk. She was being particularly stubborn, trying to make it clear to me that she would rather be napping in the cool air conditioning rather than taking a few laps around the neighborhood in the 90-degree heat. But I wanted a real walk, and so every time she tried to make a beeline for the house, I pulled her back onto the path I wanted to take. She finally yielded and let me drag her up to the Katy trail.

When we walk on the Katy, Casey is not one to stick to the path itself, much preferring the weeds and brush alongside the path. I often find myself walking through thick grasses and muddy puddles to accommodate her sniffing along the fence line. And so that's where we were tonight, right up against the treeline, looking for grass or animals or whatever goodies she could find.

About 20 yards from where we hopped on, Casey was ambling happily along when some movement behind us caught my eye. I turned and saw not far behind us a tiny, baby squirrel, probably no longer than 7 or eight inches with a thin but bushy and quivering tail and bright, shiny squirrel eyes, staring up at me. I don't think I had ever seen a baby squirrel before and it startled me--even more so because it didn't seem to be afraid. Fortunately, Casey hadn't seen the runt and was still tracking whatever she was smelling up ahead. Not wanting to cause trouble (and knowing Casey's reaction to squirrels) I turned and kept walking.

Except the damn thing was following us.

No doubt about it, I turned and he stopped and sat up, looking at me, tiny hands in front of his chest and head cocked just so slightly. I stopped. Then it came running up behind us, right up behind Casey's back legs, so close he probably could have nipped her.

Not knowing what to do, I stopped. Casey, wondering what all the stopping and starting was about, stopped and turned as well, finally noticing her fan behind her. She lunged --but not menacingly and I was able to hold her back without much force. The little guy was not intimidated. He sat right where he had been, convinced he was in the right place.

Then he started to cry.

Seriously, have you ever heard a baby squirrel CRY before? It damn near broke my heart. It was this loud, high pitched bark that sounded like a cross between Casey's squeaky toys and a crow's caw. He opened up his tiny little mouth and barked at us, as if to say, "Help me! Help me! I'm lost!"

Not wanting Casey to take action, I decided to start walking again. I turned and saw he wasn't following, but wasn't moving, either. I had visions of the next dog on the path coming on him and swallowing him whole, in one tremendous gobble. I stood for a minute.

A group of three women came up, and saw the dog straining at the leash in the squirrel's direction, and then noticed the baby. "Awwww! It's so cute!" "Did it fall out of its nest?"

"It must have," I said. "It followed my dog like it thought she was its mother."

"Let's take it home!" "What should we do?"

Little guy, suddenly frustrated with all the attention, started to cry again.

"Awwwwww!!!" "Does its mother have to come get it? We can't touch it, right, or she'll kill it?"

"I don't know," I said. As one of the girls inched toward him, finally, he retreated off under a tree, where he at least would be hidden from other walkers and dogs. Satisfied, the women walked off.

Casey and I turned too, resuming our walk. I was surprised that Casey had been so calm. Even though she seemed curious, I don't know that she would have attacked the thing--but I was fairly sure that he was too young to know he should have been afraid.

It's a funny thing to think about--the idea that there is an innate innocence in every creature. That fear may be a learned behavior. That curiosity and trust are the natural responses of most living things, traits that must be unlearned through experience and exposure to the world.

I hope my little friend finds his nest and gets to live long enough to unlearn.

Damn it feels good...

2008-07-25T10:55:00.001-04:00

Some b-school humor for Friday, sent on by my friend VA (yes, she's from Duke).

A few lyrics NSFW.

Detox

2008-07-22T09:26:00.003-04:00

Do you ever get sucked in by infomercials? I do. There have been several that have gotten me--usually exercise equipment (Taebo; the bun & thigh rocker; some crazy small exercise ball I can't even remember the name of but popped within a month). I always want to believe whatever the cheesy exercise guru of the moment wants to tell me. "Tighter abs!" "Rock hard buns!" "Get fit while having fun!"

So when I met Tony Horton, it was instant love.

I was sitting in the nail salon, having a pedicure while sitting in one of those giant, comfortable massage chairs that they let you control. Having nothing to look at (other than my toes, of course) I ended up zoning out while staring at the giant flatscreen TVs mounted on the far wall. The program they had tuned to? Nothing other than an hour-long infomercial for Mr. Horton's newest program, 10 minute Trainer. A series of 10 moves in 10 minutes! You'll have a hot bod in no time! He's trained CEOs and grandmas with this routine, and look at 'em now! Who doesn't have 10 minutes!

Even the woman scrubbing on my feet knew it was a bad idea, shaking her head and clucking at me as I stared, mesmerized. Of course I bought it. (I won't say how much I paid for it. But at least I found the best price I could.)

This weekend, I finally decided it was time to bust out Tony's advice. One handy little thing he included, in addition to the videos, tension rope, door attachment and weight belt, was his "10-day lean jean program." It's essentially a 10-day diet and exercise regimen designed to provide you with the optimal balance of proteins and carbs that will maximize a short but intense workout period. He touts it as a great way to kick off a healthier eating and exercise routine. And so, like any good lemming, that's what I'm doing.

I'm into Day 2 of what I'm calling the Detox program (I've noticed that people react a little more favorably when you pose it that way instead of calling it a "diet"). I made it through Day 1--surprisingly--without having terrible pangs of hunger. There's something to this balance of carbs and proteins. I stood at a colleague's desk for 15 minutes and didn't once have an urge to grab one of the Dove dark chocolates out of her goody bin. I will say that once I got home at the end of the day and made my dinner, I started to crave everything except the food I was making--the banana on the table looked good, the box of crackers was calling my name, that last soda that I didn't get around to finishing before I started... But I resisted.

This morning, however, was different. The breakfast meal on the card was nothing less than my very first ever protein shake.

Worst. Thing. Ever.

This thing is so nasty that I'm still trying to choke it down almost a full hour later. In theory, it shouldn't be so bad... ice, milk, strawberries, vanilla flavored protein powder. But really, I think that powder gives it this extra barf factor, like licking the erasers after scrubbing a particularly dirty chalkboard. Seriously. I don't know how competitive athletes can drink this stuff. The worst part of it is, I think there is one of these things on the diet at least every other day.

It's going to be a long 10 days.

Sameness

2008-07-21T14:57:00.003-04:00

If you've ever heard me rant and rave about the innately generic culture that makes up this sprawling Dallas metroplex, feast your eyes on a commentary that couldn't say it any better. Although he goes on to argue that cities don't actually need a sense of identity... I'm not sure I agree. Consider this quote from the end of his article:

People, the vast mass of people, will live in more and more generic and mass-produced environments in fewer and fewer truly unique locales, because that's the relentless math of population growth, pollution and politics. A chicken in every pot and a unique code on every titanium tube.

I don't know about you, but that just sounds damn depressing to me. There's something about picturing everyone and everything as indistinguishable that just makes me extremely uncomfortable. It's kind of like going home and realizing that your hometown suddenly looks like every other hometown in the country--a mall with a JC Penney, a Cracker Barrel and McDonald's. Maybe a Hampton Inn or a Best Western. Are we supposed to be OK with that?

Granted, he calls himself a "refugee" from this, but still argues that sense of place or history really has no meaning. I couldn't disagree more. I think those elements are some of the keys to nurturing and driving culture and new ideas.

Maybe it's the wannabe creative in me, the one who sees people who look at the world differently and try to create a different experience, who believes that their refusal to conform moves us farther along. I don't believe that sameness is something we should strive for. Is Dallas really the view of the future? Homogenized, bland, uncaring?

I was listening to the radio this morning on the way to work. Just as I was pulling into the garage, one of the deejays was talking about her experience at the movies, and how things have changed. She reminisced about how fun it used to be to try to sneak in outside food--how we would bundle them up in our coats and purses and hope no one checked. But today, no one seems to care. She actually saw one woman walk up to the ticket counter and then into the theater--carrying a full, steaming pizza box.

What?!

No, it's not about the pizza. It's about this decline into people not caring what others around them do, even if it is their job to care. We're adopting this laissez-faire attitude about everything--our jobs, our personal lives, the broader community... We've gotten so comfortable with the status quo that people have forgotten (or been discouraged from?) shaking things up, trying something new. We're letting other influences drive our fates, dictate to us what we will wear, where we will shop, what we should buy, where we should live...

Is originality dead?

I know, of course, that I am as guilty as anyone in getting sucked in by American pop culture. I listen to the same music, watch the same TV shows, go out in the same Dallas bars and shop in the same stores. I'm not living originally, and I am as big a contributor to the death of our culture as the stereotypical Dallas dude down the street. But I can tell you this: I don't believe becoming invisible is inevitable, nor do I think it's something we should celebrate.

Dread

2008-07-18T09:32:00.002-04:00

There is nothing worse than the anticipation of a bad announcement. I've spent the last week tied up in knots over an impending "reorg" announcement here at work--an announcement that has started rumors and rumblings that my (new) job will change.

I feel like bad news is one of those things you'd rather experience like a band-aid--rip it off quickly, feel the sting, move on. Better to take you by sudden surprise. I think back to the employer who laid me off back in DC. I had heard nothing of a restructuring; in fact, the day I was let go was my first day back after a week's vacation. I had about a half an hour of warning that I was about to be called into a very, very bad meeting. I didn't have time to play through all the possible scenarios in my head, to torture myself about what might or might not happen.

But when you know something ugly is coming, it's incredibly difficult to brush it aside, to pretend you didn't hear it. I'm always struck by an insatiable desire to know what I don't know, to explain the uncertainty, to find clarity where there is only mist. And so I brood. And brood. And brood. And the worst part of it is, if the news ends up not being as bad as I had feared (and by my nature I almost always fear--or at least consider--the worst) then in some way it's tarnished, because in my head I've lived out the worst case scenario.

I admire those who are carefree, who can live without worry in a situation like this. Que sera sera, they say... and I know it is true, whatever happens will happen. But I just can't seem to stop myself from wondering what that might be.

Texting Your Way to Love

2008-05-19T11:09:00.003-04:00

If you identified with my post on texting, you'll love this.

Herd

2008-05-15T23:05:00.002-04:00

"Six minute folks, to the front. Six minute runners. Seven minute runners."

Should we move back? We might be too close. I don't run that fast, we'll get run over. We could just stand here on the side and wait for people to go by. There's the air horn, time to head off! Shoulder to shoulder, stacked on top of each other. Close to the starting line. Here's the timing pad, start running now! Wonder if my chip registered? Would just figure if it didn't, go through all the trouble to get one and then there's some software glitch. Focus now, gotta settle into a pace. Nice slow hill to start. I lost my friends... that's OK, this has to be my race. Should have brought my iPod, help set my stride. Listen to the crowd instead...

Humming, buzzing. Rhythmic footfalls, one-two, one-two, multiplied times 1,000. A cavalry of people. Heavy breathing, panting, echoes all around me. Idle chatter from a group of friends running together. Policeman on the corner, holding back a line of cars. Bet they're pissed, I'm toward the middle of the pack, they'll be there a while...

Mile marker one and I'm feeling good. Does that say nine minutes? Yup. That says nine minutes. Doing better than I thought. Feeling strong. Pick out a girl ahead, follow her. Dodging the boy in front of me. Blackburn hill ahead--this won't be so bad. Lean in, Sarah told me, lean into it and it won't be so bad. Halfway up, breathing harder now. Legs still moving. Made it up. Feeling strong. Very strong. Take it up a notch, huh? Pick out a new mark, the girl in the yellow shirt looks good...

Rounding the curve, almost to the Trail now. How far have we gone? Did I miss the mile 2 marker? Water stop, I don't need it. Let's hit the trail. Narrow space, running around people, dodging pets. Some unfortunate Trail walkers walking against the flow. A lot of us, a few of them. Guy in red shirt, he's got a good pace. Hm, cramp coming on. Breathe through it. In, count footsteps one two three four, out count footsteps one two three four. In...

Think my pace is good. Is that man running toward me already finished? And circling back the other way again? Damn, that's just unnatural. Pass over Lemmon, getting close to the end I think. Where will we stop? Passing on the left. Hit the soft trail, it's easier on your feet. I feel light as air anyway. Gliding along. Final time sign, three mile marker. Twenty five? No way. Tenth of a mile to go, turn it ON. Pump legs. I still have juice left, make 'em work for it. Push push push push...

Beeping, beeping, beeping, chips beeping as we all cross the finish line. My face must be red, keep walking, keep walking, get some water, deep breaths...

Legs tightening up a bit, lactic acid settling in. Should stretch. Can't. Too wound up. Ready to do the next one. Well, maybe not now. Endorphins pumping into my blood, euphoria taking over...

Smile, look around the herd. It's good to be alive.

Eeek Factor

2008-05-13T14:31:00.006-04:00

Some might call me squeamish. I don't really like the sight of blood, needles, medical procedures or general body goop. When they take my blood, I can't watch them do it, and once the needle is in, they must cover it or I WILL pass out just from looking it. I'm not a big fan of other kinds of grossout factors, either--I HATED the movie Jackass, I don't like bugs, I'm not a fan of snakes or rodents or other vermin. (While I am a fervent animal lover and have a healthy appreciation for "helping others," I suspect this anti-biology orientation is the primary reason I did not pursue a career in either science or medicine.)

While I may be easily grossed out, I am not, however, a screamer. I'm not the girl who screams at a pitch only heard by dogs and stands on a chair while creepy crawlies scamper around on the floor. Repulsed face-maker, yes. Surprised yeller, yes. Eye-shielder, of course. But screamer?? No. Until...

An incident last night made me an official one-leg hopping, girly-voiced screaming, hand-wringing freak.

I headed down to the gym last night after work for the first of a series of spinning classes. I had remembered to pack my bag in the morning with the essentials: gym shorts, sports bra, t-shirt, socks, sneakers. I hadn't used my bag for a few days, but didn't notice anything amiss as I loaded it up.

So imagine my surprise when I opened my bag and found a new friend inside.

Yes, that's right, the extra inhabitant of my gym bag was none other than a Texas-sized roach. For those of you who have never seen a Texas-sized roach, pinch your index finger and thumb together: the outline your hand makes is how big one of these babies is.

And it was inside my bag. In. Side. Crawling all over my stuff.

What else could I do? I screamed and threw the bag down. A colleague came to my aid.

"What's wrong?"

"There's a bug. In my bag. A big bug. BIG."

"What kind of bug?"

"BIG."

"Let me see it." She rustles around in my bag, as my little crawly friend tries in vain to find a new dark spot upon being exposed to the light. "Oh... that's a roach!"

More screaming.

"I'll get him." She proceeds to pick up my bag and jostle it around in the hopes he'll just fall out. Instead, he seeks shelter in my shoe. She dumps it on the floor, but he still won't come out. Finally she upends the shoe and out he tumbles, and as he races across the floor... SPLAT. (It's good to know not everyone is squeamish, but I'm going to think twice about walking barefoot in the locker room for a while.)

I don't know what's more disturbing in this situation: Roach crawls in my bag at home and gets shuttled to work, or roach crawls in my bag in my cubicle and gets shuttled down to the gym. Neither seems to be an attractive option. I'm planning a massive cleaning of both spaces and quite afraid for what I might find...

Outsourcing

2008-04-20T22:22:00.002-04:00

"Can I just give you guys control over my love life? I'll let you run the whole thing."

It was an innocent comment, made after several glasses of wine. I didn't expect them to take me up on it. But they did. And now, I am handing all control of my dating life over to my friend JB and her boy, B.

Their plan? Revamp (emphasis on VAMP) my match profile. They'll sort through e-mails and winks (while also sending out a few of our own) to identify guys who might be dateworthy. Then the plan is to get me out at least once a week with a potential suitor.

I know it sounds completely ridiculous, but once they actually started rewriting my profile, I figured, why not? I'm not doing so well on my own. Maybe other people can pick a better date than I seem to be able to do. It's kind of like free matchmaking!

Now, if only I could figure out how to outsource my work...

Days When I Don't Hate Texas (A Haiku)

2008-04-18T20:07:00.001-04:00

Sipping on white wine
Blue sky, expansive above
Patio weather

Wanna meet @ bar 4 a drink?

2008-04-14T21:52:00.002-04:00

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE MALE GENDER

Guys,

We're friends, right? I consider us to be friends. I mean, we've known each other a long time. We've been through a lot together. After that much time, you start to get to know and understand each other. Sometimes, you even start to see each other's bad habits in action. And as a friend, you have a responsibility to stop the other person from heading down a bad path.

That's why I'm asking you--no, BEGGING you--to please, PLEASE stop using text messaging as an appropriate dating tool.

You weren't always this way. We didn't grow up with this kind of technology. In fact, when we were kids, we had never even HEARD of cell phones or e-mail or instant messenger. It wasn't important. We dated the old fashioned way: face to face or over the telephone. And sure, it was nerve wracking. But we both knew pretty quickly if date conversation was going to be fluid or a total dud. You got a quick read on chemistry.

You know, I actually get why texting might be an attractive communication option early on in the dating process. It's quick and easy; no muss, no fuss. You can throw a quick message out there without a lot of thought or effort. It's less risky. If you get ignored, or worse, get a no, it's no loss--you didn't invest much.

That may be a great way to set up beers with the boys, but I'm here to tell you, it's not going over so well with us.

It's hard enough trying to feel out another person you've just met--trying to gauge their level of interest in you; trying to figure out who they are and what they're all about. The only useful thing I've found you can glean from a text message is, well, an understanding of their fluency in IM speak and emoticons. Humor? Sarcasm? Personality? Good luck.

Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned telephone? You know, the part of your cell that has a speaker and an earphone? Where you can hear the other person's voice? Their laugh? Where you can have a full conversation, where each person builds on the last thing the other said? Where you can make connections and find commonalities? And start to figure out what you might want to talk about in person?

Or even e-mail... Even there, you can take time to craft sentences and ideas that reveal a little bit about who you are. You can get a sense of the other person's intellect, their flair for words, their creativity. Hell, at the very least, you know that they were thinking about you enough to spend a few minutes writing down their thoughts.

But a handful of tiny lines on a screen that fits in your palm? Come on. Do you really expect that we're going to get excited about that? That it's going to make us intrigued, to want to get to know you more? That we won't know that you didn't put a damn bit of effort into it? Because, let's face it--you're not a girl. You didn't spend hours discussing with your friends exactly what to write and how to write it and when to send it. That's what WE do. And we know that.

But would it kill you to put in A LITTLE effort?

You know what, I challenge you. Find a girl--any girl--over the age of, oh, 28 or so, who wants to set up dates with a guy she doesn't really know over text. I've taken an informal poll, and I can tell you: the results are not in your favor. The good news is, we're not so stubborn that something like this will be a deal breaker. We'll still go out with you. But we'll be a lot more suspicious about you then we would be if you had called instead. You'll move from "sweet" to "sketch" in no time flat.

Here's the bottom line: If you say you're going to call, call. Text messaging doesn't count. Because the message your text sends--regardless of what it says--is that you're not THAT interested. And is that really a good way to start to get to know a nice, fun, cute girl?

C'mon. Man up. I know you've got it in you. It will only make you hotter. Trust me on this one.

Love ya,

Sarah D.

Sandwich!

2008-04-08T23:31:00.002-04:00

Casey and I ran into these little fellas (there are actually TWO there, but you can only see one because he was sitting on top of the other one) on our walk tonight. I'm not sure if they were injured or just sleepy because it was still daytime, but either way they were certainly not intimidated by the dog. When we first saw them, all three animals froze (the two racoons were sitting at the base of the tree) and stared at each other before I realized what Casey had found and dragged her off. She promptly dragged me back over about 10 minutes later and by this time, they had made themselves comfortable for a nap.

Talk about sleeping anywhere!!

A View Across the Sound

2008-03-31T17:27:00.002-04:00

So I'm sitting here in Seattle, in a hotel room that overlooks Lake Union. It's not the kind of day you usually think of in Seattle. The sky is blue, the sun is shining and the fluffy white clouds are concentrated mostly on the horizon. They are white, not gray. It's the kind of day--and the kind of view--that makes you jealous of a life you haven't chosen.

I was here a few weeks ago for work. I came out early and spent a day visiting with an old friend from my high school days and his girlfriend. They both seemed so comfortable, so relaxed... so integrated into a city that teems with laid-back ruggedness and outdoor sensibilities. It fit them. Or perhaps they fit it in the first place? I suppose it's like the chicken-and-egg theory: you never really know if your personality was meant for an environment or if it evolved because of it.

Apparently, in my friend's case, I foretold he was meant to be here.

"Do you remember?" he said. "When we were in high school, you always told me you could see me here, in the Pacific Northwest." I didn't remember, but it sounded like something I would have said. And who knows--if he's carried that memory this long (12 or so years), who knows what subconscious role it played in driving him here. (Not unlike the evil palm reader I encountered at a tender age of 23 who predicted I would marry a tall man with dark hair. I've had a weird obsession with dark-haired men ever since.)

I guess the point is that I seem to be much better at helping others see where they fit than figuring out where I belong myself. DC didn't quite feel right to me for whatever reason. Maybe it's because I was living in the suburbs and never got to truly live the city. Maybe it's because I hated talking about politics, and was getting tired of listening to others argue about it. Maybe it's because it was too "East Coast," where people don't have the friendly Midwestern demeanor I had grown up with.

But Chicago didn't seem to fit, either. Granted, living there while in school is a completely alternate universe: you have no life, so how can you be expected to enjoy the environment around you? I suppose I also partially (and perhaps unfairly) blame my relationship at the time. When I learned that he was unwilling to relocate from the place where he felt comfortable and settled, I felt guilty for contemplating a courtship with any other city that would effectively spell demise for us. (In the end, that proved to be the least of our issues. I might have been better off to forge a careless affair with the Windy City.)

And now I call Dallas my home. An expansive city with abundant sunshine but lacking in personality. A full year later, I am still struggling to find my niche--a social circle, extracurricular activities, things to do other than eat and shop. I could be premature in saying this, but I don't think it fits, either.

So instead I travel for work to cities all across the country, trying them on as one would evaluate a pair of pants. Is it beautiful? Do I look good in it? Are the people friendly? What's the vibe of the city? Are there fun things to do?

And if the answers are yes, yes, yes, high energy, yes... what does that ultimately mean for me? Is getting a "sip test" of a city really the way to evaluate its livability, and how you might fit there? And would I honestly want to move yet again, go through all of the pain of acclimating to a new place and to new faces again??

I just received an email from an old friend in DC who had exciting news--he's been accepted into a prestigious business school in Geneva. One of the bonds we've shared together is our constant struggle to identify what our lives should mean. What we should be doing, where we should be, where we belong. And now he has a direction, one he seems incredibly passionate about. I'm thrilled for him. Yet there is a tiny part of me that's jealous for that momentum, for that anticipation of starting over and starting fresh, using a new city to help build a little more of your character and etch your personality even more firmly into your soul. For adventure.

But an adventurous spirit does not a pioneer make. So for the time being, I’ll continue looking for my place in tiny slices—in glimpses from hotel windows or in clinking glasses in busy restaurants.

Someday, I know the pants will fit.

A bit of relief

2008-03-31T17:17:00.002-04:00

My official return after a lengthy writing hiatus... and I choose to, what else, pose an important question:

Why do they make the stall doors on the bathrooms in airports open in, toward the commode, instead of out into the aisle?

It seems to me like a problem solved by clever consumer insights. People at airports are travelers. Travelers have bags. Big bags. And it always requires an extensive degree of acrobatics to first, navigate said big bag into the stall, and second, to maneuver it into a corner so that you may shut the door and then reposition again so that you may sit on the toilet, not the bag. Once you have completed your business within the stall, you again have to cram yourself against the wall to fit your bag out again.

It's something that bugs me every time I travel. Wouldn't it make sense to ease this frustration for travelers? I suppose part of the airline experience is having to endure relief in tight quarters, but really, shouldn't that be reserved for the plane?

Happy Food

2008-02-03T20:09:00.000-05:00

I'm having one of those days where everything you eat... just makes you happy. I don't know about you all, but that doesn't happen very often for me. Too frequently, I go foraging in the fridge for a satisfying meal and come up with a random, eclectic mixture of what I have on hand just to fill myself up. Peanut butter and jelly tortillas, anyone? How about low-fat cheese spread on sourdough pretzels? Or a good old-fashioned lean cuisine?

But not today. This morning, after church, I cruised over to the grocery store. And instead of doing my typical cruise-the-aisles-to-get-just-the-staples, I decided to actually plan out some meals and purposefully buy some food. I actually had an urge to (gasp!) cook.

So when I got home, I sat down to a delightful brunch of eggs and bacon (I don't ever, EVER make bacon, so it was a special treat. I also bought a donut to fill the "sweet" portion of brunch, but we won't talk about that since I didn't actually prepare it.) For an afternoon snack, I had a mug of hot cocoa. And then for dinner, I mixed up my own version of Cosi's Signature Salad--mixed greens, pears, red grapes, dried cranberries, pistachios, gorgonzola and some cooked chicken with an olive oil vinaigrette dressing. YUM. Really.

Now, if only I can carry this motivation to cook into the week, we can make it more than one happy food day in a row...

I miss...

2007-12-29T03:05:00.000-05:00

...cities with real cabs. The kind where you get in and give him an address six or seven blocks from your current location, and he knows exactly where it is and how to get there quickly. The kind where he tells you the fare, and you give him a 20 and ask for 12 back (giving a very generous tip on such a short trip) and he actually has ones on hand to give you proper change. The kind where you don't feel guilty when you get out at the end of the ride.

Oh, and while we're on I misses, I miss real bars with real people, not barbie dolls with perfect hair and cakey makeup and the latest designer wear complete with the matching designer handbag. I miss places where you can go in jeans and a sweatshirt and still have the guy at the end of the bar give you a once over. Where the bartender sees you immediately and takes your order and you don't have to fight through six layers of cheesy 24-year-old men doling out lines about working for a diamond seller (y'know, because he's South African and everyone from South Africa must be in the diamond business) to get to the freaking bar. The kind of bar that doesn't emit girly screams because some dude who used to live in a nearby 'burb and now stars on some trashy teen drama (and looks like he wears makeup outside of the sound stage) decided to try it out for a night.

Yeah. It's been that kind of night.

Too LinkedIn?

2007-12-12T07:09:00.000-05:00

Is anyone else creeped out by the intelligence of the LinkedIn system?

I joined it years ago from the e-invitation of a guy I met randomly who was one of the best networkers I'd ever met. At 27, he was already a VP at his company and had hundreds of contacts in his "network." I joined but didn't touch the thing to start building my own virtual network until last year in graduate school. Mostly thanks to the size of my graduate school class, I've edged my network up to 63 people. But I am constantly amazed at the other people the system singles out as "contacts" for me.

Sometimes when you accept an invitation to link up from a friend or colleague, LinkedIn brings up a screen to suggest other people in the system that "You Might Know." Usually it's other people you graduated with or worked directly with at one of your various jobs. But every once in a while, a seemingly completely random name pops up.

For example: A few months ago, the "You might know" prompt suggested a friend in DC whom I knew somewhat informally through my softball league. We had no professional ties or connections... but somehow the system associated us and floated me his name.

Or, more creepily, today I logged on and that same screen gave me the name of a random boy I met online and went out on a date with.

Seriously? I mean, really? Is this system monitoring all your online activities? Is LinkedIn really Big Brother under a more friendly moniker? Or are we really all cosmically connected in more ways than we could ever imagine? Forget six degrees. Maybe it's more like 2 or 3.

What can Brown do?

2007-12-03T23:04:00.000-05:00

Another long neglected post... I painted my living room, oh, sometime around Labor Day. And I have yet to solicit feedback on the earthy brown color.

I'm not sure these photos do it justice. It's somewhere between caramel and pumpkin--a brown shade with an orange undertone. At first, I hated it. When the second coat went up and I sat down on the floor to admire my handiwork, I was horrified.

But now, I'm starting to get used to it--I don't mind it nearly as much. And I actually think that once I get around to putting some artwork on the walls, the color will be a nice complement to the rest of the room. My goal was to create a space that felt really warm and cozy. It's not perfect, but at least it has more character than the original color.

What do you think?? Should I change it again?

A Charlie Brown Christmas

2007-12-03T22:27:00.000-05:00

Well, a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, anyway. This weekend I went to a tree lot near my office.

"What do you have in really, really, really small trees?" I asked. Lo and behold, he had about a dozen mini-trees, hidden behind the sales shed. I picked my little one out and he threw it into the backseat of my car. And now I have a Christmas tree.

It's actually the first Christmas tree I've gotten on my own. And no, it's certainly not the beautiful, giant tree we used to go hunting for when I was a kid. But it's just the perfect size for all my ornaments. AND it fits in my condo--it's not even in the way.

Now I just need to figure out where to put my wreath...

Also

2007-11-28T23:31:00.000-05:00

Please note an addition in the Links section to the left... My former roomie, Joe Donatelli, who is perhaps one of the most hilarious people I know, has returned to the blogosphere after a long sabatical. He posts a weekly column with a smattering of other posts sprinkled in.

Check 'im out if you get a chance.

Particularly noteworthy is his classic "Kids' Table Manifesto." (Scroll down the page to see it.) If you have ever been separated out at a folding card table for a holiday meal, you will relate.

Sing!

2007-11-28T22:24:00.001-05:00

I had almost forgotten just how good it feels to sing as part of a group.

Almost.

After a few awkward practices with the church choir, I'm finally starting to feel a little more confident. The ability to hit the high notes is slowly returning to a set of vocal chords that have not had to stretch so much in more than 12 years. And as my sight reading improves, I'm beginning to put some support behind the notes, no longer minding if the singers around me hear.

But it's not the technical elements of singing that really bring me satisfaction--it's the sound of the full chorus--soprano, alto, tenor, bass--coming together in harmony that I love. Swallowed up in resonant chords, knotted dissonance and dancing melodies, I lose myself. I love being a part of something that fills every nook and cranny in a room in one second and carries along like a whisper floating on the wind the next.

The best part of being in the choir is that it's a full two hours every Wednesday in which my head is completely clear of mundane life details. There is no work, no stress over friends, no making to-do lists or obsessing about weekend plans. There is only music. Shiver inducing, dramatic and beautiful music.

And how could anyone forget how that feels.

Adventures in Dentistry

2007-09-25T23:20:00.002-04:00

Faithful readers and friends may know or remember that I actually like the dentist. In fact, I look forward to the clean-teeth feeling you get every six or so months. I inherited my mother's teeth, which are strong, white (for the most part) and healthy, and thanks to the hard work of my orthodontist, almost perfectly aligned.

But since I moved to Texas, I hadn't yet taken on the task of finding a new dentist.

It's a demanding role. My childhood dentist was a wonderful woman who told lighthearted jokes and always made me smile. The dentist I found in DC was another gem who always complained that I didn't give him enough work.

(We won't mention the brief encounter with the only school-insurance supported dentist in Evanston who strong-armed me into filing down one of my front teeth that had been chipped for years.)

The point is, finding the right dentist is important to me. I tried to do some research into my options, looking for the right practice. I finally settled on one that was very close to my office and had a number of dentists on staff, including some younger docs who would be more likely to be up on new and emerging tooth technologies.

Monday was my first appointment, and I have to say it was unlike any other dental appointment I've ever had.

First, they were slow in getting me in, so I was a little annoyed by the time the assistant came to take me for x-rays. But she was chatty and sweet, so she (and the current People magazine) calmed me down. When she came back into the room with the print outs, she commented on my teeth (very straight!) and said the I'd like the doctor.

"She's very nice," she said. I swear she said "she." But I still had the magazine open and may have only been listening with half an ear. So when I heard a male voice speaking to her--and then brush by the open office--I paid no notice. Until she leaned over to me and said, in that not-so-quiet-I'm-telling-you-a-secret-voice:

"He's single, by the way. Just so you know. A little tip for you."

I think I just laughed. And then in walked the single doctor for what was probably my most awkward dentist appointment ever.

He introduced himself. I stared. ("Oh! Um, I'm Sarah.") More staring.

Ok, I know, this isn't NEARLY as awkward as other stories I've heard about doctorly visits (I vaguely remember a DC-based story where a certain friend showed up for her annual with her female physician only to find the doc was on maternity leave and had left her cases to a hot, young, MALE resident. No thank you). But still--it felt a little strange.

Was she expecting me to flirt with him? (Never mind that I'm not entirely sure that is possible to do when someone has his hands in your mouth and you're drooling uncontrollably.) And furthermore, does this poor doc know that his assistant is pimping him out to clients? Isn't there some kind of code against doctor/patient pickups?? Do you think she does that with every female patient who comes in, or just the ones with good teeth?

As if I couldn't feel more uncomfortable already, he points out one of the boxes I checked on my new patient form.

"So you think you have bad breath?"

"Um, doesn't everybody?" No laughter.

The worst part of it is that they didn't even get to my cleaning, just my exam. So I'm going BACK on Friday. Although I think it's just with the hygeinist, so I won't have to worry about seeing Dr. McCleany. But he did recommend some procedure I'd never heard of and am somewhat fearful of. (Something about pockets and probing. Really, I don't think I want to know.)

They better give me a damn good goodie bag for this one.

Cue the Hallelujah Music

2007-09-21T22:15:00.000-04:00

My colleague T over at So Frugalicious posted a link to a site that may have just changed my life: myShape. They've broken women's shapes into seven different types (more detailed than "pear" or "hourglass") and you can find exactly what yours is by entering all your measurements.

PLUS you enter your fashion preferences--and they pick out ENTIRE OUTFITS that will flatter your body and fit into your style.

Seriously, I immediately wanted to buy everything they showed me. It's like amazon.com on runway acid. You must go. Immediately.

As a strange sidenote to this entry--I was so delighted on finding this site that I immediately opened up Blogger to create an entry. The headline that hit me was the one you see above. As I finished typing... the commercial that immediately came on featured bears dancing along the seashore to... the Hallelujah Chorus, of course. It's a sign.

It's genetic

2007-09-21T20:53:00.000-04:00

If you visit this site, it's probably because you know me. And if you know me, you probably know I can be... well... different. If you've ever wondered why, maybe this will help answer your questions.

Apple... tree... you know how it works.

Denim D'oh

2007-09-17T21:46:00.000-04:00

I've always been something of a frugal shopper. I can't help myself--whenever I walk into a store, I immediately gravitate toward sales racks and deals. I am enormously susceptible to sticker shock, which leads me to set strange limitations of what I will and won't pay for a particular piece of clothing. (One of my quirky rules: Tank tops and other shirts with a smaller quantity of fabric just should never be more than $50.)

This, of course, makes my more fashion-conscious friends nuts, as it tends to restrict on my fashion-forward potential. They argue that pieces you invest in last longer; I insist they underestimate my terrible laundering skills.

About a month ago, however, I made a decision to take a plunge and invest in a nice pair of denim jeans. I was frustrated with how the jeans I was buying (I don't think I've ever spent more than $40 for a pair) were losing their shape or simply unflattering on my body. My hope was that a nicer pair would solve both problems.

When I was in New York last month, I asked my travel buddy, JB, to help me pick out a pair of premium denim jeans. She has a phenomenal fashion instinct, and so she was more than happy to help me evaluate the different brands, cuts and fits. We hit Bloomingdales and I must have tried on 10 different pairs--and I hated them all. I felt extremely uncomfortable and gross. We tried several other stores and my feeling was still the same. (Not to mention, looking at the $150+ price tag gave me heartburn.)

But I wasn't ready to abandon my denim quest. I started researching options in Dallas for where I could go to find a custom fit. Turns out, work had the solution for me.

As part of my recent business trip to brainstorm new products, we were working with a company that helps you understand and process consumer trends and then to build solutions within your industry around those areas. Fodder for ideation comes from direct consumer experience, and they planned elaborate consumer visits for us. One of the visits for my team included a trip to a premium denim store. They offered to front cash for a willing guinea pig who wouldn't mind being fitted and then allow the rest of the team to essentially stare at his/her posterior during the fitting.

How could I not volunteer??

The salesman who fit me had a complete knack for picking out not only the appropriate size but also a flattering cut and fit. Though the first pair I tried on (which he picked out for me) made me squirm, the longer I spent in them, the better they felt. And pair after pair started to convey to me how jeans REALLY should feel when you wear them.

At the end of the session, the biggest problem I had was deciding which pair to get... so I ended up getting TWO, my freebie and one I shelled out my own cash for. I justified the purchase by saying that since I got two, the total cost was amortized across both, giving me a real cost savings.

The real test, of course, will come in the weeks and months to come: Can premium denim REALLY sustain the Sarah test??

50 First Dates

2007-09-14T00:21:00.001-04:00

Dating is like the age-old question: How many licks does it take to get to the center of the Tootsie Roll lollie pop?

(And stop thinking of this in dirty terms, you friends of mine with dark minds. I'm being clean here.)

Seriously, when thinking of the great wide world of dating, have you ever considered or wondered just how many dates or potentials you need to meet before you find someone that you make a connection with?

Almost two months ago, I decided that I had no one but myself to blame for my stagnant social life. Since going out is what begets more going out, I knew I had to do something to get the ball rolling. So I did the unthinkable: I joined match.com.

(and no, I'm not sharing my profile here with you. Those of you savvy enough to navigate the frightening waters of social networking can find me on your own.)

The experience hasn't been a bad one. To the contrary, I have met some very nice, genuine, cute boys. But I just haven't found the connection. Or even A connection. You know what I mean, the little zing, the spark, the butterflies--the zsa zsa as Carrie on Sex and the City called it. And the thing is, when you're meeting a lot of people and coming up empty handed, the finger of doubt immediately goes pointing back at you. Am I too picky? What's wrong with me that I can't connect with this person or that person? Am I looking in the wrong place or in the wrong way or is it even that I look wrong??

I was talking with my friend JB about the issue, and she raised a good point: Everyone--on both sides of the dating equation--deserves to find someone who feels the zsa zsa in return. And if it isn't felt on one side, it isn't an indictment of either person, just an indicator of broken or missing chemistry. It's no one's fault, it doesn't make you a bad person or the other person "unworthy"--just not a good fit.

And so you keep on meeting people until finally you find the zsa zsa.

The answer to the question, in case you were wondering, is that it all depends on the Tootsie consumer. One person may diligently slurp, shrinking the candy one microscopic layer at a time, while another circumvents the system altogether, biting into the crispy shell and going straight for the surprise inside.

I think I'm somewhere in-between, so I guess I'll just keep at it. Sooner or later, I'll get to the gooey center.

Collision

2007-09-09T22:31:00.000-04:00

Feeling guilty on Saturday morning about the previous night's eating and drinking binge (at least the eating held off the hangover), I decided to burn off some calories on the Katy trail. First, I took Casey for an extended walk that wound us off and on the trail (her choice, not mine. It's no coincidence that I regularly have passersby ask me, "Who's walking whom?") When we got back, I still had plenty of energy and it wasn't too hot yet, so I decided to dig out the rollerblades and go back to the trail.

But no walk is complete without some sort of conflict with the various forces of nature, be they snails sunning themselves dangerously on the trail, birds or other forms of animal life anxious to meet up with you. On Saturday, it was the squirrel.

One might say that I actually already have a strong curiosity about squirrels. Blame it on the dog, perhaps, with whom I've patiently waited as long as 15 minutes while she stalked some poor innocent squirrel in a tree. But then, they aren't always so innocent. I remember one squirrel in particularly who was so pissed that Casey was waiting for him at the base of the tree that he barked at us nonstop for five minutes before (getting us lots of strange looks) before I dragged Casey back down the trail.

Anyhow, as I headed out on my blades, I met one such high-maintenance squirrel.

Have you ever seen the movie Ice Age? Do you know the neurotic squirrel in that movie that spends the whole film obsessing about getting an acorn for himself? I swear this squirrel was related.

As I was picking up speed, a squirrel suddenly darted from the opposite side of the trail straight into my path. Now, there are brakes on rollerblades, but these ain't no high-performance engine that stops on a dime. And though I wasn't particularly interested in a squirrel-skate collision, there wasn't much I could do. I plunked down my heel as hard as I could.

The little guy, sensing he was about to get squished in a most uncomfortable way, screamed (yes, screamed). And even though he had pretty much made it out of my path, he dropped his acorn and zigged back across the path from where he came, hooting and hollering the whole way.

Realizing I was out of the clear, I laughed out loud. Apparently, the little scene was witnessed only by me, because my fellow trail-goers looked at me as though I were insane, laughing while skating with no iPod or cell phone attached to my ear. (And not that I would blame them with the number of crazies I've seen myself on the path.) But still, what I would have given to know what that looked like from another point of view...

Nature. We're best buds.

From the files of "Only In Dallas"

2007-08-30T20:37:00.000-04:00

Continuing a trend from yesterday's post. There's never a shortage of Texas/Dallas quirks, I suppose.

When I drive to work in the morning, my route takes me through the edge of Highland Park. For those not familiar with Dallas, Highland Park is the part of Dallas so ritzy that they didn't even want to be part of Dallas, so they incorporated themselves. We're talking median home price of $1.6 mill and cop cars that are actually navy SUVs instead of small, white sedans.

It was actually just such an SUV that gave me a start this morning. As I pulled up to a red light at an intersection, I noticed the signature vehicle parked at the light going the other way. Because this particular intersection is at an angle and on a hill, I had a perfect view in through the driver's side window to the officer behind the wheel.

The officer was a woman and wearing some kind of uncollared, sleeveless tank top. Now, I have nothing against anyone opting for cool, especially in the Texas heat. But it was a very mixed message--big, formal police car; incredibly informal, soccer mom-looking driver. Wouldn't you want your police officers to look, I don't know, meaner?

When Wild Dogs Attack

2007-08-29T21:39:00.000-04:00

So I'm driving home from work, on my way to pick up my poor pooch who has been living at the doggie hotel this week while I gallivant around the country. I'm in downtown Dallas--actually, the "Oak Lawn" area, which is a nicer emerging neighborhood. I am at the corner of a fairly large intersection, waiting to turn left.

Across the road, I see a dog, then two, then three. The dogs all look similar: brown fur, long, sharp noses, tall, pointy ears. They are poking around the hedges at the corner, which help enclose a small parking lot for the business there. I strain my eyes, looking for their owner, as these well behaved dogs are not on leashes yet seem to be quite restrained and well behaved.

As I pull into the intersection and begin to turn, a puppy who looks like the dogs emerges from the hedge near the road. I get a full view of five dogs, one very pregnant, standing tall with not a single human in sight and not a dog collar to be seen.

Wild dogs?! In Dallas?! I didn't know such a thing actually existed in real life.

Random.

New York State of Mind

2007-08-19T23:50:00.000-04:00

Flying over New York City this morning took my breath away. Truly. As we broke through the clouds and I looked down on the hundreds of buildings, packed together in city blocks that stretched as far as I could see from my tiny plane window, I realized it was the first time I had flown over the city since I was a little girl.

I see why people are addicted to this place. It crawls with life and energy even from 10,000 feet.

Today's rain kept the air cool--not like the typical August weather you would expect on the East Coast. It was refreshing. My friend JB even remarked that it felt like fall in the city. It was the kind of day that begged for a comfy sweater and a pair of boots.

And the city...

I suppose there's nothing more energizing then feeling like you're connecting with someone, whether you're in your own backyard or a thousand miles from it. That in itself is inspiring. Certainly enough to kick the energy up a notch.

Of course, there's also something comforting about being in a place with ties. Whether they are memories of your own or simply the sensed presence of a close friend who calls a place their home. Their aura lingers everywhere. Is felt nearby even when they are not. Gives a feeling of safety and comfort. It's almost like picking up a t-shirt that your boyfriend wears, his scent still lingering in the fabric. You put it only and instantly feel soothed.

Who would have expected that in a city so big and unfamiliar?

Wide Load

2007-08-15T23:17:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about wide things lately--mostly because the 10 pounds everyone told me I would gain when I took this job has come to fruition (or near fruition, anyhow, before I decided to take evasive action and actually hit the gym and stop sampling product at work). But the theme keeps coming up over and over again. I offer two random examples as evidence of my dementia:

Everything's Bigger in Texas--Except the Lanes. Okay, this one isn't so much about being wide as it is about being narrow. For some reason, I feel like the highways here in Texas have much narrower lanes than I've seen elsewhere across the country. The problem is particularly exacerbated because most people drive SUVs and trucks--the biggest Dallas money can buy. So as a little Ford Focus on the road, I often feel crowded and have the sensation of being run right off the pavement and into the wall. It's kind of like the feeling of driving on a highway where there is construction, so the shoulder is gone and there is a barrier wall on the other side--and you've ended up next to a semi that's taking more than his fair share of space. This is one situation where a little junk in the trunk might be advantageous.

Chubby Knees. So as part of my resistance to the work bulge, I've been paying extra attention to places of my body that seem to be expanding. And you know what I've decided? Knees can be one of the most unattractive body parts. I somehow have ended up with knees that are blocky, choppy, and downright chubby. You didn't know knees could be sexy? Look at all the women who have really good legs. The knee always seems to blend in with the rest of the leg. But for some of us, the knee is a giant stopping point, breaking up the line of the leg with this bulbous mass. Characteristic we're born with? Or do knees actually gain weight?

Revived!

2007-08-05T22:20:00.000-04:00

Ok, I don't know that I'm actually revived--I've been traveling like a circus carney--but I am, at least, returned to the blogosphere. I've been handing out excuses for not writing: tired, too busy, cranky... but I suppose they all are really nice ways of saying LAME. When even your parents complain (nicely) that you're being lame, you KNOW you're being lame.

So here it is, as promised--my first blog entry in months. Since I don't have anything particularly enlightening to share with you all (I am, after all, still very cranky), I thought I'd show a few new pics. Since my last post, I have painted my bedroom and purchased new bedroom furniture. I've also added a few new decorative touches to the living space, so I've captured those in a couple of photos, too.

Follow the link on the picture to the full set--I've tried to put in a few "before" and "afters." Yes, I know they're not that different... but I'm working on it. I have a paint color purchased for the living room, I just need to get someone to come over and do it!!

Other plans in the works... patio furniture (I have a grill and a firepit but nowhere to sit. Fortunately, it's too hot to sit outside right now anyway.) A bakers rack for the corner of the "dining room." Furniture for the back bedroom, including an armoire, a queen-sized futon that pulls straight out, a tufted ottomon with zebra stripes, and a plush rug. That should take me until about... oh, 2010 or so.

Enjoy the pics. I'll think of something witty and fun to talk about shortly.

Happy Birthday Sarah!

2007-05-18T10:47:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the 30s!

Mint Chocolate Chip

2007-05-10T23:24:00.000-04:00

I painted my bathroom. It's green. Very green. The color is called "rejuvenate," but I'm thinking that instead of being the soothing color it was intended to be, it leaves me feeling a little... well, nauseous.

It's ok, I'm adjusting. But I'm tackling the bedroom on Saturday. The color this time? Porpoise.

Oh my. Stay tuned.

Incoming

2007-04-28T12:19:00.000-04:00

Nature has gone crazy.

I'll set the scene: Casey and I are enjoying one of our two daily walks. We're near the end, not exactly dragging our feet but not walking at the breakneck pace we typically begin with. It's a route we walk quite often, in a high pedestrian traffic area. We're walking along in the middle of the sidewalk, minding our own business.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a bird swoops down close to my head, dive bombing me so closely that I feel its feathers brush up against my cheek and hear the rush of air under its wings. It flies up to a high perch before then swooping again, this time to buzz Casey, who isn't nearly as startled as I am.

What the?!

This has happened twice. In one week. Two different locations.

The first time, I figured we had just walked too closely (on the sidewalk?!?) to the bird's nest, though I didn't see one in the meager tree we happened to be strolling under. But the second time--we were in a more urban area, a business district on a very busy street. And that bird was seriously P.O.'d.

I guess it's better than the alternative of being randomly pooped on (which has happened to me before--twice). Still, I think nature might have turned on me.

Black and Blue

2007-04-27T12:35:00.000-04:00

In the hopes of expanding my social network here in the Big D, I joined a softball team. The result? Blue shins. Or perhaps I should say Shin, singular.

It's no secret I'm not a particularly gifted athlete. Though I managed to hold my own as a swimmer in high school and a functional ultimate frisbee player in college and my early adulthood, it's always been a challenge to amp up my level of aggression to go all out in the pool, on the field etc. The fear factor increases exponentially for me as you introduce flying objects (ball, disc, etc.). Although I "played" softball as a kid, I stunk and never made it past the JV squad before deciding that maybe just being the manager of the team was sufficient for me.

When I lived in DC, I got involved in the Capital Alumni Network sports clubs, including softball. I loved it. My team was full of fun, energetic people (most of them from OU as an added bonus) and we were halfway decent. Fortunately, our coach recognized my mortal fear of the ball and tended to play me in positions where I could do the least amount of damage. This was typically catcher--and on occasion, second base. So I should have been comfortable there on this new team.

Except my first game out, the opposing team hit consistently between first and second. And after the third or fourth ball went through my legs, I decided to get tough. The next one bounced off the ground and hit me smack dab on the front of my shin. Not only did it hit me, it hit me with the stitches, leaving an inch-long, stitch-shaped gash. The skin didn't bruise visibly, but it hurt a hell of a lot and felt like a bruise.

The best part of all this? I have been hit in the SAME DAMN SPOT every game since.

It's nearly summer, shorts and skirts are all the rage, and I'm sporting a blue shin. It's not bad enough that I have cankles already; now one of them looks like a trauma victim.

I'm considering shin guards. Anyone have some to spare?

Dallas: A Quarterly Review

2007-04-25T23:24:00.000-04:00

So I've been here for three months this week--officially one quarter of a year. Wow. In some respects, the time is flying by. In others, it seems to crawl agonizingly along the floor.

Whenever I go out and meet new people, they always want to know: "So how do you like Dallas?" And of course, I know the polite answer is, "Oh, I love it, it's such a nice city." But in a not-so-politically correct way, I find myself answering, "I'm not sure yet. It's still growing on me."

And it is.

It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be to plug inn down here and reinvent myself. It was a bit ridiculous, I see in hindsight, to compare this experience to moving to DC at 22. Falling into a group of early 20-somethings, most of whom were also new to the city and eager to create their own network, was a cinch there. You only had to go out to one happy hour and you suddenly had 10 new friends to include on your next eVite.

But coming to a new city mid-career is more of a challenge. Many of the others my age are already settled with spouses and children. Those who aren't have a ready made network of the friends they made at 22. Getting "in" isn't like it used to be.

Tonight, however, I took my first real stab at creating my own network. I had a dinner party. Something I haven't done since I left Washington. With a colleague co-conspirator, we rallied a group of six (counting me) to make Wednesday dinner club night. I made chicken parm, the guests brought wine, apps and desserts. We ate too much, drank too much, and joked about everything from American Idol to Texas tornados to the Dallas crime scene and lack of police support.

It was one of the best evenings I've had since I came here.

It's a small start, but a big step nonetheless. Less hermit, more butterfly. Not fully winged and spectactular just yet, but starting to break through the cocoon to see the light. No matter that the group in the room was completely comprised of schoolmates and co-workers. I was just happy to be surrounded by people and comfortable chatter. The kind you've come to expect when you've found a place to fit.

There may be hope in this town after all.

You Know You're a Texan When...

2007-03-26T17:50:00.000-04:00

You are certain it is just too far to walk two and a half blocks to the convenience store around the corner--so you drive instead.

Alone Star

2007-03-12T21:33:00.000-04:00

Since I moved south, I've found myself surrounded by a stream of friendly faces.

They say that Texans by nature are an affable bunch, but I didn't really understand how true it was until the relocation. Everywhere you go, people are anxious to chat.

At the video store, other patrons feel compelled to share their opinions of the movie title you and your friend are evaluating.

In the wine shop, others aren't afraid to needle you for attempting to carry one more bottle than you can actually hold.

At the bar, other girls who see you sitting alone with a cocktail feel comfortable reaching out to invite you into their conversations.

And the friendly demeanor follows you in any direction you go. Heading south down to Austin, we found sandwich shop workers who were anxious to help guide you in selecting the perfect ingredients for a delectable sandwich. Stopping over in Louisville, we found cab drivers who were so eager to serve as impromptu tour guides that we left with a paper full of restaurant suggestions and points of interest.

Friendly talk, it seems, is the standard currency.

The weird thing is that for all that talk, it's still difficult to convert it into more meaningful dialogue--the kind that can be the start of a real conversation, sowing the seeds for some kind of friendship. Banter? Of course. Idle chit chat? Definitely. Flirting? Maybe, depending on the mood. Making new friends? A harder connection to make.

I haven't yet figured out how to bridge it. When is it appropriate to try to make a friend--without seeming completely desperate? Are there limits to friendly exchanges?

After living in DC for so long, and then having a ready-made network at graduate school, it's like I've forgotten how to meet new people. And I realize that part of it is just part of getting older, too. In talking with some of my former school colleagues, I'm seeing that many of them are experiencing the same strange discomfort of plugging into a new job, a new city, and a new circle much harder to navigate than it used to be back in our college years and early-20s exuberance.

And then there's the challenge of trying to ensure that as you're searching for this new circle, you don't forget the old one. My good friend T back in DC sent around a link to a column in the Washington Post that hit the nail on the head:

You collect friends throughout your life who cross over into the category of family. The circle grows. You change, or you move, or you have kids, and a new circle forms. It doesn't replace the old one. It's just another one. This keeps happening. Plus, if you're lucky, you have your actual family -- which grows to include nieces, nephews, in-laws. How are you supposed to maintain all of these relationships? Most of your days are filled with neighbors -- co-workers and kids' teachers and coaches -- all those people you are busy being polite to. How do you find the time to keep up with the people who matter most when the people who simply matter fill your days?

I would even take it one step past that--When most of the people who simply matter are no where near you, how do you find a way to make things matter again? How do you move forward without forgetting to look backward?

I suppose being in a friendly place is a good first step. And keeping the phone and computer handy is a solid second. For the rest... I'll have to keep you posted.

Mmm Mmm Good

2007-03-08T21:31:00.000-05:00

It's the quintessential corporate perk--the vendor lunch.

Since starting work at the end of January, I have had the opportunity to sit in on at least five vendor lunches. And these aren't just one- or two-person lunches, they are full-on feasts with my entire team, plus several reps from the hosting vendor. I have to say I don't look back and miss my nonprofit days.

In any case, today the visiting reps took us to Fogo de Chao--the well known churrascaria joint. I had heard about these restaurants but never actually been to one, so it was definitely a treat. For those who have never been, here's a quick rundown of how it works.

There are no menus. You come in to the restaurant, they put you at a table. If you wish, you can go help yourself to the ginormous salad bar--choosing from fresh greens, grilled and pickled miracle-grown veggies, and prepared cold salads.

Then you sit at the table. In front of you sits what looks like a coaster. But it's not a coaster, it's your feeding indicator. One side red, the other green. When you're ready to sample entrees, you flip it to the green. Then attractive Brazilian men bearing huge skewers of meat (from beef to chicken to lamb to pork) walk up to you, offering you samples. If you agree, they slough a hunk off onto your plate.

Once you have had enough, simply turn your feeding indicator to red. Stop.

The problem is it's hard to balance trying what you've already taken with monitoring what's still coming around and trying to have table conversation without being offered more meat every minute. So you turn your card to red, to eat what's on your plate. And while you're red, they come around with the sweet, delicious ribs you really wanted--and now you've missed them.

And as my boss pointed out, it's really hard to decide when you're finished. Even with a full belly, resisting the smell of the meat as it walks from table to table takes great self-discipline.

Did I mention it's a lot of meat? It's not exactly a place I would recommend for a business lunch. It was particularly difficult to go back to the office and try to work after consuming so much protein. I don't know how Atkins dieters do it.

The Bachelorette Pad, Take 1

2007-02-24T00:21:00.001-05:00

Entry
Originally uploaded by dahlbes1.

OK, I know I've been negligent here. And I promise that I'm going to get my act together and post a real post soon. But in the meantime, enjoy these photos of Phase I of my new place.

Decorating is still underway, and several rooms are still lacking important furniture. Work in progress, I say. My focus was the living room first... I'll get to the rest of the house eventually. Actually, I'll feel a lot better once it's more decorated. Right now it still feels a little sterile.

If you have a grand talent for decorating, I'd love to hear your thoughts and ideas.

The sweet smell of laundry

2007-02-11T20:35:00.000-05:00

I did laundry today.

That may seem like an insignificant, everyday thing, hardly worthy of blogging about. But it wasn't just any old laundry--it was MY laundry. In MY washer and dryer. In MY condo. While clothes and towels were tumbling quietly in the other room, Casey and I sprawled out on the futon in my living room and took our first official Dallas nap.

It's been a week now since I settled into the new place. I'm still having trouble believing this is all really happening. Wasn't it just yesterday that I was sitting in database class, talking about cluster analysis? I would swear it was last week that I was going through orientation with Renee, my new roommate, worrying about school and what kind of jobs we would get when we were finished. And it was last month, not two years ago, that I was comfortably lounging in my tiny living room in Virginia, watching TV and dreaming of graduate school.

In the blink of an eye, my whole life has changed.

What's been really funny for me is beginning to meet new people. The first question out of everyone's mouth is, "where are you from?" I haven't figured out how to answer that question just yet. Do I say Chicago, the place I spent a year and a half and barely knew? Should it be DC, the place that truly was home for six years? Or is Ohio the right answer, the place most responsible for who and what I am today?

And now it's time to embrace a new city and state. How long before Dallas is "home"? I still feel like a visitor walking into my house. Part of that is certainly the fact that it isn't even fully furnished yet--which admittedly is going to take me a while. Maybe once I get the couch in and the cable set up, it'll begin to feel more cozy.

Even the dog has had a hard time getting comfortable. She spent most of our first week holed up in my bedroom, sleeping lazily on the bed. Granted, this is also the room that offers her the best vantage point in the house. But still, she just seemed a bit out of sorts. Unsettled.

Fortunately, that's not how I've felt. Feeling fully moved or not, I am definitely at a high point right now. Yesterday, I was out walking Casey, looking around at the shops and restaurants in my neighborhood, vowing to try everything at least once. And suddenly, the thought struck me: I am happy. For the first time in a long time, I am truly, unabashedly happy. I'm not worried about where I'm going or where I'll have to be. I'm not worried about finding a job or getting into school or even who I'm going to go out with on Saturday night. I'm not lonely (though I'm sure there will be days when I do feel that) and I feel entirely content sitting in my house, simply enjoying the fact that I've come so far.

And yes. I'm even loving the smell of laundry. Because it is the smell of accomplishment.

T-Minus...

2007-01-30T18:20:00.000-05:00

...16 hours until I become an official homeowner.

Gak!

Shiny and New

2007-01-26T19:11:00.000-05:00

"Welcome to Texas," the woman behind the counter said, smiling as she slid my temporary driver's license to me. It was the first time I had heard an official welcome.

"Thanks!" I said, smiling warmly back.

It had been a day full of running around, trying to do all the things that would make me an official Texan. It was good to hear someone say they were glad to have me.

The process of becoming a Texan is quite complicated; not the typical one-stop shopping you can find in other states. No, there are specific steps in a particular order you must follow exactly.

1. Get your car inspected. I went through this when I lived in Virginia--a dual safety and emissions inspection. After locating the name of an accredited garage, I set out first thing Wednesday morning. Though the garage was small and beat-up (and appeared to cater primarily to the Latino community), they seemed glad to have my business.

I was surprised when the man behind the counter came back with my inspection form, all smiles, and promptly told me I had failed the safety part of it.

"What?!" I said. "What failed??" Apparently, the lights on my license plate were not working. He told me they could fix them, but after getting into the trunk to remove the bulbs, he realized they didn't have that size in stock.

"It'll take about a half an hour to get them here," he said.

"I'll wait," I said, wanting to get through everything that day.

So I waited. And waited. The part actually took about an hour to deliver--and then a five minute installation. An hour and a half out the door, but at least the car was ready for step 2.

2. Transfer your title and register your car in Texas. This is done not at the DMV as in most states, but at the county tax office. My realtor tipped me off to a satellite office about a fifteen minute drive from where I was staying.

When I walked into the building, I was shocked to see the lines were fairly short. Score! I thought. I approached the information desk, got all my paperwork and took a number. They called me just five minutes later.

The highly efficient staffer processed everything in about ten minutes. She told me the cost and I began to write out a check, but stopped mid-draft.

"Uhhhh...." I said.

"What's wrong?" she asked me.

"I grabbed the wrong checkbook." Right now, I have two checking accounts--my school account, that is virtually empty, and my primary account, which has the cash in it. I had stuck the school portfolio in my purse when I left.

The woman looked down at my check.

"We don't take checks from out-of-state banks anyway," she said.

Very nicely, she agreed to hold onto my tags and title application while I made the 15-minute trek back to the hotel to get the correct one. Another half hour drained.

Fortunately, when I returned, I walked right up to her and finished the transaction, walking away with a shiny pair of Texas plates.

3. Apply for your driver's license. The really weird thing about getting registered in Texas? They don't ever ask for any kind of verification that you actually live there. Oh sure, you have to furnish standard documents like an existing license, social security card and proof of insurance and Texas registration for your car. But no one ever asks for a bill with your name on it, a lease, or any of those other kinds of documentation that are typically used to prove you are, in fact, a resident.

The driver's license trip was fairly uneventful, aside from the fact that it was in the middle of BFE, hidden in a strip mall with no visible signage from the road. But I managed to find it using my crafty navigation skills. And I walked away with my temporary license (they have to mail you the real one in 4-5 weeks. Hope I don't get carded any time soon).

With my transformation to Texan complete, I figured I should take care of one other lingering car issue--a toll tag. I made my way over to the toll tag store and the car was completely outfitted.

As I drove back to my hotel, feeling smug for having completed so many major tasks in one day, I decided to stop at a couple of furniture stores to browse. First, Pier 1; second, a store full of chunky, rugged hand-made $3,000+ pieces that looked as though they belonged in a rodeo.

Feeling very out of place, I nearly ran out of the store and vaulted myself into my car. Throwing the keys into the ignition, I realized... they wouldn't GO into the ignition. In fact, they stopped halfway out.

Something similar had happened to me earlier in the fall, but with a little patience, I managed to ease them in. No such luck this time.

Remembering I had a can of WD-40 in the trunk, I popped the back and retrieved it. I sprayed just a little onto the key. After a little coaxing, the key went all the way down, but it still wouldn't turn.

I tried everything. I tried turning the wheel very hard. I tried using both hands. Jimmying it a little. Everything. But it was stuck. So after my day of victory, I did the only thing I could for my little car--I called a tow truck.

The driver (who was just a little too giddy at my misery for my taste) decided that I didn't need to go to a garage, so he dropped my car off at my hotel. After a five minute search for a locksmith's number he swore was in the truck somewhere, he gave up and told me to get the yellow pages.

It turns out, ignition switch failure is fairly common in the Focus. Fortunately, I found an all-night locksmith who came out and took the lock apart and put a new one in. Now it works like a knife through butter.

In the end, I can't really complain. Everyone I encountered was extremely nice, even when I was contemplating doing a little tire kicking on my car. And really, that makes all the difference.

It made me proud to be a brand new Texan.

Pecker

2007-01-18T15:43:00.000-05:00

I was sitting at the computer desk in my parents' house when I heard it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It sounded almost like someone was tapping at the glass on the windows in the room. Startled, I looked around to see what it was. Nothing. But the noise persisted. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Must be a tree branch hitting one of the other windows, I thought. I got up and went into the bathroom and peered out the window. No tree was close enough to the glass, but the tapping noise was even louder. I went over one more room into my brother's old room, where the noise faded a bit. It must be hitting the bathroom wall, I thought.

Heading back into the bathroom, I put my forehead against the glass and craned my neck upward.

There he was, a tiny little woodpecker, perched on the TV antenna, hammering away at the eaves of the house.

"Hey!" I said, rapping swiftly on the glass. "Hey!" But he went on pecking, undisturbed. I banged harder. "Hey!" At one point, he looked down to see where the banging was coming from, and then resumed his pecking.

I quickly pulled on my boots and headed outside. As I came around the corner of the house, he saw me and flew away. Looking up just under the roof, I saw he had already done some work--there was a hole with a diameter of about an inch and a half.

I came back inside and sat down at the computer again, but not five minutes later, he had returned. Tap. Tap. Tap. This time, I opened the bathroom shutters and pushed the window open to shout at him.

When Dad came home just shy of an hour later, I broke the news.

"Did you know you have a woodpecker working on your house?" I said. "No!" he said. "Must be the one that used to be in the tree we cut down out front."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the woodpecker was back, digging away for unseen insects. Dad went out to chase him away, but the sight of the newly chipped hole in the house sent him immediately out for some bird control--a BB gun.

Half an hour later, Dad was reading the directions for loading his new toy. "You'll shoot your eye out, you know," I said, laughing.

Getting the bird, however, is going to be a challenge; he's a slippery little bastard that sees you coming around the side of the house and flees immediately. So a clean shot would require approaching him from behind, which may be rather difficult.

Maybe the sight of the gun was enough to give him a fright--because he hasn't been back all afternoon.

Ah, nature. I love it!

Home, sweet home!

2007-01-12T22:57:00.000-05:00

I can't believe it. I'm still a little in shock. But here it is--I'm about three weeks away from officially becoming a homeowner.

I've been delinquent on sharing the news mostly out of superstition; I didn't want to announce a big purchase only to have the deal crumble in front of my face. But today, I have a signed contract in hand. We still have a few hoops to jump through, but we're almost there.

I can't believe the next couple of months are going to bring so much change for me... new job, new house, new city, new people to meet... it's almost overwhelming (in the most exciting way possible, of course). Like EJG over at Orange Chair said, the fact that so many of my colleagues are facing a similar situation is comforting. Strength in numbers? I think so.

The bottom line is, this is freaking great. I'm so excited. Can't you feel it?!

Click on the picture above to see more shots of my (hopefully) new digs.

Back again!

2007-01-09T18:34:00.000-05:00

I've fixed the domain expiration, as you can see. Sorry for the brief dark period. The good news is I have updates, and will share soon...

Empty Apartment Blues

2006-12-28T16:44:00.000-05:00

Have you ever noticed that an empty apartment echoes?

The movers came today and took all my stuff away, packing (or repacking, in most cases since I never really unpacked to begin with) all my dishes and books and stuff into boxes and carting it off to some generic warehouse in Texas. I'm actually quite thrilled that they did it instead of me, though I have to admit I felt extremely guilty plowing through a book silently in my roommate's old room while they taped and moved out in the rest of the place.

But then they finished and my apartment is so quiet that it's downright noisy.

Seriously, in a place with no furnishings to absorb the sounds of everyday life, the tiniest sound bounces off every now exposed surface--the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the windows. It's almost like standing on the edge of a great canyon and tossing a pebble in, just to hear it click-click-clack all the way down and then the sound just floating over the void. Stuck in the air.

That's exactly what my apartment is like.

I called EJG and told her how depressing it was and she kindly told me I could escape to the Castle to snuggle with the cat and watch TV there (I had forgotten how difficult life without both TV and Internet can be). I may take her up on it.

I think what's most frustrating about moving is just that transition period when all your stuff is somewhere else and you're stuck living out of a suitcase or a car. Rationally, I know it's just stuff and you really don't need it to make it from day to day. But there is something very comforting about a mattress that already knows the contours of your body. Of a chair that's just perfect for reading. Of dishes you've used to serve friends in meals past.

Stuff, for some reason, is sometimes more than just stuff.

When we learned that my new company was going to pick up the tab for my upcoming cross-country move, my parents gave me several boxes of just such stuff from my old room at home. They cleaned out the room several years ago and boxed it all up for me to sort through once I landed somewhere a little more permanent. This apparently fit the bill.

As I started sorting through it, I realized most of it, I hadn't seen or thought about in years. I had forgotten I ever owned or used it, and now it was just stuff--sitting meaninglessly in boxes on my floor. I decided to just pitch it all. If I hadn't needed it up to now, why would I need it in Dallas?

Except when I told people--like my family, my best friend, even my best friend's mother--about the great pitch-a-thon, they recoiled. "You're just throwing it away?" (This led, of course, to some cleaner's guilt, and I have since rescued from the trash pile any photos from the stack as well as a few childhood memorabilia.)

Why do we attach ourselves so much so things--find comfort in stuff? Is it the things that are important? Is it the symbols of the things, the emotions and intentions behind them? Or just the memories attached to them? And if it is just the memories, why are we so hesitant to let the things go and savor the part we truly treasure?

I'll be the first to admit I've inherited my family's pack-rat gene. I hold on to stuff long past its expiration of usefulness. I'm not sure if it's the memories, or more the comfort of being surrounded by the familiar. I think it's this very reason that I begin to go a little stir crazy after about a week in a hotel--I begin to crave being surrounded by those little bits and pieces of me that I've collected and assembled. In some way, they are me. They represent the person I am.

Thank the heavens that this transition is a short one. With any luck, I will be settled in Dallas in just a short month and can once again surround myself with the familiar stuff. Mixing the old with the new. Makes the new just a little bit easier.

Holiday Greeting

2006-12-24T13:20:00.000-05:00

I may complain about Christmas music 24/7--but even I have my favorites. Merry Christmas, all, wherever you may be.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
Next year,
All our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
Next year all our troubles will be miles away

Once again as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who were near to us
Will be near to us once more

Someday soon we all will be together
If the fates allow.
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

--Ralph Blane

Bed hog

2006-12-21T14:17:00.000-05:00

I'd gotten so used to sleeping alone.

Only a few short weeks ago, I woke one morning to find myself sprawled out diagonally across my bed--using both pillows. Once upon a time, I had a "side" of the bed. I didn't mind sharing, but even after that went on hiatus, I still found myself sticking to one side, wearing down the mattress in a Sarah-shaped dent. So I was surprised that after only a few months, the habit was broken.

But now... now the bed is shared again. Worse, with a bed hog. I had forgotten what it was like to fight for leg room; to wake up after being kicked or to the sound of deep sighs and light snoring.

And yet, there's something comforting about falling asleep knowing she's nestled comfortably down by my feet. Or waking up next to a furry face, staring up at me intently, hoping to see me open my eyes so we can take a walk.

Yes, she may be a bed hog, but it's good to have my dog back.

Music Bah Humbug

2006-12-18T21:47:00.000-05:00

Ever since the power outlet in my car went kaput and effectively squelched my iPod usage, I've been forced to endure the radio on my long drives home. Driving through long, remote stretches of Indiana and Ohio, this can be an interesting adventure.

As I frantically searched for a station today on my drive, all I could find was... Christmas music.

Now, I like a good dose of Christmas music as much as anyone else. I'm a huge fan of the albums we listened to when I was a kid (one of which Gus wrote about a couple years back), and Manheim Steamroller has been a regular holiday staple for me. But exactly how many stations can survive playing nothing but Christmas music all the time?

Seriously, of the eight or nine stations I could get to come in around the Toledo area, at least four or five were all-X-Mas, all-the-time. (The rest were country, which didn't help the situation.)

So I may be a bit of a Scrooge--it's hard to get into the holiday spirit when it's 45 degrees and you're stuck in the car for six hours. And actually, I probably wouldn't mind getting a carol or two sandwiched between some JT or Kelly Clarkson. But nonstop Christmas?? From Thanskgiving all the way through December 25?? It just seems too much.

I'm switching to NPR.

(Handy station link compliments of a story from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. More grousing about Christmas music can be found here, too.)

Post-Grad Funk

2006-12-14T16:28:00.000-05:00

And I don't mean the George Clinton type of funk.

I'm not really sure why or when exactly it started. I think sometime between when my family headed back to the hotel on Saturday and when I went out for a few drinks with my colleagues later that night, it descended on me like a sudden storm, blowing in unexpectedly and violently. I should have been ecstatic. With my degree in hand and a job officially accepted, there was not a single reason to not be on top of the world.

But I felt like crap.

I went out with friends on Saturday and just felt exhausted and irritated. I tried to pep up, had a few beers and played some darts, but the let down feeling wouldn't go away. When I got up the next morning, it was still shadowing me, following me around the apartment and festering in my morning cereal. When my roommate moved out later that day, all I could bring myself to do was to sit on the couch and stare at the wall. Even TV sounded repulsive.

I don't know if I can explain why I've been feeling this way. It's something akin to the Christmas hangover--so much build up for one moment that's gone in a flash and leaves you feeling empty and vulnerable. Except in this case, the build up was 15 months instead of one. And the frenzy was more than mad shopping and decorating, it was intense group meetings and exams and homework and readings and dollar burgers and more meetings and internships and job hunting and...

And now it's done.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm not disappointed. I'm not depressed. I have so much to look forward to in the coming months. It's just that closing one chapter sometimes takes the wind out of your sails a bit. Going from 150 miles an hour down to 35 in just one week is a bit of a shock to the system.

It has been comforting to talk to some of my classmates and hear that they are experiencing the same weird mood. Today I ran into a guy in my class--our top student, probably--and as we chatted, I mentioned how I was feeling to him. That I had been cranky and hard to deal with. He said he was feeling the same way. I've gotten similar reports from others.

And slowly, I'm coming out of it. Going to Dallas on Monday and Tuesday helped a little. Getting out of the house seems to do wonders for me, even if I'm just doing something lame like running errands. I have a feeling that if Casey dog were here, walking her would definitely do wonders for me, too.

The transitions in life are just so damn hard sometimes--even when they're good transitions. I almost wish life could be like that Staples commercial, where all you do is press the "Easy" button and poof! everything just magically falls into place as it should be.

Until that happens, I guess I'll just have to keep looking forward to all the excitement to come and know that whether they're easy or not, things will fall into place.

Word.

2006-12-10T12:06:00.000-05:00

Comcast is the Devil

2006-12-07T11:37:00.000-05:00

I don't think I've ever had a more passionate dislike for company. We're talking fire of a thousand suns level dislike.

I first had problems with them when I was living in Virginia. I don't remember the details of the disagreement, but I do remember numerous frustrating calls with customer service representatives. At one point, the calls got so heated that they sent me over to the guy you talk to who doesn't want to "lose your business." We made it through that particular crisis.

But now... This one, I don't know if I can get over.

So when we moved into our last house in Evanston, we got digital cable. One of our housemates really wanted a DVR, but they were asking me for an $80 deposit, so I said no. Finally, a few months later, I gave in. The cable guy came out and swapped our digital box for a DVR box. End of story.

Except it wasn't. Because apparently the tech did one of two things:

1. Failed to file the paperwork that said the digital box came back.
2. Stole the damn thing outright.

I wasn't at home the day he swapped the boxes, so I didn't sign for it, one of my roommates did. And now, two moves later, I cannot find the work order receipt. And Comcast, the wonderful, family-friendly company it is, is convinced I am trying to screw them out of a digital box I don't have (and have NOT had for almost 8 months).

The customer service rep on the phone today had very little useful information for me--simply that they are doing "research" to find out what happened to the box. I asked her what the implications for me were. She said they were doing "research" to find out what happened to the box. I told her I know, I understood what she said, but what was going to happen if they couldn't find it. She said I was liable for it.

At this point, I lost it. She kept asking me if I had my receipt that showed the tech took it away, and I told her I didn't, that I'd moved twice since then. I asked her why they didn't have the receipt--since it is always a duplicate copy. She then explained to me that they have millions of customers and cannot keep track of all the paperwork.

Excuse me?? Isn't that your BUSINESS to keep track of your customers???

I hate this company. I hate that a cable man can come and rip me off and I can't do a damn thing about it. I hate that they are so disorganized and anti-customer that they can't even keep track of work that is being done on individual accounts. Wouldn't there be a record in their system that they brought out a DVR?? She seemed to be oblivious to this.

I especially hate that this giant, incompetent company has a virtual monopoly on cable and Internet services in most cities. There is not a viable alternative here, just Comcast, and if you don't like them... too bad.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Finis

2006-12-05T13:04:00.000-05:00

It's over.

After the last presentation of my graduate school career, I walked back to my seat in the back of the room at sat down. The professor congratulated me. I looked up to the front of the room and had no clue how I was supposed to feel.

Should I have been happy that I ended on a high note with a strong presenation? Relieved to be finished with what has been 15 very challenging months? Excited about my upcoming job opportunity and the chance to get back into the real world? Sad to know that many of the friends I've made through this program will simply fade into the depths of memory?

All of the above?

For the first time in more than two weeks, my alarm didn't wake me this morning. There were no group meetings to attend to. No papers to write. No last-minute readings to finish. No interviews to prep for. I woke up early anyway, and sat in bed wondering what I was supposed to do with myself.

Not that there isn't anything to do--I've already drafted a fairly lengthy to-do list full of all the things I've been putting off for the last few frantic weeks. People to catch up with, details to straighten out before I leave this town for good. It's just that for the first time in a long time, none of it was pressing down on me. I laid in bed guilt free.

Worrying about what's next can wait until tomorrow. Today, I celebrate. Whatever I'm feeling, it's good to look back and see that I've made it through.

No soup for you!

2006-11-29T00:03:00.000-05:00

So I found one of the best stories I've seen on CNN in ages... a listing of the top 100 TV catchprases of all time! Starting on December 11, TV Land will air its countdown special (a la VH1) to reveal the number 1 phrase of all time.

What is it? "Aaay" of Fonzarelli fame.

Most of the phrases to make the list I either have seen (even repeated) personally or have at least heard through pop culture references. Some of the older shows, like The Honeymooners or Jackie Gleason, I wasn't familiar with but could see how they might have had an impact.

I was shocked, however, to see a few newer series (Boston Legal, Nip/Tuck) included on the list with completely unfamiliar phrases. Does "Suit up" from How I Met Your Mother really deserve to be on the same list as "Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?" I'd love to see their criteria in compiling the list.

My own personal favorite? Rick James knows the answer...

Goodbye, Washington

2006-11-19T20:11:00.000-05:00

Goodbye, Washington.

Goodbye, monuments and museums. Goodbye tourists and cherry blossoms and softball games played out in greatness in the shadows of great men.

Goodbye, clean, wide streets and happy hours filled with passionate political debate. Goodbye republicans and democrats and devious stories of political machinations.

Goodbye, crazy drivers, sitting in traffic, stuck in an endless loop of belt. Cursing at your neighbors and edging up, bumper to bumper, to assert your claim to the line.

Goodbye, metro riders, half asleep and crammed crankily together like so many sardines. Goodbye, angry commuters and grouchy bus riders, aggressive walkers stomping up Connecticut to your droning destination.

Goodbye, fireworks show on the bank of the Potomac. Goodbye, showers of sparks raining down over the city like thousands of twinkling, colorful stars, seen from rooftops and balconies around the region.

Goodbye, quaint neighborhoods with your distinct personalities. Goodbye to the market and the circle and the Hill. Goodbye ghettos and burbs; goodbye shops and bars and streets lined with trees and people and life that carries on around you without your knowledge.

Goodbye, friends, comrades in the fight to grow up and yet stay young forever. Goodbye to the family that evolved for a girl so far from home, who loved her and dried her tears and held her hand and told her to be brave.

Goodbye, love, the waves that wore different faces with different smiles and yet wove similar tales that ended in both heartbreak and strength.

Goodbye, my heart, the dream of a life that never quite fit but gave me warmth and a brief flicker of true happiness.

Goodbye, embrace, that held me strong and cheered me on and told me I could do anything my heart desired. That pushed me in the direction I needed to go but could not admit. That ultimately loved me more than I ever knew.

Goodbye, Washington. Goodbye to the city that was a sanctuary, a place of respite. A shelter from my fears of both failure and success. You’ve taught me not to hide from either.

Goodbye, home. Though I can no longer tie my heart to you, you will always have a place there.

From the files of "Why do I try?"

2006-11-16T17:13:00.000-05:00

More reasons why I hate dating. No, correct that, this, this isn't even dating, this is an attempt to communicate like a human being instead of a machine. And still I manage to come across looking like an ass.

Here's the setup: there is this guy in one of my classes who is totally adorable. From the very beginning, I've had an innocent little crush on him. When I found out we were interviewing for the same company, it fueled my interest even more. I made a promise to myself that I would use this knowledge to speak to him in class.

I'm such a chicken shit that I couldn't do it.

So last week, at an event, I found out from an alumna that the cute boy was also invited down for second round interviews at the aforementioned company. This was my in!! Surely I could talk to him now about it.

But no, I still couldn't. He even sat one seat down from me in class and I found myself hopelessly mute.

Finally on the trip, I decided I had to make some conversation. Waiting for the plane on Tuesday, I chit-chatted with him briefly. It wasn't like there were sparks flying, but it was nice, introductory conversation. He recognized me from the class, we talked about how much work we have to do, he told me about his last trip to Louisville (our destination).

The rest of the trip, we were in separate groups, so I didn't have other chances to talk to him. Last night, I briefly tried to talk to him, but he was engaged with one of the executives and I didn't want to intrude. So I said nothing.

At the end of the night, once we all arrived back in Chicago, we piled into two limos. Standard--I was in a different limo. But his gift bag from the company somehow ended up in MY limo. Since I have class with him, I (shamelessly) offered to return it to him.

This morning, feeling bold (and with some prompting from OtherGus, I might add), I decided to e-mail him to let him know the bag's whereabouts. I thought it would be fun to be sassy and flirty. This is what I sent:

Subject: Hostage situation

Hi, [Cute Boy]--

Your bag turned up in the second limo... I'm holding it hostage. It's safe (for now) but in exchange for safe delivery back to you I may have to make a ransom demand.

So what's it worth to you??

Sarah

After some hesitation on whether I was being too bold, I sent it off into the Internets. Perhaps I had reason to debate. Only a few hours later came his response:

Re: Hostage situation

Sarah... thank you so much..... I realized as I got out of my Limo.

I'm away interviewing again today... I could pick it up on Monday.... do you wanna bring it to class on Monday night? Else I could walk over to Medill and pick it up?

thanks!

Oy.

I can interpret this response in one of three ways:

1. He thinks I'm an idiot.
2. He's dense and had no idea I was flirting with him.
3. He has a girlfriend.

Frankly I'm not sure I like any of those options. And regardless of what he thinks, I DO feel like an idiot. I'm tempted to leave his bag on his seat on Monday and hide in the back of the classroom...

Of course, there is also the fourth possibility that he just isn't interested and was trying to express that in a nice way. But my ego prefers to pretend that simply isn't an option. I mean, who doesn't think tense negotiations are cute??

Isn't being single fun??

Para what?

2006-11-13T00:07:00.000-05:00

I took a walk today along the lake, and I saw the weirdest thing. At first, I just saw it above the treeline, and I didn't think much of it. But as I kept walking, it hit me that the colorful fabric billowing in the wind ahead was an open sail--kind of like one you'd see attached to someone parasailing.

Parasailing? On Lake Michigan? In NOVEMBER?

As I got closer, I realized it wasn't a parasailor but a parasurfer. The waves were pretty choppy--not good by typical surfer standards (it is a lake, after all), but strong enough to give him something to work with. The wind was strong and gusty, and he was cruising right along, first in toward the shore and then back out again to deeper water. At one point, he lost control of his sail and in he went, head under the water.

I can't possibly imagine how cold that must be.

I mean, I'm sure he was wearing a wetsuit and plenty of clothing that would keep him warm. But the air temperature was a balmy 40 degrees when I left the house for my walk--and I'm 8 blocks in from the water, protected slightly from the harsh Chicago wind.

As for the water, I looked it up. It's right around the 47 degree neighborhood. I'm pretty sure that's not a temperature I would ever want to swim in, wet suit or no. If there is a chance my head is going under, I can guarantee I am not going in. No polar bear swimmers here.

But this guy seemed absolutely unfazed. In fact, it was almost hypnotic to watch him steer slowly toward the shore, pulling tightly on the cords to the sail dancing above, come about and then steer out again, working against the waves. There must be something calming about the sound of air rushing around you, gliding on top of the water and buoyed by the wind.

Then again, it certainly wouldn't be calming to fall into a bucket of ice water. Maybe that risk is part of the draw? Either way, it takes a little crazy to head out to the water in this kind of weather.

The IMC Girls Take Chicago

2006-11-10T13:54:00.000-05:00

It's time to play the music
It's time to dim the lights
It's time to see the fashion at the 80s prom tonight.

Get out your jelly bracelets
Crimp all your hair up right
It's time to don some leggings for the 80s prom tonight.

Why are the 80s back now
Cowl necks, pink polo shirts
I’ll never wear legwarmers
But I bought a bubble skirt

And now we’ll get outfitted
Why don't you get outfitted
It's time to get outfitted
For the most sensational inspirational celebrational fashion-platable
See you at The Keg for 80s prom!

Magic shoes

2006-11-08T16:54:00.000-05:00

"Are you a stepper?"

Standing in front of the ticket dispensing machine, I turned my head to the left just slightly enough to see past the tip of my nose. At 7:30 in the morning, it takes extra effort to be social and I had to see who it was first. It was the CTA attendant, out of his booth to help customers, clad in full CTA regalia (including winter hat with furry ear flaps). He smiled eagerly. I tried decide if I was alert enough to be perky and friendly.

"No," I laughed. "Do I look like a stepper?"

"Yeah... yeah you do! Those shoes are sweet."

I laughed again as I tried to jam my money into the machine so that I could pass through the gates to make my way up the train. The machine wasn't having it. It kept spitting my wrinkled dollar back out, almost as if it were a child wagging its tongue at me.

"Grrrr." I tried another dollar, to the same result.

"Won't it take it?" he asked. "Here, I'll help." He gently took the dollar from my hand and tried again. It still didn't work.

"Oh well," I said. "I have enough to get down into the city at least." I pressed the button to get my card back.

"Yeah, you can get one way," he said. "And those are some sweet steppin' shoes. Those are NICE."

I lauged again. "I hope they're luck shoes," I said, smiling.

"What, you goin to an interview?" he asked, handing me my dollar and card back.

"Yup," I said, trying to shove the money back into my wallet.

"Well, you've already GOT the job. Just go in there just like that and you've GOT it." Before I realized what was happening, he was swiping his CTA card over the machine to let me pass through. I pushed my way through the turnstile, laughing.

"I sure hope so!" I said, turning back to him as I headed toward the stairs.

"That smile, right there, that smile is all you need and you've already got it! You'll come back when you're done and tell me you got it."

I laughed again and waved, heading for the platform to wait for the train. Secretly, I was wishing that life really could be that simple. That all you need is a smile. And maybe a pair of magic shoes.

Interviews are FUN

2006-11-07T11:00:00.000-05:00

So I've been an interviewing fiend lately. Fortunately, it's one of those things for which practice truly does help make perfect. The more you sit in the hot seat, the better you get at really sounding polished. After a while, you start to hear the same questions over and over again...

Tell me about a team environment where you faced conflict. How did you handle it? What role did you play?

What kind of a leader are you?

What are your career goals?

I would love to sit in on one of those interviews that is so off the wall, so random, that you leave scratching your head thinking, "what was that about?"

My SVP this summer says he likes to give his interviewees legos. He tells them to build something and then explain what they built and why.

A friend of mine went into an interview and was asked if she was nervous. When she said no, the interviewer (a senior exec with the company) told her she must not want the job.

Another interview situation I heard of in which all the candidates knew each other, the interviewer asked each one which of their co-interviewees should be hired.

Of course, I know these are tame compared to some of the random questions out there. Here's a sample of some strange ones I found online:

* Imagine I am blind. Describe blue to me.
* What is the temperature when it’s twice as cold as zero degrees?
* How many times a day do a clock’s hands overlap?
* How many piano tuners are there in the United States?
* A lily pad doubles in size every day. If on the 60th day the pond is totally covered with the lily pad, on what day is the pond half covered?
* How can, say, five people, who do not necessarily trust each other divide a pie so that everyone receives an equal share?
* I have a lawn mowing business that I want to sell to your client. How would you advise your client about how to value the business for purchase?
* How would Donald Trump avoid being disturbed at night by a wrong number? How can you use that information to design a solution accessible to consumers without such resources?
* Design a spice rack for a blind person.

Personally, I like the "blue" question, though I think that one would trip me up the most. I'd probably yammer on about describing it in terms of sensation rather than visuals (i.e., cool, refreshing). Is there a right way to do it?

Anyone else have fun interview questions they've experienced or had themselves?

Geometric print optional

2006-11-02T19:33:00.000-05:00

Two of the girls in our program decided a few weeks ago that they should throw an 80s prom--a tribute to the glam fashion, horrific hairdos and plastic jewelry of all kinds. This immediately set off a flashback frenzy of looking for THE PERFECT prom dress.

Remember what that was like? How important it was to get the right color, the right fit... something no one else has. (I have to laugh here, because my junior year, my best friend and I--who shopped independently--showed up in the same dress. Different colors, but same dress. It was awesome. But I digress.)

Even though all my proms took place in the 90s, I feel pretty confident that at least one or two of my homecoming or prom dresses would have passed at this party without a problem. Still I decided that in true prom spirit, I couldn't go with a recycled option--at least not something I personally had already worn. Well, that and I think it would send me into a deep depression to see how poorly those gowns fit my now 29-year-old body.

Looking for inspiration, several of us immediately hit up eBay, the place where you can find IT. And find it I did. Check this baby out.

Whadya think? Pretty hot, right?

The bad news is I think they are moving the date of the prom to the Friday that I will be in DC. But fear not, one of the activities planned for my sojourn to our nation's capital is a performance by the Legwarmers--an 80s tribute band. Costumes not optional. So it will be worn regardless.

Hell, I may even wear it to meet boys here in Evanston. Wouldn't you?!?

And thank you for your support

2006-10-31T08:52:00.000-05:00

After class yesterday, I ran into one of my professors--one of the few I have a more personal relationship with. He asked me about the job search process. Since he knows the guy I just turned down, I told him that I said no to the job.

In his professorly wisdom, he outlined the following points for me in the course of our conversation.

1. Multiple offers were rare, and often linear, not overlapping. I should check with career services to find out how many offers the average student gets.

2. Jobs in the area this company was offering to me were rare, particularly for a young white woman. They typically look to minorities to fill these positions. (He really said this to me.)

3. I should talk to career services to make sure my salary requirements were realistic.

4. I shouldn't factor location into my decision. Instead, I should ask for a small pay increase to use as a "slush fund" to travel.

5. I am only one of many students up for a job at one of the other big companies where I am interviewing. (And they only take good looking people, so I should be flattered they were talking to me. He said this jokingly, but it was still obnoxious.)

6. The amount of time I had asked to think mull over the job I was offered was far too long.

7. The VP was just playing coy with me, and I should have engaged him better in the negotiations.

8. Was there anything that would make me reconsider?

I tried to explain to him my reasoning, but he had no more understanding of my thoughts than the potential employer did. Most of all, I was irritated that he was trying to tell me to expect nothing more than the "average" student (who, I might add, has two to three years less experience than I do).

I know that really what this boils down to is that he looks bad to the company (he was my advisor) because I didn't take the job. And I'm sorry for that. An unintended consequence. But don't try to make me feel bad for a decision I've made that is going to completely affect my personal happiness.

Grrr.

Track 2: Callin Baton Rouge, Garth Brooks

2006-10-30T00:03:00.000-05:00

Christy & Lori

They called me the unfriendly girl. It may have been earned.

When I started college, I was lucky enough to have my big brother not only attend the same school, but also live in the same dorm. Since he was an esteemed member of the Hall Council, he got to move in to his room a few days early. Enterprising guy that he is, he pulled a few strings and I moved in early, too.

So by the time my new neighbors, Christy and Lori, showed up, I was already settled--unpacked and decorated. Being a bit of an awkward girl (and more than a little shy), when I saw their two families heaving and huffing in boxes and crates stuffed with memories and bits of home, I hid out in my room.

Of course, I introduced myself when I ran into one of them in the hall. But I found myself simply trying to stay out of their way. My behavior earned the unfriendly moniker.

Which lasted all of a few days. By the time they began to settle in as well, they drew me out of my turtle shell and we became friends. They were quite a pair--best friends from Columbus. One, dark-haired and serious, with a quick sarcastic wit. The other, tall and blonde with a warm smile and infectious giggle. I loved them both.

Over the next several months, we became thick as thieves. We talked about life and how it felt to leave home. We dished about old boyfriends and the prospect of losing our virginity. We discovered alcohol and fell into the innocent experimentation of college binge drinking. We stressed about classes and what we wanted to be when we grew up.

But most of all, we danced.

I'm not even sure you could describe it as dancing. In fact, the first time I heard the ruckus next door, I wasn't even sure what was going on. I only heard loud, blasting country music and felt the walls shaking. Getting off my bed, I went next door to investigate and found Christy and Lori cranking on Garth Brooks, jumping wildly from twin bed to twin bed and laughing like maniacs.

"What is going on?" I laughed. "Come jump with us!" they cried, pulling me up into their hysteria. Bouncing on the bed, I was overwhelmed with energy. As Garth crooned for the operator to hook him up with his woman, I felt alive, too. When the song ended, we all dissolved into a fit of giggles on the beds, and tangle of pajama-ed legs and arms.

The song for Christy and Lori was apparently tied back to a high school story--the details are fuzzy these 10-odd years later--but for them, it had become a symbol of friendship, of fun, of a carefree life. It quickly became the “fix” used before going out on the town to prowl for boys; for cheering up after a particularly brutal test; for battling a case of homesickness; for commemorating a personal victory.

Periodically, I would hear the anthem sitting in my room and know a celebration session was in the works. Sometimes I would run over in a rush to join the exhilaration. Other times I would stay in my bed, listening to the squeaking and giggling. It always made me smile.

Over the next few years, my friendship with the girls began to ebb. Although we remained close--suitemates or roommates all four years of college--I felt more and more disconnected from them. Their intimacy intimidated me; I began to feel like a third wheel. When they both found solid, loving relationships and I muddled through unfulfilling ones, still struggling to find myself, I felt even more isolated. I made friends outside our circle and spent less and less time with them.

I see now that it was my own insecurities more than anything else that put space between us. I think they recognized that, and yet they loved me anyway--something I will always cherish them for. How rare it is to find friends who support you and care for you even despite your own self-destructive and loathing behavior!

Spring quarter of our senior year, they had both finished early and moved out to get a jump on the professional life ahead of us. By the time we graduated, our lives had already drifted apart. I was heading in a different direction.

We kept in touch, for a while, anyway. They shared stories of their career paths, their engagements to their sweethearts. I wrote of my adventures in Washington. I went to both weddings, proud to see my friends look so beautiful walking down the aisle. I cried when they exchanged vows with their beaus.

At Christy's wedding reception, the second of the two, the crowd was festive, dancing to the classic DJ tunes we know so well. Then the emcee announced a special dedication--from Lori to Christy. Out of the speakers came Garth's gravelly voice.

The two old friends rushed onto the dance floor and clasped hands, grinning, jumping and turning just as they had in their dorm room a few years earlier. I skipped out, too, joining the frenzy only momentarily before realizing we were the only three on the floor, I the interloper. Catching myself, I slunk back to the safety of my date's side, simply absorbing their joy from the sidelines. The moment was not mine to claim.

At the end of the night, I said goodbye to my old friends. I gave them hugs, wished them both well. We were like war veterans—bonded together by the loss of innocence; estranged by time, distance, ghosts.

But I didn’t resent the space between us. If anything, I loved them more for their carefree, joyous closeness.

After all, I was the unfriendly girl. And they taught me how to open my door.

Wide awake

2006-10-26T07:20:00.000-04:00

It's six a.m., and I've been awake since 4:30. Add to that the fact that it took me an hour to get to sleep in the first place. I think I'm having issues.

It could be because the night before, I stayed in bed something ridiculous like 10 hours (which I never, ever do). But then I rarely have problems sleeping, so my guess is that it's more than just a sleep hangover, if you will.

My brain just doesn't seem to be able to shut itself off. I've been replaying in my head (over and over again) the job interview I had the other day. One of the biggest consumer companies in the world was here on campus and I managed to land their ear for half an hour.

When I left the interview--I felt good, that it had gone well. But in hindsight, going over it in my head, I think maybe I blew it. I bungled a couple of questions, I sounded unprepared and unsure of myself. For someone who's supposed to be trained in marketing, I've sure done a poor job of marketing myself.

I guess it wouldn't matter so much if I hadn't really thought the world of the company and wanted the opportunity to explore it a little more. The fact that their work overlaps so naturally with our program was a huge turn on, and their culture seemed like it was somewhere I would fit in and be successful.

I know, don't count your chickens before they've hatched, everything happens for a reason, you learn something from every experience, yadda, yadda, yadda.

But when it's six a.m. and you've already been up for an hour and a half, it's just really damn hard to bat away the demons of doubt.

Unemployed

2006-10-24T12:30:00.000-04:00

I turned down an incredible job offer today.

Last week, my summer employer turned my life upside-down by coming up to Evanston and basically telling me I could write my own ticket. Whatever I wanted to do in the company was open to me. Everything and anything was negotiable. The catch? I had to decide right then and there--to commit to being a part of their team and the world was mine.

I think they were thrown when I asked for time to think it over. I could probably even speculate that my not accepting the job on the spot made them decide that they really didn't want me in the first place. But I'm not sorry for asking for time to think, and I don't feel bad about calling them today and saying, thank you, your offer is incredible, but I'm just not ready to commit to a job yet.

I know that some people--probably even some of my colleagues--will look at me and tell me that I'm crazy. That if the SVP of a major company believes in you enough to let you choose your own adventure, you don't say no. That opportunities like this one are rare. I probably wouldn't even disagree with them.

Except I'm learning that you have to obey your gut in order to feel truly good about the decisions you make in life. My gut--for whatever reason--was telling me no.

I think more than anything, I'm proud of myself because for one of the first times I can ever remember, I went with the unknown. I chose ambiguity over certainty, over security. I don't know where my next job offer is going to come from, or even if it will be the right one.

But I do know my gut will tell me.

The loneliest number

2006-10-23T23:15:00.000-04:00

This quarter, I'm taking a class at the business school--the only one from my program in the class. Add to that the fact that the professor is one of their core instructors, so he knows everyone in the class. Add further the fact that I am an early bird by nature, and typically one of the first people in the class.

No one will sit next to me.

Seriously, the area where I usually sit is the only "hole" in the classroom, with two empty seats on either side of me. It's almost like I have some IMC disease... "You know, the Medill girl... if you get too close, you might catch it!"

If I were feeling more insecure about things, I'd think I had a body odor issue of some sort. (I could also go on here about my smellemia, the olfactory disability I developed in college which likes to rear its ugly head on occasion. But that will have to be another post.)

So you can imagine my delight when a girl in the class actually moved her seat to sit next to me at the break. I almost cried. I'm sure she will never sit next to me again, I was so happy to have someone to chat up.

I think next week, I am intentionally going to come in late so I have to sit next to someone!

Taking cover from the exploding offer

2006-10-23T10:57:00.000-04:00

One thing I've learned about myself this quarter: I am a terrible negotiator.

Not that I ever thought I was good, but I'm not just bad, I'm awful. Each week in class, we do a practice negotiation. Almost every single time, I come out on the bottom. Witness:

Negotiation #1 - the "Prisoner's Dilemma" game. Decided to play the game in good faith, lost about $200,000.

Negotiation #2 - selling a used car. I actually got the amount of money I needed on the first counter-offer--but didn't have the guts to go for even more (I could have gotten it).

Negotiation #3 - hotel developers trying to get a permit by working with an environmental issues group. My partner and I lost on every issue we wanted--except one. The tree huggers simply rolled us.

Negotiation #4 - massaging a post-grad job offer to get more money and a better title. I didn't do horribly on this one (I did get more money) but what was really important to my role was the title and I could not make any ground on it.

I know that since this is a classroom situation, there isn't really anything to lose here, but now that I'm entering the negotiation phase for real as I look for a job, I'm finding my skills wanting.

Confidence seems to be the key, knowing what it is you definitely want and what you can trade off on. That and not allowing the other team to shake you from that point of confidence by tapping into your emotions (anger, fear, guilt, whatever). Again, this is another danger point for me. It's too easy to get caught up in those feelings and lose sight of what it is you originally set out to get.

They say practice makes perfect... I'm not shooting for perfect, but I hope the practice is at least sufficient to help me get through my current real-life scenarios!

Livin la Vida Leo

2006-10-10T11:49:00.000-04:00

When I was choosing my classes for this quarter, I asked a lot of people--especially those I was working with during the summer--what they thought I should take. I was considering four classes but ultimately only wanted to take three. The dilemma was which one to drop? I was evaluating negotiations, crisis management, creative seminar and values-based leaders (a class at the business school). Almost everyone I spoke to said I should drop creative.

I'm so glad I didn't.

This is the first time I can remember in a LONG time that I have focused specifically and intently on idea generation and getting inside my own head. Each week, we're given a topic or a project and our only objective is to come up with creative, intuitive ideas about how to present our message. One of the recommended books to guide us through the process was a work called Blink that's all about harnessing the power of your own intuition—a skill I find I often overlook or let my head overrule.

I'm not really sure what causes you to lose touch with your own creativity as you get older. When I think back to my childhood, I remember being vividly imaginative; playful. It's almost as if the years of schooling and living in an adult world slowly erode that energy, that optimism. Just like everything else in life, it becomes something you work at, not something that simply is.

Until it simply is again. Until the "work" you do every day at finding that feeling again becomes so automatic that it recedes into second nature. Like falling back into yourself after a long leave of absence.

I’m not there yet, but I can feel myself coming back around. I haven’t felt so inspired and energetic in years. And I think with a little more practice, the training wheels will come off.

The real challenge is, of course, extending that feeling after school is over. It’s really easy to practice creativity and self reflection when you’re in school, a place that demands that kind of behavior. Being in the workplace has a way of stifling it for me. I’m learning that one of the things I need to look for in my next job is an environment that is going to challenge and encourage me to stay creative and focus on bringing new ideas to the table.

Surrounding yourself with inspiration never hurt, either. I have so many other people in my life who live creatively every day, and looking to them can keep me in the right frame of mind.

I’m also on the lookout for materials that can help me push myself. Right now, I’m reading How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci by Michael Gelb (another class-recommended book). It’s got some great exercises and advice about maximizing your potential. If you know of other good ones, I’d love to hear about them.

Any other Leos out there?

Deluge

2006-10-03T10:31:00.000-04:00

I swam home from class last night.

Well, I practically did. I had my three-hour business school class last night. Since there isn't a parking lot attached directly to the building, I found a spot in the lot almost directly across the street and walked over.

About halfway through the class, we divided up into small groups to move to smaller study rooms and debate a case. While my group was engaged in spirited argument over ethical standards and the validity of Friedman's profit-maximizing viewpoint, thunder rumbled outside. It continued for the next hour and a half, occasionally making the lights in our classroom flicker.

When class finally dismissed at 9:30, I walked out of the building into complete inundation. It was raining so hard that the street (across which my car was parked) had become a river.

I found some of my fellow IMC colleagues who had been in different classes that night. They live in graduate housing a 10-minute walk away and were contemplating the trek home. I offered to go get my car and pick them up. I borrowed one of the girls' umbrellas and headed down the steps toward the street.

At the sidewalk, where most people usually cross the street, two cars were stopped in deep water, hazards flashing. I timidly stuck my foot to where the curb should be, plunging my entire foot into warm water.

Not a good sign.

I started walking parallel along the street, looking for a place to cross where the water wasn't quite so deep. When the sidewalk ahead of me finally evaporated into long puddles, I realized my only option was to go directly through the street.

Rolling up my pants legs, I took off my shoes and waded into the street. Yes, I said waded--the water came up to the mid-part of my calf! I splashed my way to the center of the street--which was higher and drier--and then walked down the double yellow line to the parking lot where my car was. Leaping over the full gutter, I landed on the sidewalk and solid pavement.

When I finally got the car started and headed out, I was amazed at how deep the water was. I drove through places I'm certain I should not have. Looking over at the cars parked on the side of the road, the water came up above the bumper on many of them.

My engine never died, but it did threaten a couple of times. Fortunately, since I drive a standard, I was able to shift down into first gear and keep it running. But who knows what kind of damage was done during the storm.

I have never really been in a flooded area before, but even this minimal flooding was insane! The main drag through Evanston--under water. Neighborhood streets--flooded. All from a little rain. I can't imagine what it would have been like in the West Virginia floods of a couple of years ago, or the scummy waters from Katrina.

Wish I had had my camera on me to share photos...

Scatter

2006-10-02T16:56:00.000-04:00

OK, I realize it's been a really (really) long time since my last post. But I'm finding myself with a little more time for personal reflection (and general screwing around) during my last quarter here at school, so I think I should take advantage of that by reviving this little journal.

(Does that suffice as an apology? If not, I am sorry, my two dear readers. :) )

My roommate and I were in the car on the way to class this morning and she pointed out that we only have two months of school left. Two months! I remember being a first quarter last year and having the nearly-finished students tell us all how quickly it would go. But as the projects and stress dragged on throughout the year, I believed them a little less every day. I would never be finished.

Except now I am, and I have no idea what's next.

I think one of the things that comforted me about planning to go back to DC was the fact that I already have a network there. I already know how it works and what my social life would look like. I could find a decent apartment, get to the grocery store, secure an acceptable job and still manage to have Saturday night plans. I could play softball in the summer and football in the fall, and maybe even squeeze in an art class on weeknights.

The idea of DC was comfortable, familiar. Job became secondary.

Except now it's not. I know that choosing a job just because it's in a place you know is asking for trouble. And in the last few days, more friends and family members than I can count have tried to reinforce the idea that I can go anywhere and do anything that I want to do. Anything. If I decide the circus is the life for me, I can go join the carnies and off I go!

Of course, it's also important to look at just how much "home" (or DC) has changed since I've been gone. By the time I finally get around to coming back, good friends will have moved elsewhere. Relationships I relied on won't be there. Activities I relished may not quite be the same.

We're all scattering, following our own trails, going the way life intends to take us.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I know that change is part of life, and you have to learn to adapt and grow with each new twist. But embracing the unknown has never been my strength. I think my parents call it (affectionately) the fur-lined rut. There is a reason it is so comfortable.

What's next? I don't know. And yes, I'm scared. But I'm taking comfort in knowing that so many others--even those who are close to me--are just as scared.

Here's to jumping in without knowing where the bottom will be. Let’s all pray for a very deep pool.

Buoyant

2006-03-28T20:21:00.000-05:00

I've discovered a new, surefire way to gauge how much weight I've gained: my buoyancy in the pool.

I used to swim a lot. I even got brave enough to do the the swim part of a triathlon a ways back. A pool workout, to me, was no big thing.

But I took a break--a loooong break. And when I got back in the pool today for the first time in almost a year and a half, well, I felt like I was FLOATING a whole lot more.

When I did a turn on the wall for the breaststroke, instead of lingering several feet below the surface for a few minutes, my body just rose right up on top of the water. What used to feel like cutting through the water felt more like bearing down on it.

Granted, I can write some of that off as being completely out of shape. But the extra buoyancy? My assumption is that the fat conent in my body has risen to the point that I would no longer need a floatation device, should I find myself stranded in the middle of the ocean. My body will do it for me.

Who knew! I think it's time to get back into shape. For REAL.

Scolded

2006-03-27T11:13:00.000-05:00

You know it's a bad day when you've been scolded twice in one day before 11 a.m.--for two things that weren't even your fault.

Scold #1:
Casey and I headed out for a walk. It was sunny, so I was feeling good. Instead of steering her toward home near the end of our typically 20-minute trek, I decided to let her go over and sniff around the park near my house--where several of my neighbors let their dogs run free and play.

Almost as soon as we had walked up, a standard poodle jumped on Casey and started attacking her. Since she was leashed, she couldn't get away. Then a doberman came over and pinned her. Casey was crying pitifully, and I was trying to shoo the dogs away. Finally their owners called them off and Casey was left standing there, cowering and crying. My heart nearly broke as she whimpered, and I tried to readjust her lead.

A large shadow loomed over me, and as I inspected Casey's fur for puncture wounds, his gruff voice filtered down to me: "It would be better if you would let her off leash."

"I can't," I said, annoyed.

"Oh," he said, "It's just that my dog gets scared by leashes." I was so worried about Casey that at the time, it didn't even register in my head that this asshole was actually trying to blame ME for the fact that HIS (illegally off-leash) dog attacked mine for simply walking onto the perimeter of a public park.

I looked up at him. "Your dog wasn't scared," I said, "she just jumped on mine and attacked her." Walking away, as I realized that he hadn't even asked if Casey was OK, I had the urge to turn around and give him a piece of my mind. But I didn't; I figured it would be better for both the dog and me to just go home. (Casey got a couple of extra cookies out of the deal.)

Scold #2:
I decided to run some errands before class this morning. I found a parking spot uptown, and after purchasing some books, I decided to go grab a chai and a muffin at Starbucks. I ordered my drink and headed for the tables by the window looking out onto the street. As I turned around, there was a little boy underfoot, probably around 2 or so. I smiled at him, and walked over to an open table along the wall and near to the window.

As soon as I set my stuff down, the little boy began screaming. His mother tried to shush him. I looked up to see what the commotion was about, and he was pointing at ME and screaming, walking toward me at rapid toddler speed.

His mother was trying to redirect him, saying "It's ok, we'll sit here, this table is fine, it's OK..."

I realized that I had sat down at the table he intended to sit at. I looked up at the woman and immediately gathered my stuff. After spending a few days with my nephew (who is about the same age), I've learned that you just can't reason with a person who doesn't even come up to your knees.

"I'll move, it's OK," I said, as I headed over to the next table over.

She was able to get the little boy (who was still screaming) to take the table. As he climbed up in the chair and sipped his juice box, he was still sobbing. Finally, after a few minutes, the crying died down. I looked over at him, and he glared at me, bottom lip protuding poutily. Juice box in one hand, he pointed his finger at the comfy chair next to him.

"I wanted to sit there," he said grumpily.

I shrugged at him and gave him my most sympathetic look possible; he continued to glare.

So dogs and babies, things I'm usually pretty good at entertaining, and I've already gotten into two tangles in one day. What a way to start a new quarter!

A six-month's reflection

2006-03-21T09:39:00.000-05:00

It's so nice to relax.

Seriously, the last few days of my spring break have been as relaxing as I could have imagined, even if I were on a warm and sunny beach instead of in moderately chilly DC. To me, having the luxury of being bored is a blessing, even if I know it will only last this one, short week before the craziness of the spring quarter begins.

It's been more than six months since I left DC. I've successfully navigated the cross-country move, two quarters of graduate work and a complete upheaval in my social life. And I'm still chugging away, which I count as a victory.

On the other hand, I feel as though this experience has so transformed my life; I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that.

Before I left DC, I felt as though I knew exactly who I was, who I wanted to be, how I was going to get there AND what it would all look like when I was done. Now I feel more like a child than ever, sitting on the floor with a jigsaw puzzle in front of me in which none of the pieces really seem to fit. And I'm so concerned with getting the edges together that the whole image in the center looks as though it may never emerge.

The truly scary thing is that maybe it's always been that way--that we're always a work in progress, no matter how confident we are about what the finished product may look like.

A wise friend of mine once told me that beauty emerges from struggle. I can only hope that he is right, and that the struggle of dealing with stress, of trying to build new friendships, of trying to be your very best each and every day, of trying to stay close with those you love who are far away, are really all things that will make me even stronger.

And I do feel stronger. I'm halfway through the academic portion, and I know now I can make it through. I feel good about what I'm doing, what I'm learning.

I guess I just have to keep in mind that I don't have to have all the answers. Sometimes it's better to let life happen and then just go with it, instead of plotting and planning and then setting unrealistic expectations that no one could ever live up to.

Heading into spring quarter, I've already set at least one resolution to spend more time taking care of Sarah. I've mapped out a schedule--including exercise time to help keep me a little more balanced. I feel like putting it in writing makes it harder to avoid or ignore.

My other promise to myself is to be more patient. You know how they say life is what happens when you're busy making plans? Not that I want to stop making plans, but I definitely want to do more enjoying of the here and now.

And of course, nothing beats being able to just relax!

I'll Try Not to Take It Personally

2006-03-10T13:59:00.000-05:00

Time Magazine's website allows you to look up to magazine cover from the week you were born. Mine isn't flattering...

Taking the Redeye

2006-03-08T00:27:00.000-05:00

I didn't even notice it the first time my eyelids swelled up. The only symptom I noticed was that one day in December, the lids got all dry and peely. Like any good obsessive girl, I flaked the dead skin off and slathered the makeup on to cover up my peeling eyes.

But then New Year's came. We went out and I, as usual, applied a significant amount of eye goop--mascara, shadow, liner--and went out on the town. When we got home late that night, I managed in my inebriated state to wash the makeup off my face, but it seemed to hurt more than usual. When I woke the next morning to eyes that looked as though I had been in a prizefight the night before, I assumed I had simply scrubbed too hard in my drunken state.

The next week, my eyes were dry and peely again. A few days, when proper moisture levels had returned, I put on my face again, only to have my eyes swell up the same way.

At this point, I was beginning to suspect I had developed some kind of an allergy to my makeup. Unsure what the trigger was, I decided to take a month-long vacation from all things eye.

Finally, last week, I was ready to start reintroducing elements. I started with mascara. Then I added shadow--and voila! Instant George Foreman imitation.

What really pisses me off about the whole situation is that I LOVE makeup. I used to spend hours as a little girl at my mother's makeup counter, trying out her cosmetics. I let the older girl down the street slather my face with so much makeup that you needed a knife to scrape it off. I've always loved color and particularly playing up my eyes. Now, due to the red puffiness, instead of hearing remarks about my long, family-inherited lashes, I get questions like, "Are you all right? You look really tired today."

*Sigh.* Anyone know any good, hypo-allergenic brands?

Saturation Point

2006-02-20T20:38:00.000-05:00

Those who know me well will understand that this is a shocking occurence:

I turned down a cookie.

Not just any cookie, mind you, but a Safeway (ok, technically Dominick's, but it's the same store) cookie.

A few years ago, I started a tradition to make my grocery shopping more enjoyable. After browsing up and down all the aisles and trying to make healthy, affordable cuisine selections, I made a habit of cruising the bakery aisle and selecting one of the store's giant, soft and chewy chocolate chunk cookies. It didn't matter if I were shopping at 10 p.m. on a Wednesday evening or 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning--I couldn't leave without a treat to enjoy when I got home.

But tonight, as I walked by the bakery, the aroma of fresh-baked goodies wafting around me, I couldn't do it. I passed the cookie bin by.

If I had to guess, I'd say that Valentine's Day put me over the edge in sugar indulgences. Rob sent chocolates (that four of us made short work of in DC this weekend); my dad sent "steaks" (giant, homemade chocolate peanut butter bars, so named because my grandmother used to send them in Omaha Steak boxes); and I've been munching on a stash of Rolos and other goodies in the house. This afternoon, chatting with a classmate over lunch, I had a craving for ice cream, and we headed over to Cold Stone Creamery before our afternoon speaker. But then it was like a light switch was flipped--suddenly, as my father has been known to say, my dessert slot was full. No more room at the inn. For someone who never met a chocolate she didn't like, the desire was gone.

I'm actually hoping that maybe the cravings for sweets will subside for a few days and allow me to get back into a more healthy routine. In the meantime, I need only get over the complete shock that I actually wasn't hungry for something sweet. Wow.

The Wait is Over!

2006-02-10T15:33:00.000-05:00

The Winter Olympics are back! Best Sixteen Days Ever!

Anyone who's known me for at least two years (don't get me started on the split Winter/Summer Olympiads) knows what this means - more than 2 full weeks of me bursting into tears at least once a night when the bobsledding from Estonia or the skeet shooter from Canada wins a medal and gets the have their national anthem played in their honor, in front of the whole world! And then there's the athlete profiles - forget it!

I know all the haters are saying things like "it's all so commercial," "look at all the dopers" and "these athletes aren't even amateurs." I'll tell you a little something - those complaints may all be true and the IOC and USOC may be corrupt, poorly run organizations and the judges may cheat and the snow may be fake, but the truth is - I DON'T CARE.

So what if some of the sports (skeleton?) look like they take no talent other than a total disregard for one's safety? Who cares if some of the sports (curling?) disappear for three and a half years, only to resurface as a punchline?

The bottom line is someone's winning a gold medal and stand on top of the podium as the best in the world.

I love the Olympics, now pass the tissues.

This is doable.

2006-02-08T14:22:00.000-05:00

Ok here's a game.

Get the family over the river.

The following rules apply:

Only 2 persons on the raft at a time.

The father cannot stay with any of the daughters unless the mother is present.

The mother can not stay with any of the sons, without the fathers
presence.

The thief (striped shirt) cannot stay with any family member unless the
Policeman is there.

Only the Father, the Mother and the Policeman know how to operate the raft.

To start:
-Click on the Link, then the big blue circle
-To move the people on and off the raft, click on them
-To move the raft click on the pole on the opposite side of the river
-if you click on someone and they won't move, or they get beat up, then you are breaking a rule

Cheers!

2006-02-07T20:11:00.000-05:00

OK, I also posted this on dahlbergcentral, but just in case you don't visit over there...

Please take a few minutes to check out Here's To Beer.com, a beer-industry website designed as part of a "got milk?" type campaign to increase sales of the entire category of beer.

What do y'all think? Give me any feedback, positive or negative--I didn't design the site (but I do have to figure out if their tactics are the way to go).

It's a Small World After All

2006-01-25T16:39:00.000-05:00

We all know DC is a small town and you have to be careful, because everyone you meet is separated from you by 2 degrees, at best. I re-learned this lesson in a big way on Saturday night and I’ll tell you the story as a cautionary tale.

I went to the birthday party of a new-ish friend on Saturday at a local bar. My old co-worker (you’ll soon see why I am not using her name) joined me for the b-day festivities. We decided to meet, grab a beer and then head to the party.

When we got to the first bar, she seemed a little tipsy, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. She said she’d been drinking wine earlier, so that explained it.

We had a beer and went to the party bar. This is where things got interesting. As soon as we walked in, she went to the bathroom while I got beers and joined the party group. I am happy to see our old boss is not in attendance, so I sit down and relax. My friend doesn’t come back for a while, so eventually I go to look for her. She’s at the bar talking to some guy, so I give her the beer and don’t give it another thought.

A while later, she drift back into the group of people I’m talking to and I notice she’s flirting, pretty blatantly, with some guy. Again, par for the course, but it’s getting obvious she’s really drunk. Eventually she tells me she’s leaving, and we do the typical girl “Are you ok? Do you need me to call you a cab? Are you going home with that guy?” discussion. She assures me she’s fine, I talk to the guy and nothing about him yells serial-rapist-slasher, so she leaves.

I speak to her on Monday and she says she has no recollection of leaving the bar, but woke up fully clothed, wickedly hung over.

As the night goes on, I start talking to random guy who came to the party late and end up giving him my card before I leave.

Today he emails me. After a few exchanges, he says, “You’ll never believe what happened to my friend on Saturday.” He tells this horrible story how his friend went home with a girl who was throwing herself at him at the bar. She passed out in a cab, had to be carried into the apartment, woke up and began throwing herself at him and then, after about 10 minutes of making out she sat up, looked at him and began yelling to get out of her apartment. He got freaked out and left in a panic.

I’m sure you’ve already guessed the kicker – his friend went home with my old co-worker.

The best part – she dropped her phone when he was carrying her into the apartment so he put it in his pocket and forgot to give it back when she freaked out… so they have to see each other again in order for her to get the phone back.

Let this be a lesson to you – if you’re going to get drunk, take home a random and the flip out, make sure you’re not in the small world of DC… or prepare for others to find out the details of your night before you do.

Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog.

2006-01-21T00:23:00.000-05:00

If only my dog were as good as that Ubu.

During my Christmas break, Casey stayed with my parents for two weeks while I galavanted around DC. During that time, she managed to eat a loaf of bread and a box of doughnuts (on different days, at least) from the counter.

Since she's been home, the acting out has continued. I'm not sure if she's punishing me because I've been busier the past two weeks, but she has been BAD. One afternoon, I came home to find her hiding out in my bedroom in the basement, her paws covered with a thick, doughy white substance. Further investigation uncovered the misdeed: she had pulled a box of pancake mix from the shelf and torn it open. (I'm assuming she was disappointed that it didn't actually taste like pancakes, since she left most of it sitting in a giant pile on the floor.)

Last night, I was sitting comfortably in my room, reading my assignments, when I heard her plod down the stairs. When she hadn't come into my room after several minutes, I got suspicious. I found her in Nay's room, eating a discarded pita and yogurt container.

This afternoon, after class, Nay came home to discover Casey had taken a banana from the counter and rumaged through her trash. And the piece de resistance? Shamelessly eating a cookie from a cookie sheet while Nay was even home.

So no, I don't have a dog, I have a cleanup crew, and these days she doesn't even seem to mind what she's cleaning. So much for obedience training. I wonder how those TV folks got their dog under control?

No Wonder I feel So Crowded

2006-01-13T16:58:00.000-05:00

That's a lot of people...

Paralysis

2006-01-10T15:45:00.000-05:00

When I was a little girl, I was terrified of ordering pizza.

I know it sounds utterly ridiculous, but I have a very distinct memory of sitting near the telephone in our kitchen with a phone book in front of me open to the "pizza" listings, a sheet of paper in front of me with written details of exactly the kind of pizza we wanted (size and toppings, my earliest use of talking points, if you will), and the cradle of the phone sitting in my hand, my other hand pressed on the receiver to prevent the obnoxious and distracting buzzing of the dial tone. In my head, I silently rehearse exactly what it is I want to say. "I'd like to order a pizza? Yes, a large pizza with sausage and extra cheese." I say it over and over again. Then as I lift my fingers to dial, the shaking begins. My whole body quivers as though I am standing alone on a stage, in front of an auditorium of thousands, suddenly realizing that the eloquent soliloquy I had so expertly memorized has left me, and all I can do is gape ignorantly at the faces staring back at me expectantly. I slam my hand back on the receiver again, trembling as I rehearse again in my head, building up the courage to call.

Yes, yes, of course, I got over my fear of talking on the phone and now I can order a pizza without a second thought. But I stumbled onto a realization today, sitting in class, that the real fear underlying that whole embarrassing incident has never really left me.

I am terrified of taking verbal risks.

I don't really know, maybe it's because my earliest exposures to speaking in front of people often involved school plays and family reunion skits, where I was on stage to speak only the words and ideas prepared for me in advance. Follow the script, recite the lines. No problem.

Or maybe it's because of my tendency to have more of a writer's brain. Throughout my life, I've "scripted" millions of imaginary conversations in my head. Planned eloquent arguments, passionate pleas and virulent arguments. I used to spend hours on my bicycle, circling the driveway and living out my interactions with life in my head.

But for some reason, I have always had trouble actually vocalizing those thoughts, those ideas. There's something comforting about writing out your thoughts; you can edit them, you can change them. You can make them as lyrical and powerful as you like. You don't have to show them to anyone if you don't want to. But speaking your mind, out loud, off the cuff, can have incredible consequences.

I remember one time I did take the risk as a child and speak one of those comebacks that had been festering in my head. One of the boys at school had been teasing me, following me around, trying to show me that he "liked" me. I wanted none of it, I simply wanted him to disappear. I plotted the response in my head, and the next time he came around to bother me, I blurted it out, hurriedly and nastily.

"You're like a virus that won't go away!"

The look of hurt and disappointment on his face was so raw and immediate that I never forgave myself for treating him so poorly.

Once you speak out loud, people have an immediate impression of who you are. For certain, it may be a completely wrong impression, but we are all quick to judge based on what other people say. I can look to my own thoughts about other students who volunteer in class; more often than not, once I get to know the student on a more personal level, I find my initial thoughts were quite off-target. But we can't help ourselves. We need to identify ways to categorize, to divide up, to assess the people around us. Sometimes what comes out of our mouths is the easiest way to do that.

And I am still afraid of being assessed in the same way. To this day, I sit in class, reflecting on what the professors and my classmates are saying. Thinking of my own ideas and examples. Writing a script in my head of the perfect thing to say and then remaining completely paralyzed, unable to dial the numbers and let the order come tumbling out to the impatient teenager on the other end.

The bitch of it all is is that there IS no perfect thing to say. No script, no talking points, no ideas that just come straight from the depths of either heart or mind can ever be perfect. Maybe that's what is most terrifying to me--if I can't say "the perfect" thing, how can I even ensure that what I say has value? It's almost as though I dread the idea of saying something irrelevant. Because there is some small part of me that fears being just that--irrelevant. Dismissible. Judged.

The rational brain in my head (what little there may be, anyway) tells me that making progress involves taking a step forward. I may have made it (successfully) through high school, college, and even the work force living in fear of the sound of my own voice, but if I am to live a successful life, I know I must overcome my fear. If I am to change it, I must start with opening my mouth.

Today, a question. Tomorrow, a fact. The day after, an opinion and even an original idea. Somewhere it has to begin. And I am resolved to do it.

Of course, I always have the pizza man to practice on.

Return to Chi-Town

2006-01-01T10:35:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's because the air was warmer and the sky blue.

Maybe it's because I knew Rob was still snuggled up under the covers back at the house, here for almost two full days more.

Maybe it's because I spent the last night of 2005 and the first morning of 2006 with wonderful friends I didn't even know six months ago.

Maybe it's because I know this time next year, school will be a fading memory and I will be beginning a whole new adventure, whatever that may be.

Maybe it's just because the sight of a man in a bathrobe and slippers, sweeping leaves from the street, simply makes me laugh out loud.

Whatever the reason, I realized on my walk with Casey this morning that I'm happy to be back in Evanston, and I'm ready for anything the year may bring.

Happy New Year, everyone.

HBG

2005-12-21T14:14:00.000-05:00

Step one, blog. Step two, QVC.

Disconnected

2005-12-15T12:09:00.000-05:00

I was a loyal Sprint customer for six years.

When I graduated from college and moved out to DC, I decided it was time for me to become technologically savvy and to get a cell phone. I researched my options methodically, evaluated several different phones, plans, carriers, etc., and eventually settled on a lovely Qualcomm handset using Sprint service. A lot of people I knew complained loudly about Sprint, but that little phone had crystal clear reception and was simply wonderful.

A few years later, I decided to upgrade to a new novelty phone--the clamshell. My first clamshell was that chunky Samsung phone as big as your fist, but I loved the damn thing. I carried it everywhere with me. Like most cell phones, though, a year later it was out of fashion and just not working as well, so I upgraded to a newer Samsung. Slimmer, better graphics, more functionality. Being a loyal Sprint customer (and before the convenience of number portability), I stuck with what I knew.

When I moved to Evanston this fall, I knew the days on my phone were numbered. Call clarity seemed to decline with each new call. Battery life had become nonexistant. And worst of all, Sprint service didn't work in the one classroom building on campus where I spent most of my waking hours.

It was time for a change.

The rub, of course, was that I wanted to keep my number. I'm attached to my 7-0-3 area code, and my easy-to-remember digits. But having changed my address to Illinois, that process is much more difficult.

After a few months of evaluating my options, using Rob's home address in DC, I made the big move to Cingular--a carrier that would give me free mobile-to-mobile minutes with several pals AND would get reception in the building on campus.

I found an online provider who could hook me up with the service AND could send me a nice, new clamshell phone (this one from Nokia). I ordered it. I got so excited when they sent me the e-mail saying the phone was on its way.

Then I waited. And waited. And waited.

And now, my lovely new phone with my fabulous Cingular service has fallen under some seat in a UPS truck somewhere between here and Landover, Maryland, never to be seen again. I called UPS to inquire where it might be. The best they could tell me? "Call the shipper and have them call us to make us look for it." Excellent. So I did that, and what did the shipper say? "We've asked UPS to investigate, they say it will take them between one and seven days to complete the investigation."

Can someone tell me what is so difficult about asking the driver of the truck that the damn thing went out on in the first place to LOOK UNDER THE EFFING SEATS?? I mean, come on, this company is AUTOMATED, they can tell you what truck a package is on at any one time. I see on their helpful little online package tracker that the box was signed out for delivery on the 13th. Can't they radio down to the driver and ask him to take a look around for something that might have been missed??

Meanwhile, Sprint has already shut off my service, and so I am without connection. The shipper says they are sending a new phone (which won't arrive until Tuesday), but this still leaves me completely and totally isolated from the world, it seems.

I'm convinced--it's the curse of Sprint.

Nomad

2005-12-09T09:34:00.000-05:00

It's funny, being a nomad again after all this time.

There's a certain uneasiness that comes with feeling as though you haven't rooted yourself to any certain place. Driving away from the Windy City yesterday, I felt that uneasiness gnawing at my stomach. Chicago isn't "home" yet, but Ohio and DC almost both seem foreign to me as well.

That doesn't mean I'm not excited--I'm so thrilled to have three weeks of freedom and to be a total Lady of Leisure. And I'm fine with not being in Chicago, since few people I'm close to are actually staying there for the holidays.

I guess instead the concept of "home" should really be wherever the people you love find themselves--wherever that may be. Today then, "home" is Ohio, tomorrow, DC.

So now this nomad just needs to figure out what to do with her free time. Any ideas? (We've unfortunately already ruled out the panda, though I am dying to see him.)

It's all about the ring

2005-12-08T11:09:00.000-05:00

Have you guys eard about this? I may be hopelessly jaded, but I feel this ring may make some girls very popular with the boys... and not in the way it's intended.

WOOHOOYIPPEEYEEHAW!

2005-12-07T14:16:00.000-05:00

Sarah, 1
School, 0

Three more to go!

Wearing my Kosar jersey anywhere but the stadium

2005-12-06T13:16:00.000-05:00

I agree with this completely.

Speaking of Awesome Television

2005-11-16T14:27:00.000-05:00

I knew there was a reason I loved Animal Planet.

I'd rather play flip cup

2005-11-11T10:44:00.000-05:00

Classy television from our friends in the far east.

2005-11-08T17:21:00.000-05:00

Being Bono from the Zoo TV years, and dressing like Bono from the Zoo TV years are very different things.

Yo, Ho, Ho and a Bottle of Rum.

2005-11-07T18:43:00.000-05:00

Best. News story. Ever.

Lost

2005-11-03T22:24:00.000-05:00

I have NO idea where my car key is.

Now, I know that I've been a bit out of sorts lately, but I don't think I have ever, in my life, legitimately lost my car keys. Sure, sometimes you misplace them, they're in a jacket pocket or under a couch cushion, or maybe even in the freezer (yes, I looked there, too, to no avail), but completely and totally lost? Vanished?

I tried to think back through the last time I used my car (yesterday). I was on campus for a group meeting. I drove home, parked in the driveway, walked into the house, and then... a big, giant blank. None of my roommates has seen them.

Fortunately, I keep a spare right next to the door, but now I am down to one clicker, which just makes me a little nervous. One clicker? What if I lose that one, too?

And worst of all, I'm wondering what's next. If I've become this scatterbrained, what's to say I won't lose something even bigger, like say a school book, or a whole purse, or even Casey??

Actually, I did, in fact, lose my wallet on my way home from vacation this year. Phone, credit cards, debit cards, blood donor card... all of it. I left it sitting on the toilet paper dispenser in a gas station bathroom just south of Richmond, Va., and didn't discover it was missing until I had a massive frosty craving two hours later. Fortunately for me, a nice lady in the bathroom brought the phone to the attendent, who got about tracking me down by calling just about everyone in my address book. The best part of all was calling my family, still in South Carolina, and learning that they knew I'd lost it before I did.

The point isn't that I'm completely absentminded. The point is that the key is AWOL! Does anybody know where to look? What happens if I dropped it outside, and someone scoops it up and starts my car and drives away? Thank God it's a stick--I'm betting criminals drive only automatics.

Madison kicks Athen's butt

2005-10-31T16:25:00.000-05:00

Come on, can't OU keep up anymore?