Thursday, December 23, 2004

What Saint Nick and I Have In Common

I love Santa Claus. Especially ones who are realistic. I encountered one the other day at the Burbank Media Center who was truly the best -- twinkly blue eyes, real beard, soft British accent, and didn't care that I'm a 38-year old woman who wanted to get her picture taken with him.

He invited me to sit on his lap, but being more than a bit cognizant of the fact that I'm not a small child, I was perching in an attempt to not put all of my (considerable) weight on his knee. He, however, assured me that Mrs. Claus weighs 350 pounds and sits on his lap all the time, so it really shouldn't be an issue. I didn't want to test that theory though, so that's why the actual snapshot is of me kneeling by his side -- I didn't want to break his knees. After all, he's got a busy night coming up! I thought that would be it -- take the photo with Santa and then go on my merry way, but he wouldn't let me go -- he wanted to know what I wanted for Christmas, and I got to have a lovely little chat with him. No, I'm not telling you what I told him, but we did talk about his busy upcoming night, and I learned some fun facts about how he gets around the world. He doesn't use reindeer in Australia, for instance; he uses white kangaroos.

Here are some other interesting things I've learned about Santa Claus.

The basis for the Christian Era Santa Claus is Bishop Nicholas. The Orthodox Church raised St. Nicholas to a position of great esteem. The Roman Catholic Church honoured Nicholas as one who helped children and the poor. St. Nicholas' feast day is December 6 (my birthday! another fun fact I learned from my mall Santa) and was commemorated with an annual feast which eventually marked the beginning of the Medieval Christmas.

St. Nicholas was legendary for his kindness and generosity and was a champion of children and the needy. Through his benevolence we find the two basic principles of the holiday spirit - giving to others and helping the less fortunate - as well as the tradition of hanging stockings by the chimney. According to one legend, there were three Italian maidens whose father had lost his fortune. The three maidens were to wed, but their father couls not afford the dowries that were necessary. When St, Nicholas heard of this, he went to their home late one night and tossed three bags of gold down the chimney. The bags miracously landed in each of the sisters stockings, that were hung by the fire to dry. A variation of this story, is that as each girl was to wed, he anonymously tossed a bag into an open window. This may have been used as a way of explaining how Santa Claus delivers gifts to homes that have no chimney.

After the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century, the veneration of Catholic saints was banned. But people did not want to give up their annual visits from the gift-giving saint, and they did not want to forget the purpose of the holiday. In some countries the festivities of St. Nicholas Day were merged with Christmas celebrations. St. Nicholas underwent a transformation into a new, non-religious form, but he retained his generous spirit.

In parts of Europe such as Germany, Nicholas the gift-giver had been superseded by a representation of the infant Jesus (the Christ child, or "Christkindlein"). The Christkindlein accompanied Nicholas-like figures with other names (such as "Père Nöel" in France, or he travelled with a dwarf-like helper (known in some places as "Pelznickel," or Nicholas with furs). Belsnickle (as Pelznickel was known in the German-American dialect of Pennsylvania was represented by adults who dressed in furry disguises (including false whiskers), visited while children were still awake, and put on a scary performance. Gifts found by children the next morning were credited to Christkindlein, who had come while everyone was asleep. Over time, the non-visible Christkindlein (whose name mutated into "Kriss Kringle") was overshadowed by the visible Belsnickle, and both of them became confused with St. Nicholas and the emerging figure of Santa Claus.

The Dutch-American Santa Claus achieved full Americanization in 1823 in a poem 'A Visit from St. Nick' (The Night Before Christmas) by Clement C. Moore. His poem gave an Arctic flavor to Santa Claus's image. He substituted eight tiny reindeer and a sleigh for the horse and wagon. He included such details as Santa's wink, nod, laugh and the myth by which the 'jolly old elf' returns up the chimney. It is Moore's description that we think of today: "He had a broad face, and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly."

There's a lot of talk about the commercialization of Christmas. I for one noticed that Christmas decorations competed with Halloween goodies in the stores this year. It does seem that retailers want more from us earlier each year. This causes some disgruntlement for some people, which I can understand.

As a Christian, I wholeheartedly support the idea that Christmas should remain a celebration of the Christ Child's earthly birth. There are many ways that I personally try to retain that in my mind even while shopping amidst the hustle and bustle of stores and malls. But there is something about this image of Santa Claus that I love and that strikes a very tender chord in my heart. I love the idea that in this era of money-grubbing, getting-ahead-at-all-costs, think-about-yourself-first-others-later attitude that seems so prevalent in our current society, there is a figure of a gift-giving, selfless individual who has an entire army of helpers at his disposal to help bring joy and happines to children and the child-like one day a year.

You may call him commercial, but I call him a visible reminder of what I need to be not just at Christmas time, but all year round -- happy, selfless, a good listener, able to discern between right and wrong, and actively engaged in good causes always.

I hope your Christmas wishes come true.
May you enjoy a peaceful and joyous holiday.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Friday, October 22, 2004

Short Stories

I love rain. I love the way it smells, looks, feels and sounds. I know I'm leaving off the fifth sense, but I still live in Los Angeles and am not willing to get some weird disease by tasting it. When it started raining on Saturday night, I first knew by the change in noise of the nearby freeway traffic. I flung open the front door and immediately started inhaling that freshly damp dirt and street smell that's so unique to a first rainfall. I love the sound it makes on my car roof, and on my hood or umbrella when I'm walking in it. And I get an exhilirating feeling when I am driving on the semi-flooded streets and find a particularly deep puddle that I can sploosh through, sending a mini-tidal wave up in the air. I love sitting in my office chair watching raindrops trickle down the window pane, combining themselves with other droplets and racing each other to the bottom.

However, I know that not everyone is as excited about this as I am. Living in southern California, I am definitely in the minority. In fact, some people get downright panicky when it starts raining here. Still others don't function very well emotionally during bad weather or winter months.

With that in mind, I will simply share a few things with you that have struck my funny bone today. If you're already in a good mood, hopefully it can get better. And if you're feeling as gray and gloomy as the cloudy skies, maybe this will help you too.

***********************************

A friend of mine owes the IRS some money. Never a fun way to start off a story, I know, but it gets better. I heard this joke about a guy who owed the IRS $3,407. He packaged up his payment and included this letter to the IRS:

"Dear IRS:

"Enclosed is my 1997 Tax Return & payment. Please take note of the attached article from USA Today. In the article, you will see that the Pentagon is paying $171.50 for hammers and NASA has paid $600.00 for a toilet seat.

"Please find enclosed four toilet seats (value $2400) and six hammers (value $1029).

"This brings my total payment to $3429.00. Please note the overpayment of $22.00 and apply it to the Presidential Election Fund, as noted on my return. Might I suggest you the send the above mentioned fund a '1.5 inch screw'. (See attached article - HUD paid $22.00 for a 1.5 inch Phillips Head Screw.)

"It has been a pleasure to pay my tax bill this year, and I look forward to paying it again next year. I just saw an article about the Pentagon and 'screwdrivers'.

"Sincerely,"

So I sent this to my friend and copied my accountant friend on it, asking if this was a good idea. Her response?

"You're totally good to go. Please take note of C's new future email address, marthasroommate@virginafederalpenn.org."

***************************************

Speaking of Martha Stewart's potential roommates and people who try to get something for nothing, we have this fellow to thank for nearly singlehandedly bringing about the demise of The Disney Store, Inc. Not only did he ruin Structure (part of the Limited family) prior to going to TDS, then he picked his away through the ashes and ruins of Disney and went to Wet Seal.

Guess what? He and his cronies are being investigated by the SEC. It's only too bad it took this long for his karma to catch up with him.

Yes, I know that none of that is funny, but my friend's Anna's reaction to the story was, "Now all I can picture is Peter as Martha's new prison b****. Help! I need to rinse my eyes with bleach to get rid of the image!"

***************************************

One of my former workmates has a cubicle neighbor, Mary, whose new responsibilities, by necessity, attract people down that aisle who wouldn't normally be there, nor are they wanted there. It's not bad enough that Kathy has to put up with those annoyances, but Mary also exhibits certain personal habits that fall into the "annoying" category.

I got this riddle from Kathy today:

Q: What's this?

murmurmurmurmurmurzkdlvjlslkdj; dkfj; murmurqerpoiuadfl;kjweowowodk; murmurmurmur asd;lkasdowekdsd;fl murmurmurmur murmurmurmurmurmuralskdjflasljlsjlmurmurlasdflmurmurlkajsdlfmurm erlajdfsljldjfjmurmur.

A: Mary typing an email.

*************************************

This is from my sister who is taking a physics class. After I read this account of her very dim-witted lab partner, I've decided that when this person grows up, she'll be in upper management. Probably one of my managers someday. "Do a perfect job, even though I don't know what you're doing. And if I don't like it, you'll do it over until I do. Even though I don't know what I want."

Lab # 2: Velocity and Acceleration, Gravity

My sister and her lab partner are running the paper tape through the measuring device to discover for ourselves that velocity isn't the same as acceleration and to find some number that represents the acceleration of gravity. The partner is upset because the little dots on the paper tape aren't spaced perfectly so their time vs. velocity graph doesn't look perfect and they're not coming up with exactly -9.8 m/s^2.

My Sister: "It's probably the way we fed the tape through, or the way we dropped the weight, some friction or something, right? It's the first time we ever did this, so we probably did it wrong. So let's just run another tape through, because they told us it usually takes a few tries anyway."

Future Manager: "I've got to get to my job. I don't have time to do all this

stuff over again. Let's just cut out the dots we don't like."

MS: "Um, you mean, don't put them on the graph?"

FM: "Yeah, just leave them out. They said we only need 14 data points, and we ran it longer, we got 23, so we can cut out the ones we don't like."

MS: "But then it wouldn't be physics."

FM: "It's just physics 101 lab, it's not real physics."

MS: "So when we leave out the stuff we don't like, and we have these huge gaps in between the stuff we do like, what do we call that? I mean, that isn't the way you do science. We might as well just make up new dots to give us whatever results we want..."

FM: "Tchk! I'm going to ask the T.A."

T.A.: [sound of jaw dropping to floor] [spends next 10 minutes trying to explain to her why we can't leave out the points we don't like]

FM: [she comes back, discouraged] "Your husband's supposedly, like, some kind of scientist, isn't he? Well, why don't you ask him."

MS: "I've vowed never to talk to him about this class."

FM: "Huh? Why would you do that?"

MS: "Same reason I took this long to get around to taking a physics class. Long boring story, gotta learn stuff myself, or else I don't get it. Anyway, it doesn't matter."

[later, my sister broke her "vow" and told her husband this story...]

Husband: [sound of incredulous laughter]

****************************************

This one isn't so funny as much as interesting. My dad is radioactive.

Yes, you read that right. If I had a Geiger counter and held it up to him, I would get a reading of 48.6 millicurries of radioactivity from him.

My dad was diagnosed some time ago with prostate cancer. He had originally decided to let it go untreated. He's had so many surgeries lately, for skin cancer, hip replacement and other weird cancer-like things, that I think he was probably just tired of dealing with it all.

But then his doctor advised him of this new treatment that wouldn't involve any of the usual cancer treatments such as chemotherapy or (traditional) radiation therapy. When he first explained it to me, all I got out of it was that there would be crystals loaded with something that would be lethal to the nasty cancer cells. Those crystals would be placed in the prostate to fight the cancer. I of course, could not get the image out of my head of little new-agey crystals surgically implanted in my dad's body making little woo-woo noises while they meditated and chanted at the cancer cells.

I was just slightly wrong. It's a treatment called "brachytheraphy," meaning radiation really close up; not directed through a beam like traditional cancer radiation treatment. They are little crystalic seeds that are filled with radioactive material. They are injected into the prostate giving lethal doses of cancer-fighting stuff to the nasty cancer cells. They will stay in him for the rest of his life. More or less.

Pretty cool, huh? No more cancer. The downside is no holding any great-grandchildren on his lap for awhile, but then he doesn't have to be the first one to discover the baby's diaper needs changing. So, not all bad.

****************************************

Lastly, here's a real joke that still has me chuckling, even though it's been several hours since I first heard it. There may be some advice here on how I can catch me a man!

A man is dining in a fancy restaurant and there is a gorgeous redhead sitting at the next table. He has been checking her out since he sat down, but lacks the nerve to talk with her.

Suddenly she sneezes, and her glass eye comes flying out of its socket towards the man.

He reflexively reaches out, grabs it out of the air, and hands it back.

"Oh my, I am so sorry," the woman says as she pops her eye back in place. "Let me buy your dinner to make it up to you," she says.

They enjoy a wonderful dinner together, and afterwards they go to the theater followed by drinks. They talk, they laugh, she shares her deepest dreams and he shares his. She listens.

After paying for everything, she asks him if he would like to come to her place for a nightcap and stay for breakfast. They had a wonderful, wonderful time.

The next morning, she cooks a gourmet meal with all the trimmings. The guy is amazed! Everything had been SO incredible!!!!

"You know," he said, "you are the perfect woman. Are you this nice to every guy you meet?"

"No," she replies. . . . . . . "

Wait for it.

It's coming.

The suspense is killing you, isn't it?

-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto">

"You just happened to catch my eye."

***************************************

Enjoy your day, be safe and find something to laugh at. Er, about.

***************************************

Reading: "The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club," by Laurie Notaro.

Excited About: ... On second thought, this should really be "Scared to Death About in a Tingly, Halloween-y Kind of Way: Spooky House Haunted Hotel tomorrow night. Ack!

Monday, October 4, 2004

Scores You Don't See On the Sports Page

I grew up, as you already know, in a suburb about 30 miles east of San Francisco. NOT "Frisco," as so many of you insist on calling it. Please. Don't. Not in front of me, at least. To any true Bay Area-ite, that term makes us cringe.

Oh, fine. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I know you just want to bug me.

Okay. Done? Good. Moving on, then.

“The City” is what we called it. Because that's what it was. The. City. Always capitalized, because it was the only big city around. Well, maybe not the only one, but the only important one. Going there was an adventure, always begun on BART and other modes of public transportation. We rarely actually drove there, unless we knew the exact destination and that it wouldn't be easily accessible otherwise.

The City has a charm to it that other big cities don't have. I didn't realize until I visited Los Angeles, downtown Los Angeles, for the first time, that the reason for that is that San Francisco is not big. It sure did seem like it back then to a kid from the suburbs. The beggars, homeless or otherwise, are always creative about getting money out of tourists. They don't just stick their hands out and demand as is so typical elsewhere. They perform -- acting as robots that only move when an appropriate amount is placed in the appropriate canister. They shake bushes at unsuspecting passers-by while others eagerly anticipate the element of surprise of a bush suddenly walking and moving and talking. They even, heaven forbid, ask politely, as exhibited tonight by the woman who confronted me in the Jack-in-the-Box. She held out her grubby hand holding fifty-three cents or so and asked for a quarter. I dug in my pocket for my change, so she immediately saw I had about eighty-three cents. She had asked for one quarter, so I told he`r, handing her two, that I would save the rest of the change for the guy I had seen outside in the wheelchair. She was distracted though by the amount I wasn't giving her and asked for more. " But then there wouldn't be anything for the guy outside. I gotta spread it around -- can't give it all to one person, ya know?" I explained. She demurred that would be the right thing to do, and went to politely ask someone else for some money, "Hon."

But driving here at night, from the airport, when I haven't had a chance during the day to let the atmosphere of the city charm me as it usually does, I felt a little cold. Not atmospherically so, but charm that I’m used to was not on display, leaving me cold. It's another dirty, grungy, cement-filled, over-crowded city, made confusing by countless one-way streets and near-impossible to find hotel parking entrances.

Real estate is at such a premium here on a peninsula that can only grow up, not out, that even hotel guests are charged the astronomic price of $44 per day for parking. Forty-four. Dollars. Per day. To park my car that I will hardly ever drive anyway. I kept asking the valet guy about self-parking, and he said there's a garage across the street that only charges $30 / day with in/out privileges. While I would like to save the company $14 a day, the thought of getting back into that car and driving another 3 miles just to move the car across the street (remember the one-way streets?) was too exhausting to think about.

The guy at corporate travel was very excited for me to stay at this hotel. But when push comes to shove, a hotel room is a hotel room is a hotel room. Some are cleaner than others, and the cleanliness of this one is something to appreciate, but it has a bed. And a desk. And a phone. And a TV on a bureau, a closet and a bathroom with a toilet, sink, tub and shower. For this, my company pays $155 a night plus applicable taxes and surcharges for me to sleep. Oh, and the $44 / day parking charge. Sheesh. The most distinctive feature that separates this hotel from others in which I have stayed is probably the scent. Or odor, depending on your opinion. It's a Japanese hotel, and I was a little disappointed that there wasn't more ethnicity or culture or whatever to set it apart from other hotels. The smell does. It all has a faint odor of that dried seaweed stuff. Which is okay, I guess, if you like that, but . . . it's not really floating my boat right now.

I hope that my naive enthusiasm for being here can be restored in the morning. I plan on walking the half mile to my training class, so that my help. Some of my dampened attitude may simply be due to the fact I'm still recovering from this stupid sinus infection. I hope it's not just because I'm a jaded adult now who's been traveling for about two weeks too long to really enjoy this latest experience, when all I really want is to be home, with my own comfy bed, my fat, drooling cats, my friends, my own comforts. Wow, I sound old, don't I? But I shall try to enjoy this. After all, I'm not footing this hefty bill! (Why do I feel guilt about it then?)

face="Verdana">***************************************

San Francisco in Broad Daylight

Retrospectively, October 6, 2004

A decent night's sleep in a bed, that for a hotel, was almost as comfortable as the one I left at home, left me feeling a little bit better about my status as a guest in The City, as opposed to day visitor.

Walking to my training class, about six blocks away, was an infinitely easier prospect than driving, for the simple fact that it would probably only take about 10 minutes to walk a straight line, rather than 20 estimated minutes to drive a convulated route.

Even in the morning with very little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, the city streets had a depressing pall about them. Maybe it's because there are more homeless people than I remember there being here before. And they don't all exhibit the charm that I'm used to from San Francisco beggars. most of them are just that -- beggars.

The day was warmer than most San Francisco days, draining even more of the charm that I'd come to expect from my previous day visits. In fact, not only was the near omni-present fog not present, the heat added to the increased amount of homeless people presented a sum of smells that assaulted my senses, and not in a pleasant way. There were pockets of urine smells, unwashed bodies on every side it seemed, and scents of just dirty city streets.

The highlight of my day was having an entire half (oxymoronic, I know) of my Quizno's sandwich left over from lunch to be able to wrap and give to a homeless person on the street who seemed genuinely pleased to receive it.

Lest I get any nasty notes from any San Francisco Bureau of Tourism people, let me hasten to add that as the week progressed and the weather returned to San Francisconormal, the charm of the city returned. I'm sure that still being significantly ill was not helping my initial attitude much.

Instead of letting silly things like a sinus infection and urine smells dictate my experience, I took matters into my own hands. I did not want to spend three days in a city that I've previously loved only to return home with a bad taste for it. Enjoying some simple pleasures made all the difference in the world in restoring my attitude. Using my company's dinner allowance, I took a friend who's attending USF from Burbank out to dinner and enjoyed her delightful company. I enjoyed a solo dinner, indulging in rich English-style food in an Irish pub down the street from my hotel. I visited a Rasputin music store and browsed as quickly as possible in the half hour allotted me before closing time, their three stories of used CDs.

Overall I remembered, that we're only as happy with a situation as we allow ourselves to be. If I had chosen to allow my initial frustration at navigating an obnoxious rental car through annoying, non-sensical city streets, or the disgusting citified smells dictate my overall experience, I'd be, well, frustrated and disgusted.

As with any situation that presents itself to us, regardless of our current environment or circumstance, how we perceive that situation makes or breaks us. We can choose to accept it at face value, potentially turning us into miserable human beings, or we can adjust our own attitude to accept it graciously, trying to find the humor and joy in each situation. Regardless of how obnoxious or smelly it is, there is good to be had everywhere.

I just realized that sounded a little soap-boxy, and for that I apologize. But sitting here some weeks after the fact, reading what I wrote that first night and trying to capture the timbre of those few days, I am glad that for as upset as I was that first night, I can look back on that time and say that I truly enjoyed it.

Happiness is always a choice.

***************************************

Reading
: "Insatiable," by Marne Davis Kellogg

Tuesday, September 7, 2004

San Francisco, Night One

I grew up, as you already know, in a suburb about 30 miles east of San Francisco. NOT "Frisco," as so many of you insist on calling it. Please. Don't. Not in front of me, at least. To any true Bay Area-ite, that term makes us cringe.

Oh, fine. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I know you just want to bug me.

Okay. Done? Good. Moving on, then.

“The City” is what we called it. Because that's what it was. The. City. Always capitalized, because it was the only big city around. Well, maybe not the only one, but the only important one. Going there was an adventure, always begun on BART and other modes of public transportation. We rarely actually drove there, unless we knew the exact destination and that it wouldn't be easily accessible otherwise.

The City has a charm to it that other big cities don't have. I didn't realize until I visited Los Angeles, downtown Los Angeles, for the first time, that the reason for that is that San Francisco is not big. It sure did seem like it back then to a kid from the suburbs. The beggars, homeless or otherwise, are always creative about getting money out of tourists. They don't just stick their hands out and demand as is so typical elsewhere. They perform -- acting as robots that only move when an appropriate amount is placed in the appropriate canister. They shake bushes at unsuspecting passers-by while others eagerly anticipate the element of surprise of a bush suddenly walking and moving and talking. They even, heaven forbid, ask politely, as exhibited tonight by the woman who confronted me in the Jack-in-the-Box. She held out her grubby hand holding fifty-three cents or so and asked for a quarter. I dug in my pocket for my change, so she immediately saw I had about eighty-three cents. She had asked for one quarter, so I told he`r, handing her two, that I would save the rest of the change for the guy I had seen outside in the wheelchair. She was distracted though by the amount I wasn't giving her and asked for more. " But then there wouldn't be anything for the guy outside. I gotta spread it around -- can't give it all to one person, ya know?" I explained. She demurred that would be the right thing to do, and went to politely ask someone else for some money, "Hon."

But driving here at night, from the airport, when I haven't had a chance during the day to let the atmosphere of the city charm me as it usually does, I felt a little cold. Not atmospherically so, but charm that I’m used to was not on display, leaving me cold. It's another dirty, grungy, cement-filled, over-crowded city, made confusing by countless one-way streets and near-impossible to find hotel parking entrances.

Real estate is at such a premium here on a peninsula that can only grow up, not out, that even hotel guests are charged the astronomic price of $44 per day for parking. Forty-four. Dollars. Per day. To park my car that I will hardly ever drive anyway. I kept asking the valet guy about self-parking, and he said there's a garage across the street that only charges $30 / day with in/out privileges. While I would like to save the company $14 a day, the thought of getting back into that car and driving another 3 miles just to move the car across the street (remember the one-way streets?) was too exhausting to think about.

The guy at corporate travel was very excited for me to stay at this hotel. But when push comes to shove, a hotel room is a hotel room is a hotel room. Some are cleaner than others, and the cleanliness of this one is something to appreciate, but it has a bed. And a desk. And a phone. And a TV on a bureau, a closet and a bathroom with a toilet, sink, tub and shower. For this, my company pays $155 a night plus applicable taxes and surcharges for me to sleep. Oh, and the $44 / day parking charge. Sheesh. The most distinctive feature that separates this hotel from others in which I have stayed is probably the scent. Or odor, depending on your opinion. It's a Japanese hotel, and I was a little disappointed that there wasn't more ethnicity or culture or whatever to set it apart from other hotels. The smell does. It all has a faint odor of that dried seaweed stuff. Which is okay, I guess, if you like that, but . . . it's not really floating my boat right now.

I hope that my naive enthusiasm for being here can be restored in the morning. I plan on walking the half mile to my training class, so that my help. Some of my dampened attitude may simply be due to the fact I'm still recovering from this stupid sinus infection. I hope it's not just because I'm a jaded adult now who's been traveling for about two weeks too long to really enjoy this latest experience, when all I really want is to be home, with my own comfy bed, my fat, drooling cats, my friends, my own comforts. Wow, I sound old, don't I? But I shall try to enjoy this. After all, I'm not footing this hefty bill! (Why do I feel guilt about it then?)

face="Verdana">***************************************

San Francisco in Broad Daylight

Retrospectively, October 6, 2004

A decent night's sleep in a bed, that for a hotel, was almost as comfortable as the one I left at home, left me feeling a little bit better about my status as a guest in The City, as opposed to day visitor.

Walking to my training class, about six blocks away, was an infinitely easier prospect than driving, for the simple fact that it would probably only take about 10 minutes to walk a straight line, rather than 20 estimated minutes to drive a convulated route.

Even in the morning with very little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, the city streets had a depressing pall about them. Maybe it's because there are more homeless people than I remember there being here before. And they don't all exhibit the charm that I'm used to from San Francisco beggars. most of them are just that -- beggars.

The day was warmer than most San Francisco days, draining even more of the charm that I'd come to expect from my previous day visits. In fact, not only was the near omni-present fog not present, the heat added to the increased amount of homeless people presented a sum of smells that assaulted my senses, and not in a pleasant way. There were pockets of urine smells, unwashed bodies on every side it seemed, and scents of just dirty city streets.

The highlight of my day was having an entire half (oxymoronic, I know) of my Quizno's sandwich left over from lunch to be able to wrap and give to a homeless person on the street who seemed genuinely pleased to receive it.

Lest I get any nasty notes from any San Francisco Bureau of Tourism people, let me hasten to add that as the week progressed and the weather returned to San Francisconormal, the charm of the city returned. I'm sure that still being significantly ill was not helping my initial attitude much.

Instead of letting silly things like a sinus infection and urine smells dictate my experience, I took matters into my own hands. I did not want to spend three days in a city that I've previously loved only to return home with a bad taste for it. Enjoying some simple pleasures made all the difference in the world in restoring my attitude. Using my company's dinner allowance, I took a friend who's attending USF from Burbank out to dinner and enjoyed her delightful company. I enjoyed a solo dinner, indulging in rich English-style food in an Irish pub down the street from my hotel. I visited a Rasputin music store and browsed as quickly as possible in the half hour allotted me before closing time, their three stories of used CDs.

Overall I remembered, that we're only as happy with a situation as we allow ourselves to be. If I had chosen to allow my initial frustration at navigating an obnoxious rental car through annoying, non-sensical city streets, or the disgusting citified smells dictate my overall experience, I'd be, well, frustrated and disgusted.

As with any situation that presents itself to us, regardless of our current environment or circumstance, how we perceive that situation makes or breaks us. We can choose to accept it at face value, potentially turning us into miserable human beings, or we can adjust our own attitude to accept it graciously, trying to find the humor and joy in each situation. Regardless of how obnoxious or smelly it is, there is good to be had everywhere.

I just realized that sounded a little soap-boxy, and for that I apologize. But sitting here some weeks after the fact, reading what I wrote that first night and trying to capture the timbre of those few days, I am glad that for as upset as I was that first night, I can look back on that time and say that I truly enjoyed it.

Happiness is always a choice.

***************************************

Reading
: "Insatiable," by Marne Davis Kellogg

Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Are You Happy?

For those of you who think I serve no other purpose but to update here at least weekly, I tell you this: I'm on vacation! Leave me alone!

With that in mind, this will not be a fancy entry or anything terribly meaningful. It is simply an entry.

This is where I am right now visiting my parents.

This is where I'll be later tonight and the rest of the week.

And this is what I'll be doing on Thursday.

This is what I'll be doing on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday evenings. Yes, this also means seeing someone I used to date (can I call him an ex-boyfriend? He's definitely someone I used to love that way but now I just wish he could accept a friendship. That's fodder for a solo entry, though.

On that note, I leave you with this happy thought. My parents introduced me to several of their friends at church the other day. What can I say? They love me and wanted to show me off. Anyway, one woman wanted to know if I was there with my family, which was a confusing question, because I was thinking, "Yes, don't you see these people? These are my parents, and my sister and her family are here too, and that's my family," but then I realized she meant did I have a husband and children of my own. While I was still working that word problem out in my head (sometimes I'm not very quick on the draw), my mother said, "No, she's not married."

The woman sympathetically clucked and shook her head and said, "Oh, you're all alone, are you?"

I drew myself up an extra two inches (I need to stop slouching anyway) and said, "I'm not married, but I'm not alone."

That was definitely not the answer she was expecting to hear. Truthfully, it wasn't really the answer I expected to give, but I hate the pitying looks from people who think I'm too old to be single when they really have no idea who I am or what I've gone through to get to this point. She said, just one step shy of huffiness, "Well. I've never heard that before. You'll have to explain to me what that means."

So I did. I may not be married, but that doesn't mean I'm alone. I'm the exact opposite of alone. In fact, I've known married people who really are alone, and that to me is sadder by far than not being married. In other words, I'd rather wish I were than wish I weren't. Of course there are times I wish I were married or I play the mental "what if" game about certain boys I've dated, but I'm happy in my life right now. I have a wonderful "family of choice," I surround myself with people and activities I love and that fill my spirit and soul, and I can be happy even while single. It's not the "happily ever after" ending I dreamed of when I was a little girl or even a young woman (actually, when I was a little girl, that kind of lovey-dovey stuff was non-existent to me), but that doesn't mean it's not a happily-ever-after ending. For one thing, it's not over yet, and for another, happy is defined however you want it to be. That definition changes as your life circumstances change, but if you're always anticipating the next great event in order to be happy, then you will never be happy.

"Men (and women) are, that they may be happy." In other words, the fact that I exist means I should be happy. And I am.

Are you?

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

Relationship Advice

As as already been addressed once by me here, people, particularly those who think they have the whole marriage/relationship thing worked out already, have no qualms whatsoever about giving out dating/catching a man/relationship advice, solicited or not.

I know I don't have everything figured out, and I'm open for advice that I think will help. What would be easiest, though, would be if there were no communication problems between men and women. If we spoke the same language, we probably wouldn't all be spinning our wheels in singledom wondering what we're doing well or wrong. Now I'm no John Gray Mars/Venus relationship guru, but there are a few things I have learned about men and women.

Sometimes, boys are stupid. Boys will always be stupid. That's just a gender difference, and even though it's not "stupid," really, as defined by Webster, we get mad when they don't see things the same way we do or think they should, so they immediately are esteemed as lower life forms. Some of them are, but not all. As long as we remember that boys and girls always ALWAYS have different ways of expressing themselves, we (girls) may be able to keep our heads above the ocean of dating. Girls crave emotional feedback on a level that boys are incapable of giving, especially in situations where those boys consider the girl to just be a friend-friend or buddy. It would never occur to them in a million years that we express friendship the way we do. So instead of telling them so, we (females) think that if we do something MORE, the boy will get it and reciprocate. But he won't. Not in that situation. We forgive without them even knowing they've wronged us, we apologize, we grovel, we express, we love, sometimes we push and shove, all to no avail. They don't get it. It's not that he (pick a "he," any one will do) doesn't understand the WORDS you are using with him, he doesn't understand WHY that could possibly be important to you. Boys are all about checklists and accomplishing things, without a moment's consideration given to the emotional reason needed to perform said duty. It never occurs to him that we have different expectations, because he thought all that was required of him was to perform a particular duty. He did that, one thing on his list checked off, time to move to the next item. I'm not saying that to excuse him, believe you me. I'm just saying he doesn't know better. He's incapable of expressing emotions, feelings, thoughts, whatever, the way girls want to hear it. Unless he thinks he can get some action out of it, however, then the rules change. That's why it really is hard for girls and boys, past adolescence, to have the same types of friendships with each other that girls can have with girls. It is never an equal playing ground. Never.

And that's okay, too. It's part of the greater plan. Yin/yang, opposites attract, whatever you want to call it -- we're different from each other because we need those differences. We can't make them conform to our rules anymore than they can make us slap them on the butts when it's time to tell them they did a good job. We just all have to learn about the differences, accommodate them, be frustrated by them, grow, then move on.

Here's some good news though, for those of us who may be floundering. This is from today's Reuters wire:

BERLIN
(Reuters) - A leading German dictionary publisher plans to launch a guide it says will help men translate the subtext of female conversation.

The Langenscheidt publishing group, best known for its well-respected yellow foreign language dictionaries, will launch sales of a 128-page book to translate such baffling female banter as: "Let's just cuddle" into "No sex tonight please!."

"Each themed chapter offers men behavioral tips and exposes hidden messages transmitted by women in everyday situations, such as on holiday or during shopping trips," said Silke Exius, chief editor at Langenscheidt.

Other examples in the "German-Woman/Woman-German" edition due out in October include explaining why a woman asks a man to take interest in the pair of shoes she may be trying on.

She wants him to look because he's about to pay for them.

For those of us who don't speak German and/or can't wait for the subtext translation guide, or who know there is no babelfish on earth that will ever translate any male/female subtext no matter the language, I leave you with this happy site. It's rich not only because of the advice it offers men who are looking to get into a relationship, but especially because it was translated from something (Russian? German?) into English, offering much hilarity in trying to translate the translation.

Be safe out there, relationship hitchhikers, and don't forget your towel!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Finally, a friend in cyberspace! You may remember Qwendy who wrote a charming guest entry here not too long ago. She has now started her own on-line journal. Though still new, I have no doubt she will make you laugh and cry right along with her. Enjoy!

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

Through the (Very Blurry) Looking Glass

Twenty years. Two decades. Four pentads. Two hundred and forty months. Eighty-seven thousand six-hundred and fifty-six days (give or take). That's how long it's been since I graduated from high school. Las Lomas Knights, class of 1984, to be precise. It's a long time, or at least it seems like it to me, probably because I have spent so much of the intervening years shoving those events as far down into the recesses of my mind as possible. The cloudy fingers of rememberances have further to travel for me to recognize them, but for some reason, the awful ones are always just within easy reach.

"So why go?" you ask. As well you might. Others have, you won't be the first. I wish I had an answer for you. I don't, at least not an easy one. I think I might now, but I didn't when I sent in my pre-registration form and made the reservations at the hotel. It just seemed like it might be the right thing to do, so I did.

I wasn't looking forward to it. I asked myself several times what I thought I was doing. These were not people I have spoken to, heard of or from, or even thought of for most of that time. In preparation, I dug my senior yearbook from out of the storage bin it has been in, neglected and dusty, with every intent of familiarizing myself with those faces from days gone by. Getting the yearbook out was the easy part. Opening its pages was not. The only thing it did for me was get the adrenalin pumping and heart rate going faster while bile rose in the back of my throat. And that's just looking at pictures of a bunch of punk 80s kids who mean nothing to me anymore! I quickly shut it and put it in a bag ready to bring with me for the trip.

I knew I was not going to be the person going to the reunion with something to prove. I guess I would have felt that way had I chosen or been able to go to the five- or even ten-year reunion. But my life has not gone the way my crystal ball said it should have, for which I'm very grateful, so I figured that after 20 years, it would be pointless to try to actually prove anything. Prove what, exactly? I would just try my hardest to be myself. I'm not saying that was easy to think about doing. I mean, high school is so very stressful. Each day is filled with impressing people so that you can be accepted. Willingly placing myself back into a social situation with the same people I had spent my formative years trying to impress even though I have nothing left to prove....? I was afraid old habits would die hard.

Then I remembered that we're all different, we'd all be bringing lifetimes of different experiences with us, and I'm not the only one who's probably gained a few pounds in 20 years or whatever. In fact, I was really hoping that there would be a lot of fat, bald people there. And that the men wouldn't look so hot either! Okay, I'm joking about that, but seriously, we'll have all changed, so I tried putting that stress behind me and walking through the door totally open to the experience.

My biggest fear was seeing Kim becase I still wasn't sure where things stood with her. I didn't know if I'd be able to fall back into the familiar habit of eating with her so that I could have a friend and not be a loner (see how easily those insecurities are dredged up?), or if we'd merely greet each other politely and get back to our lives.

The first person I saw who looked familiar apparently also had no problem recognizing me. It helped that I knew she was going, so I could easily come up with her name without having to look at her nametag. Brenda hasn't changed a lot, at least physically. She's still bubbly and gregarious and seemed genuinely happy to see me. She told me she had just re-read the entry I wrote in her yearbook and how funny it was. I thought, "Really? Someone thought I was funny?" It's too bad we're all hung up in our insecurities and self-centeredeness in high school and focusing on ourselves. If I had spent more time thinking about others and less about what others thought about me, it probably would have been a lot more meaningful. Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

I smiled at and made small talk with a few other people, finding that we're really not all that different after all. And no one really cared that I had gained weight (or if they did, they didn't say so) or that I wasn't married or that I'm not the CEO of a company. We were just a bunch of people in a room all facing the past in the present, and it was all okay.

Then I saw Kim. And her husband -- the one she's been married to for 18 years even after I was horrified that they started dating in high school. We greeted each other politely and got back to our own lives. And I thought, "Well, that was disappointing. I guess it's not all water under the bridge after 20 years," and went back to making small talk with other people.

Then a girl came up who hadn't yet registered so she didn't have her name tag on yet, greeted me by name, gave me a hug, and we started talking. I asked her what she was doing, where she was working, how'd she find out that was something she wanted to do -- having a perfectly lovely conversation with her -- all the while thinking to myself, "I wish I knew who this was." Kim came up and was glad to see this other person and said, "Let's get you a nametag!"

"Yes, let's," I thought to myself.

Since the mystery person hadn't registered on time, she was sure there wouldn't be a nametag for her, so she and Kim started shuffling through the copied yearbook pictures to find hers so they could make an impromptu nametag. Since I could provide absolutely no assistance in that endeavor, I idly looked at the other nametags on the table. Then someone else came up and said, "Look! Here's Cheryl!" I looked back down at the nametags and realized exactly who it was, smacked myself mentally on the forehead for not being able to figure it out on my own, and kind of shuffled away before they could figure out I had been staring at her nametag wondering if she was going to come.

It was a girl I had played softball with for three years and had various classes with. I couldn't believe I hadn't been able to remember her name.

The rest of the evening went smoothly after that. I actually ended up having dinner with Kim and Matt, and Sue and Mike and Allan, and it was all just fine after getting the initial jitters out of the way. Kim and I had a lovely conversation throughout dinner, which we would have happily shared with the rest of the table, but the music was progressively getting louder making it near impossible to hear anything that wasn't shouted directly into one's ear.

At one point, Regina finally wound her way to our table. She was one of my lunchtime buddies who I remember with fondness. It was good to talk with her and see what she's making of her life. It was also nice to have the courage and experience of being a grown-up now to tell her what I thought of her in high school. I was always so impressed with her ability to grasp nuances that seemed to flutter just out of the grasp of my consciousness. She knew things and expressed those things better than I ever could have. I always thought she was funny, if a bit cynical, but I admired that too, because it reminded me that high school was something to endure and get through, not a four-year cycle that would continue repeating itself year after hellish year. I told her that, and she was amazed. She thought she was the quiet

latina
girl that no one ever paid any attention to.

I remembered again just how hard it is for all of us, no matter who we are or appear to be, we all have insecurities, fears, hang-ups and bad days. Wouldn't it be better if we approached people knowing that we're all human, instead of pretending that he's perfect or that I can't possibly offer this person anything? In fact, I stumbled across this the other day expressing this sentiment much better than I am capable of doing.

As the music increased in volume making conversation impossible, I decided to start heading back to the hotel. Kim and Matt also started making the same exodus. I hugged her goodbye, and asked for forgiveness for whatever stupid, childish, naive thing I had said or done that made it so that we weren't friends our senior year. She was surprised, then said, "Twenty years is a long time to hold on to something. If I said anything that was wrong, I'm sorry too."

Some say that revenge is sweet. I disagree. There is nothing sweeter in life than redemption and forgiveness. I gained a little bit of both that night, and nothing could feel better.

I think it will make it easier to face my past now, and not want to shove everything down into forgetfulness. Knowing that the past can be corrected in the present makes it easier to relive the past. I believe the past actually can be changed. I was no HG Wells time traveler, but my future has been changed because of confronting my past.

Afterthought

When I tell people that I attended my 20 year high school reunion this past weekend, they say, "Really? How was it?" Then answering their own question for me, "Surreal, huh?" I agree, because it's really too hard to explain any other way. But I'm going to try.

Taking a step into the past as I just did felt like taking my present life in the form of an overhead transparency, complete with current memories of people and places, then taking another transparency of my childhood and youth and placing it directly over the current one. When the two are projected together, they're so similar as to almost be the same -- what I've really lived and what I remember to have lived -- but with such finely defined differences as to make the current image a little blurry. I almost need 3-D glasses to view it properly. Failing that, I squint and move my head around trying to get the whole image into focus. Then I shake my head a few times trying to work out the details. It's not surreal because it is real, it's just all jumbled together. I expect that to change, though, as I believe I'm a little more capable of taking the past and reconciling it with the now.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Excited about: A real vacation next week, to

West Yellowstone
, among other places. I don't know when the next update will be able to happen, but I will be taking copious notes so that I can share them with or alternatively bore you to tears with them when I get back.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Homecoming

I’ve read a lot of books. I like reading. You might even say that I devour them. I read quickly, trying to absorb as many details as possible in as short a time as possible because I'm anxious to find out how it ends, how the story develops, what the character learns. The inherent risk in this reading process is that I tend to forget unmemorable books soon after reading them. It's not until years later if I pick up a book that I've already (unknowingly, unrememberingly) read that I start to figure out that I've read it. The realization doesn't come at once, though. It comes page by page as I rediscover the plot and characters. A word or phrase or description or character will start to sound familiar, but since I don't remember reading the book, I don't know why it seems familiar. But with each page during the rediscovery process, more and more starts to ring with familiarity. I don't always remember what's going to happen next in the plot, but I remember that I once knew about what just happened.

Going home after 10 years is not unlike that. Well, "home" may be a relative term. I don't consider Walnut Creek to be home anymore. I don't even consider it to be my hometown, although I suppose I would consider this area, the East Bay, to be my home area. I moved, more or less on a whim, to the Los Angeles area nine years ago. I hadn't lived in my childhood home for four years before that. Home was something that was becoming redefined. Home was where I lived, where my furniture was, my cats, my friends, my bed, none of which resided on Trinity Avenue in the house I grew up in.

Driving north today started off as any ordinary road trip. There were the typical sparsely populated areas punctuated by the occasional rest stop or small town geared towards supplying weary travelers with their wants and needs.

After the 5/580 split though, the random, undecorated landscape changes. There are, of course, the fields of windmills on the outskirts of Livermore. Then there is Livermore itself, containing some vague memories. I attended church there for a year or so, making it only semi memorable. Not a lot of emotional attachment.

Then comes the junction for the 680. Now the memories, unbidden, start creeping in. Each exit going north closer to Walnut Creek triggers recollections of friends who live off those exits -- hours spent at their houses, driving late at night to and from dances or parties. There's the exit for my piano teacher. Also the Alamo chapel is up there. And the Bolen's used to live there; I wonder if they still do. And the Ostland's, but I know they moved to Illinois. There's where the Campbell twins lived -- memories of their boyfriend rivalries and time spent at girls' camp the year we pretended I was their older sister and had a lot of people fooled start filtering down.

Then the sign for Walnut Creek, population 63,400, which is only 9,000 more bodies than when I was in high school. Not as big as a population explosion as I had expected for a town known for attracting a rich yuppie demographic. They're the only ones who can really afford to live there anymore, and certainly only the elite can afford to shop there.

The other sign of note: "Downtown Walnut Creek, Next 3 Exits." I laughed at that one, thinking, "How much 'downtown' can there seriously be? Enough to need three exits? "Downtown" when I was a kid was defined as two blocks of Main Street. Really, I'm not making that up. Well, okay, Broadway Plaza had some anchor department stores with some boutiques wedged in between, but "downtown?" C’mon.

I debated as to whether or not I should do a quick drive by of the old homestead, but looking at the clock and knowing I was meeting Carmel for lunch, decided to hit it later. Then I looked to the right of the freeway, identifying streets and landmarks that had once been so familiar to me, and the pull was too great. At the last possible second, I crossed two lanes of traffic and exited on Ygnacio Valley Blvd.

Holy Cow! What have they done? What used to be Oakland Blvd. is now the off ramp to route traffic to Ygnacio Valley Blvd. Oakland Blvd. – the street perpendicular to mine, where I had waited for school buses to take me to elementary school, ridden my bike on, gone to the paper shack –has been bulldozed and reduced to a freeway off ramp.

I had to make a long, circuitous block to make it to Trinity Ave. What once used to be a straight shot from the freeway now requires the navigational skills of Columbus to reach.

Finally, I turn right onto Trinity Ave. from California Blvd. There's the Trinity Arms apartment building, with the N still on backwards as it has been for as long as I can remember. Funny the details you can remember when you see them again. Things you haven't thought about in years, or even knew that you were noticing, are all of a sudden as vivid and sharp as if you never left. It's an odd sensation.

There's old Mrs. Harmon's house, gone to ruin now with yellow caution tape protecting trespassers from the rickety stairs.

There's the apartment building my best grammar school friend, Adriana, and her family lived in. Looks the same, with a slightly lighter color of grey paint, but now seeing it, I have no doubt I could find my way to their apartment, even though they haven't lived there for 25 years.

Cresting the hill now, the same one that my sister used to make me get off my bike and walk up because she couldn’t make it up on her bike so she assumed I couldn't either. It's not as big as I remember.

There's the Episcopalian church parking lot where I learned to ride my bike. There's the condominiums built where Mr. Ink's house used to stand. I used to hang out with him in his backyard, where between my Evil Knievel stunts of jumping my bike over the fallen logs in his backyard, he afforded me the honor of knocking the ashes off his cigarette butts for him. Our friend Mary was one of the first people to buy and move into those condos when they were first built. Number Four. Several years later, Susan and her mother moved into number Six after the divorce. I wonder if she'll be there tomorrow? I have no idea what's happened to any of these people.

There's Mrs. Kimball's house. It doesn't look any different, although that huge two-ton pickup in the driveway is definitely not familiar.

And there's 1950. The white picket fence that the Dinkel's built for my parents. And the swing hanging from the black acacia tree is still there. I can't believe that tree is still there, but the swing is, indeed attached to the tree I used to climb every summer day. It was a fort, a lookout, an escape, a treehouse. Looking at the limbs that have been trimmed back, my fingers and hands already know exactly which handholds they need to grab, and where my legs need to swing up to catch the lower limbs to get myself to the first level.

The walnut tree is gone, but the front porch is the same. There're the poles I relied heavily on to hang our outdoor Christmas lights on. The front window is the same as when my parents moved into that house in the 50s. Details I didn't know I knew are as vivid as if I had never left. I know them before I look at them, before I'm aware that I'm looking at them, I see them in my mind's eye, then see them with my physical eyes and they are the same.

I grab my camera and start taking pictures, quickly earning me a wary look from the woman next door watching the truck. I don't want to scare her, so I raise a friendly hand and walk towards her, my car engine still running.

"I bet you're wondering why I'm taking pictures of this house, don't you?"

"Yes," which even though I've used my best, most reassuring, friendly tone and smile, does nothing to convince her I'm not casing the joint.

"I don't want you to think I'm casing the joint getting ready to burglarize it or anything, but I grew up in that house, and I'm home for a high school reunion, and I just wanted to come and see it. My sister actually still owns it," I add as additional reassurance.

"Oh!" she brightens. "You grew up in this area?"

"No. I grew up in THAT HOUSE," emphatically pointing.

She tells me she knows the tenants and is sure they wouldn't have a problem with me wandering around and checking it out. I immediately take advantage of it, and walk down the driveway.

It's all the same, but different. It's not mine, anymore. It's still in the family, but not my family -- my sister's family. Strangers live there now. The outside is the same, although the "garage" has been remodeled somewhat, apparently into a studio apartment to accommodate an additional resident. That explains the extra mailbox in the front yard -- 1950A.

My arm reaches over the redwood-colored gate to unlatch it. It knows exactly where to go, even though I have not performed this action on this gate in decades. The backyard hasn't changed much, although the distance to the back fence separating our yard from the Presbyterian nursery school playground that I used to hit home runs over appears to be dramatically shorter.

There are no more fruit trees or strawberries, but the back patio is the same. I boldly walk up those stairs to peer into the living room windows. A Great Dane skitters across the hardwood floors, barking furiously, probably more upset that I have made it that far without him noticing me than he is that I'm actually invading his territory. There is different furniture in there and a bike parked in what used to be the living room. Everything seems smaller somehow, and even though I always knew our house was not spacious, it had sufficient space. Now I look at it with dual eyes -- as a child who spent 17 straight years there, and an adult who's done her fair share of apartment hunting. Could I live there now? It seems strange that I ever did, but with a small squint of my eyes, I can picture the forest green carpeting that used to cover the floors, and the day my dad laid that carpet himself. There's the fireplace which held first our Christmas stockings, before making way for the wood burning stove. Now, it's just a fireplace. I can see the refrigerator in the kitchen from where I stand. It's exactly where it should be. But there are socks on the floor that don't belong to anyone I know, and the dog is still barking, and I am immediately jerked back to the present and what is currently reality.

I walk back around the way I came, the dog's barking still accompanying me to show me who's boss around here. It doesn't bother me -- I lived there for longer than that dog will be alive. He considers it his territory, but it belongs to me. Even seeing it dressed differently, it is my childhood home. Just because I have not lived here for 12 years does not mean it isn't my home. I don't live there, but my memories do, those memories I didn't know I had, pushing their way through the layers of fog placed there by the passing years.

Is it possible to go home? Is it possible to return to a place that exists only in your memories? I didn't think it was. But I found out today, that just like rediscovering a book , the pages of the memory are just as easily accessed, turned, caressed, read, rediscovered, brushing away the heavy fog of forgetfulness. Even if there is a Great Dane barking running interference, yesterday’s memories are as brightly vivid as today’s events.

Welcome home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Reading: "The Putt at the End of the World," a novel written contiguously by nine authors.

Excited about: A & M's new baby, freshly arrived to this world from the pre-existence on Saturday, August 12. Congratulations!

Friday, August 13, 2004

Is This the End As We Know It?

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day -- something that I have the luxury of doing two or three times a week since my job doesn't always have pressing, demanding present requirements. Don't get me wrong -- I do my job, but it doesn't require the same urgent timeline that I've been used to in the past. No real deadlines. No huge pressures hanging over my head. Just a steady, plodding, daily, show-up-to-work-and-do-what-you-can type of a job. As such, I have some down time to spend talking on the phone and browsing the web. The phone and the computer are both tools on my desk, after all, and it'd be a shame to ignore them for the sake of work.

Anyway, we were talking about my downtime and lack of urgency this job presents, and she asked me, knowing that I spend a bit of time on the internet, if I had reached the end yet.

"The end? The end of what?" I somewhat stupidly asked.

"The internet," she replied.

I laughed, because what an absurd thought! The end of the internet, indeed! With billions of people who think they all of important things to write, preach or sell, it surely must be infinite. But then I figured it really, by definition, would have to be finite. It might be circular, landing you right back where you started from, but that doesn't make it infinite, I don't think.

As a mere human, I myself don't have the resources to find the end; I'd need several hundred computers or programs or something to do that for me, but really, how hard could it be? If I eliminate all porn and non-English sites, I ought to be able to find the end in only a couple of weeks. Okay, maybe not that soon, but the very fact that I can put definite parameters around finding the end of the internet means it is not infinite; it's gotta end somewhere.

Sadly, I don't have the resources available at my fingertips to do the necessary searching. And I really DO have a job to do, contrary to popular belief. So I decided to do, what else? a Yahoo! search.

And guess what? I found it. Right here.

Go ahead, check it out. I'll wait. You can always use the Back button on your browser to get here. Finding the end of the internet doesn't mean you can't work your way backwards.

Are you back? Okay, good. Because guess what else I found? That's right. Another ending.

And yet another one.

And another one.

One more.

Still one more.

So, what does it mean? If there's only one internet, one world wide web, shouldn't there only be one ending to it? I guess it depends on your definition of ending. I purposely did not include links here to sites claiming to be the last of the internet pages that included other links to other sites. Because then that's not really the end, right? So I have just imposed upon you my definition of The End.

Am I right? I don't know. Look at life. (Not for very long -- you'll get depressed.) How do you know when one phase of your life has ended and another one begun? Sometimes you can tell based on dates -- the date you graduated from high school or college, or the date you were married, or broke up with your significant other. Those may seem to be definitive, measurable beginning or ending times. But are they really? Just because you say your wedding vows on a certain date doesn't really mean that's the beginning of the marriage, does it? It seems to me that would start during the courtship process. And the courtship process would begin when you start dreaming about the type of person you want to date, and....well, you see where I'm going with this, right?

And some people really never leave high school, even if they do have a diploma to prove they graduated. You know who they are -- you've dated at least one in your lifetime.

So, how do you know when you reach the end of something? How do you measure it if there are many possible different endings? I don't know. But I will share this with you, a piece of wisdom gleaned from my first tai chi class. Maybe life really is like the hokey pokey -- you make a circle with your friends, and put your left foot in, take it out again.

Why are you looking at me like that? I don't know what it means! Don't ask me!

The point is (I think I really do have one), all we can do, rather than measure time or define beginnings and endings, is to do what all of those "last page of the internet" sites said -- go out and play. Read a book. Be nice to each other. Get along. Hold hands, and keep putting your left foot and taking it out again. Enjoy the moment. Even if the moment sucks, try to enjoy it.

-----The End. For Now. -------

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Reading: I'm trying out John Lutz' suspense stuff.

Listening to: Dress Rehearsal by Carolyn Dawn Johnson

Watching: The Olympics. Even if it does mean putting up with that mealy-mouthed Bob Costas. What other choice do I have? Besides, I LOVE the Olympics!

Wednesday, August 4, 2004

Detectors

One of the first classes I took at CSUH when I got back from Chile was history. I didn't have high hopes for doing well in it; it was to fulfill some of my last GE requirements, and I've always been bad with exact dates. The first thing the teacher did was have us turn to the two-page spread of the world-wide map at the beginning of the book and look at it. The map was unlike anything I had ever seen before, as the eastern hemisphere was on the left side of the page, and the western hemisphere on the right. For those of you keeping score at home, that's backwards.

The professor waited for us to notice, which not everyone did, then said, "If you learn nothing else in college, you must learn to become bullsh*t detectors." (He actually used the entire word -- my first indicator that I was no longer at BYU.) "Just because this map is in a textbook for which you have just paid $65 does not mean that everything in it is correct or accurate. You must learn for yourselves how to recognize truth and error."

I didn't do great in the class -- my lack of ability to memorize dates was a deterrent in doing well on the quizzes and tests, and I don't really even remember anything else from that class, other than the admonition to not only learn when the wool is being pulled over your eyes, but to do or say something about it.

This has served me well in life, although I still need the occasional reminder that just because something is written down does not make it true. That's a true statement, even if you did just stumble across it on the internet. It bears repeating. Just. Because. Something. Is. Written. Down. Does. Not. Make. It. True.

This holds true for the emails you get from your well-intentioned aunt or co-worker about the fire hazards posed by Glade plug-ins, or the warning to not smell perfume in parking lots. The best one yet -- don't fall asleep somewhere you don't know, because when you wake up, you'll be in a bathtub filled with ice and your kidneys will be missing.

For those of you who still feel the need to forward me the emails that your best friend's cousin's boss's mother-in-law just got from her son who knows someone who knows someone else that this seriously happened to and NO KIDDING! just forwarded it to 10 people and the flashing message appeared right afterwards, I offer this plea: Don't send it to me. I don't want it. It doesn't work. Bill Gates and Michael Eisner are not standing by to cut me a check for $5,000 or send me to Walt Disney World. They're just not.

Here are some other tips for you. Yes, you may have already received this in an email, but my truth sensors have detected it as truth, so here you go.

The Forwarders 12 Step Program

1) I will NOT get bad luck, lose my friends, or lose my mailing lists if I don't forward an email!

2) I will NOT hear any music or see a taco dog if I do forward an e-mail to 10 of my closest friends. No pop-up windows of any kind will ever appear. NEVER.

3) I will NEVER receive gift certificates, coupons, or freebies from Coca Cola, Cracker Barrel, Old Navy, or anyone else if I send an e- mail to 10 people.

4) There is NO SUCH THING as an e-mail tracking program, and I am not STUPID enough to think that someone will send me $100 for forwarding an e-mail to 10 or more people!

5) There is NO kid with cancer through the Make-a-Wish program in England collecting anything! If he ever existed, he is now either dead, or cancer-free and 25 years old. He DOESN'T WANT ANY MORE POST CARDS, or GET-WELL CARDS.

6) The government does not have a bill in Congress called 901B (or whatever they named it this week) that, if passed, will enable them to charge us 5 cents for every e-mail we send.

7) There will be NO cool dancing, singing, waving, colorful flowers, characters, or program that I will receive immediately after I forward an e-mail. NONE, ZIP, ZERO, ZILCH, NADA !!

8) The American Red Cross will NOT donate 50 cents to certain individual dying of some never-heard-of disease for every e-mail address I send this to. The American Red Cross RECEIVES donations.

9) I WILL NOT let others guilt me into sending things by telling me I am not their friend or that I don't believe in Jesus Christ. If God wants to send me a message, I believe the bushes in my yard will burn before He picks up a PC to pass it on!

10) Even if I try to justify it with my own personal tag-line of "I'm sure this won't work, but I have to try it just to see for myself!", I should not pass it on.

11) But...!

12) No.

Now, repeat this to yourself until you have it memorized, and send it along to at least 5 of your friends before the next full moon or you will surely be constipated for the next three months.

Okay, that last paragraph isn't true, but you should have figured that out by now using your own BS detector.

By the way, if you ever do get anything that looks like it holds even a granule of truth, don't forward it on without checking it out first. My recommendation on how to figure out which urban legend is true or not is to go to www.snopes.com Use it. Make it your friend. Others will thank you for it.

My personal detector has also served me well when it comes to dealing with people. You know who the problem ones are -- you've met them at work or at school. Sometimes they're in positions of authority, so you think you're supposed to trust everything that person says. The worst is when the person is really nice so you think you should trust him because nice = truth. Only, not really.

In fact, what I have discovered, as a general rule and specifically regarding people I have worked with is that nice = dumb. They use the niceness to cover up the fact that their IQ is lower than the ground floor.

For example, a girl I used to work with is not the heaviest anchor in the harbor. For starters, I can still access her calendar to see her appointments. It's not even that I still have access to it, it's also that our entire department can access it at will. So, we do. Frequently. We all need a good laugh now and again. Here are some of the gems demonstrating her basic grasp of the English (her first and only) language.

Ventran's Day

Shriley's Retirement Lunchment

Candel Light Rehearsal What amazes me most about that is she got "rehearsal" right, but not "candle."

10 Year Anavrsary .... First Date!

Holiday Volenteering!

...and others. You get the general idea. Nice girl, but dumber than a box of hair.

Other Gems From Other (Nice But) Dumb People

Using the word "analytics" instead of "analyze." Or any other time a noun is turned into a verb.

"Are we in agreeance?" Yes, we are in agreement that you're too dumb to get into your car and drive to work every day.

Or the day that one of the managers, yes, MANAGERS -- you know, the person who's supposed to be in charge of other people -- had to test a bug fix when neither the developer or analyst was there. She took one of the test scripts that she herself wrote, executed the test, and it failed. So she tried it again and it worked. Her message to the analyst was, "Well I don't know why it failed, but it worked the second time I tried it. So it's tested." Sounds like she's ready for a promotion!

I work for Disney. As such, we are expected to know a certain amount about the animated characters -- the "people" who have made us who we are today as a company. One day, one of the girls on the other side of my cubicle wall was asking the general vicinity which movie the Evil Queen is in. "Who says, 'Mirror, mirror on the wall'? Is it the Evil Queen? From Snow White? What about Mafelicent? Where's she from? Come on, you guys! Mafelcent! Mafelicent! Is she from Sleeping Beauty? Come on, haven't you heard of Mafelicent? Aren't you guys supposed to be 'Brand Ambassadors?'" She's hollering this at her interns. Ah yes, the pinnacle of the Brand Ambassador herself. Only two of the most famous Disney villians ever, and not only do you not know what movies they're from, it's MALIFICENT, not MAFELICENT, dolt.

Here's the finale. Oh, except I should tell you, this person doesn't fall under the "nice" category. She's in a ball park all by herself. My former manager at the "old" place was as dumb as they come. Her joys in the workplace came from creating large project plans and printing them in color. It doesn't take a lot to entertain her. By the same token, it doesn't take a lot for her to entertain us, either, so it's a win-win situation. One day in the department managers' meeting she announced that her number one priority was to find a cute name for her archive project. Coincidentally, one of the other managers had just seen a television show called "Vault Disney," which is a bunch of old Disney shows pulled out of the vault (archive) that haven't been seen in forever. You, smart reader that you are, already see the play in words between "Vault Disney" and "Walt Disney," right?

So the manager who had seen the show recommended that as a project name to Dumb Manager. The vice president and other managers agreed that would be a great name. When presented to DM, here's how the conversation went:

Smart Manager: Hey (Dummy) - how about this for a name for your project? "Vault Disney."

Dumb Manager: Oh. The Disney Vault. That's good.

SM: No, "VAULT Disney," you know, like WALT Disney?"

DM: Oh. Well The Disney Vault is good.

After lunch the dumb manager went to the developer who is stuck working on the project with the idiot.

DM: Hey, Dave, I have a new name for the project: DAVe -- "Disney Archive Vault." So now that it's named after you, you have to take ownership of it.

Dave: (says nothing)

An innocent bystander: (catching on immediately to the CORRECT play on words) Hey that's good. Like Vault Disney. That's clever.

DM: That's what the Smart Manager said. But it's called The DISNEY Archive Vault.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

What I'm Reading: "Satellite Sisters' Uncommon Senses," by Julie, Liz, Lian, Monica and Sheila Dolan.

What I'm Watching: I saw "The Village" last weekend. It was okay. Waaaaayyy better than "Signs" and "Unbreakable," but nowhere near as good as "The 6th Sense."

Re-watched "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" last night. Fabulous movie. Except for the ending. I love it right up until the last three minutes.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Guest entry today. I was going to update today because of a funny conversation I was involved in regarding a potential new office chair for me. But then I got sidetracked and knew I wouldn't have time. I was talking to Qwendy who said she'd do it for me, and was fairly surprised when I said, "Sure, go ahead." She's beating me to the punch on the new office chair (which is sad, since there was much comic potential there for me), but does a great job.

Please welcome my (almost) imaginary friend, Qwendy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I'm pouting today....

For several reasons, all relating to Laura.

"Who's Laura?" you ask? Well, I don't even know where to start. Laura is... Well.. There's just no short answer to this. I guess to sum it up, she's one of my best nearly imaginary friends. She's real...yes...as in other people in the room can see her. She plays golf, works for Disney, does jujujujubee (form of martial arts/snack food) tai chi, DANCES up a storm, writes, and poohs frequently. And all that is real and 100% true. But I like to embellish -- so she's my Disney Exec Friend (Eisner's right hand gal) who is training for the LPGA tour, who meanwhile centers her life in a Zen sort of way to help keep her grounded.

Oh! And one more thing, she's the owner of this Blog. I'm guest writing for her today. Hence one of the reasons I'm pouting. She writes a fairly lengthy blog, that is quite witty, and for whatever reason, she lets me read it. Today, she taunted me with "I might update my Blog." Then quickly she rained upon my parade with, "but I doubt I'll have time." So, she told me to do it, and that's why I write.

Now for the other reasons I'm pouting:

1.) I'm going up to my parents' house tommorrow. It was my mom's birthday a few weeks ago... It's 3pm ... And I still don't have a gift. I need to have one by tommorrow morning. What to get the woman who has everything.... I'd love to get her a new daughter-in-law to replace my brother's current crazy wife... But I don't exactly know how to go about that. Laura doesn't either, and she's brilliant (brilliant enough to be a resident of Smartsville, my own town I'm creating). Anyhow, apparently she's not brilliant enough to solve this. We need Einstein and Newton to help, and they've passed on, so I think we are out of luck.

2.) In addition to spending the day with my parents in their boring house, watching them build a big gigantic shower, I'm also being subjected to a BBQ in the evening with my brother and his current crazy wife. (wife referenced in Pout #1) I hate her... Despise her... Want to spit venom on her face. Yet, my mother asked me to "Be polite, and pretend to like her, pretend it's an acting excercise." I told her, "We will roll the dice when I get there. Odds = I'm nice, Evens = I'm Evil. It will be a fun little exercise of luck." She thinks I'm kidding. *note to self, pack dice*

3.) I was struck by brillance today. My dear friend Laura said she wished she had a portapotty in her office. I, being a kind friend, wanted to grant her wish. I thought it would not only be a great way for her to meet people, but a convenient item to have in one's office. I'm sure everyone in the building would stop by and visit her to see the porta-potty. I called Andy Gump; they specialize in portapottys. I was ecstatic to learn that indeed it would cost $35 to deliver, and would be "maintained" once a week. I've been wondering what to get Laura for Christmas. This is the gift that would keep on giving. But, my brilliant gift idea was shot down when he asked for the jobsite location. When I informed him it was the 24th floor, he said, "Ahem. We can't do that." Apparently there is some LAME law that you can't put a portapotty in an enclosed area. The 24th floor would fall under an "enclosed area." He said "Yes, even if she could open a window," which I personally would think she would need to have that option with a Portapotty in her office and Taco Bell in close proximity. Anyhow, I was dismayed, but I will fight to have this law changed. Laura will get her wish granted ...one day!


Oh, my. The mental image of me having that in my office, and billing it as my new office chair is just too funny. And a lot embarassing.

Her husband works in the building next door. Since she doesn't know my office address, she was planning on having it delivered to his office, then he could just wheel it on over.

Sadly, I'd have to talk to the office cleaning staff about maintenance, and I don't think I'm up for that.

As much as I appreciate Qwendy's thoughtfulness, I'm equally glad that the word "catheter" never came up anywhere our conversation. Real or imaginary, I'd have to put a stop to our friendship.

And since we're on the subject, this image was sent to me today by a different friend, with the caption, "Would you use it?" It looks like a normal public toilet stall from the outside -- innocent-looking, unobtrusive, not altogether unattractive.

But from the inside:



Oh dear. Can you imagine how many people would start using that as a mirror as you're, um, going about your business?

Qwendy's response: "Absolutely.. but I'd leave the door open.. I like a breeze!"

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What I'm Reading: "Ring of Truth," by Nancy Pickard.

What Qwendy neglected to mention was the porta-potty alternative, once she found out the real deal wasn't allowed in an enclosed office space. It looks like

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Randomness and More

Thoughtless. Literally. This guy doesn't have a brain.

Yesterday, I received an email from a software vendor. Its name has been changed several times, such that it's unrecognizable as the company or name that I used to work for in northern California. It wasn't being sent to former employees, though; it was from the new sales representative -- the standard allow-me-to-introduce-myself salutation, followed by the be-sure-to-call-me-so-you-can-line-my-pockets-with-a-hefty-commission plea.

Pretty typical stuff. What was noticeable, and kept me from immediately deleting it was the fact that this person used the "To" line for all of his business contacts / clients, not "bcc." That bugged me. Who did he think he was, letting everyone else know who I am? And vice versa, I imagine. It would be like getting a hard copy via snail mail with the list of all of his potential clients. Not cool.

I was debating what to do with it -- respond and complain, quietly delete, nothing -- when another email zinged into my inbox, this one from one of the people who had also been directly addressed.

"Matt Moore

"You have given me one more reason to disrespect, dislike, and distrust [Your Company].

"What right do you have to broadcast my email address to your entire address book? Don't you have any net-courtesy?

"Get a clue.

"And remove me from your prospect list. [Your Company] has screwed my employers way too many times. I ain't interested now, and I won't be interested ever."

Cool. He copied everyone on it. Not so cool -- Matt Morris (incidentally, the same name as a guy I used to date. Wonder if it's him? I wouldn't put it past him to do something boneheaded like that) never responded with an apology. He one-upped himself by resending the same email, this time putting all the addresses in the bcc line. Nice.

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Cause and Effect

I know someone who works in a busy office environment with busy people who constantly and frequently need things delivered and picked up to and from clients, other executives, freelancers, other companies, etc. For this purpose, they "lease" two full-time couriers from a courier company. The only responsibility of these two couriers is to carry things. [French courrier, from Old French, from Old Italian corriere, from correre, to run, from Latin currere. See kers- in Indo-European Roots.] They are asked to be there at certain times of the day, with established runs, and when not otherwise occupied with pre-defined runs, they are to , you know, CARRY things from Point A to Destination B. Do not pass Go, do not stop, do not collect $200. Just do your job. Carry things.

I won't elaborate on all the things that go wrong with that plan on a daily basis. You wouldn't think this would be a difficult job. And maybe that's the problem. Maybe it's so simple, they feel the need to compound things by being difficult. Charge for five minutes of overtime. Refuse to take a lunch to get extra overtime. Gripe, moan and complain when asked to make a delivery. Don't show up on time. The list is endless and after awhile, nauseating. That two people can come up with so many reasons to not do something right -- amazes me.

The other day, one of the couriers, let's just call her, oh, Kathy, was asked by one of the aforementioned very busy executive assistants to deliver something. You know, she was asked to do. Her. Job. Kathy accepted the package and said to the assistant as she was turning to leave, "Lazy (insert derogatory insult reserved for women here)." Pot, meet kettle.

Shock. Seriously. The woman's job is to deliver things, and when asked to do so, rebels and verbally insults and assaults.

The assistant did the right thing -- she told the boss' assistant. Kathy was verbally reprimanded, and has been apologetic since. Not sincerely apologetic, mind you, but the type where you know you've done something naughty and don't want to get into more trouble, so you pretend to acknowledge your mistake. That kind. The wrong kind.

Yesterday, the written (first and final) warning was delivered to Kathy. (Not by courier, though. In person.) After receiving it, Kathy asked my friend, "What does 'insubordination' mean?"

(It means you shouldn't call people names when asked to do your job, dummy.)

Kathy: "The boss spoke to me about what happened, and I've been written up for it. I'm willing to take responsibility for saying what I did, but that doesn't mean I wasn't willing to do the job."

My friend: "You're lucky that (the person you were rude to) is the kind of person who would not press any kind of charges against you for hostile work environment or harassment or the other myriad of things she could do. She just won’t have anything more to do with you. She won’t do you in or anything."

Kathy: "Well, she did do me in. (pause) She got me written up.”

Her lack of ability to understand the basic fundamentals of cause and effect is probably the same lack of brains that causes her to not do her job very well. Just saying.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I went up to girls' camp on Friday. Not having any other valid excuse to go (I'm not officially part of our ward's Young Women leadership), I used the one that Linda needed my technical AV expertise for the pioneer program that night. She and I compiled/wrote/edited the script for it, C put together a fabulous slide show of pictures to match the words and music. Linda got permission from Michael McLean to use several of his songs, which was amazing. (Thanks, Michael!)

Linda acted as director, producer, musical director, and all-around amazing gal to pull it all together. She wrangled the girls together for practices several times before camp, enlisted narrators, soloists and an extremely talented actress to participate. The whole production was strung together by miracle after miracle -- from Michael personally giving us permission, to the writing and compiling of the script (the words simply flowed!), to borrowing a multimedia projector and sound system and microphones, to the girls all pulling together and doing a phenomenal job.

The program has unofficially been called "Light on a Distant Hill," because that's the name of the Michael's show that we pulled the main songs from, but that doesn't begin to describe what it was about.

July 24 is the anniversary of the Mormon pioneers arriving in the Salt Lake Valley after more than a decade of persecution at the hands of murderous mobs. That date is still celebrated annually to commemorate the sacrifice those early Saints made. Many people's lives, Mormons and non-Mormons alike, have been blessed because of those faithful pioneers. I am a descendant on both sides of my family of different pioneering families. However, many members of the church today are not. Such an important anniversary is noted not only because of the lives of our ancestors, but to also remember and ignite the flame of that same dedication and courage that we all have as modern-day pioneers.

The program starts off with some individual pioneer stories, then transitions into the "what about me?" phase, moving to the finale of how our lights need to shine from the inside out as we remember that pioneering spirit to lift and help those around us.

These meager words cannot begin to describe the combination of the script's words and feelings with the music and visuals. Trust me, it was fabulous.

Thanks to everyone who participated and helped make it a success.

Thursday, July 22, 2004

Lost in Translation

I splurged the other day and bought a digital camcorder. The excuse is that I'm going to church girls' camp tomorrow to record and preserve forever the Pioneer Day program that Linda, C and I have been working on for close to two months now. Linda and I wrote, compiled and edited it. C has been working many hours on finding the right images to go with the words and music. Linda and I have been working with the girls for the music part of it -- teaching them the songs, the harmonies; and directing the narrators in the timing of the spoken word -- to match the music as required and all that other fun stuff.

It's been a lot of work and effort, and it seems a shame that it should get performed once in front of an audience of the girls' peers, then never looked at again. It's only right that it be recorded.

It was not a small financial investment, though I did not purchase a very expensive camcorder. After buying a tripod, memory card (it takes digital photos, too!), UV filter, tapes and the 4-year extended warranty, well, let's just say that I'd better get a lot of use out of it. I don't actually anticipate that being a problem. After all, this is what I did and loved in college -- shot and edited moving images. I was really good at it, too. It'll be fun to have an excuse to get back into that.

Since tomorrow is the day of the big performance, it doesn't really give me a lot of time to practice. I have to get it right on the first shot. Retent that I am, I've been perusing the instruction manual this morning. The first item that tipped me off to the fact that this was not originally written in English was this:

"Connect the DC cable to the DC jack socket of the camcorder. (When the battery is attached on the set, you should keep outside the projection of the DC cable.")

Huh? Go ahead, read it again. I'll wait.

Yup, that's really what it says. What does it mean? I dunno. I read it three times, thinking that I wasn't concentrating or focusing enough. It's just poorly translated.

Here are some other translation gems for your enjoyment:

"The PHOTO function lets you capture an object as a still along with sound, while in Camera mode." Sounds exciting. I wonder what types of objects I can capture? The flag?

Everytime it says something about inserting things such as a battery or a tape into the unit, it says "...until you hear a 'click.'" I love that. It makes me think the camcorder is going to start talking to me. "Click. Click, Laura, CLICK! I'm ready!"

"You can record 10 ~ 20 seconds continuously in once by the recording object."

"The file that you recorded are saved in a following folder." It never says which folder, by the way.

"While you record in Memory Card, don't eject it or it might break the data on the Memory Card." I had no idea data could be broken! I knew it could be bad, but broken?

This one is great: "Dust and other foreign material can cause square-shaped noise." Did you know that noises have shapes? Visually? To the human eye?

"You can use your camcorder in any country." Good to know. Thanks.

"You can make recordings with your camcorder and view pictures on the LCD from anywhere in the world." Phew. Because I thought, you know, the LCD viewer might not work in Mexico. I don't think it will work in Mexico if I'm in the United States, which maybe they should have specified.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In other news, I am taking an on-line writing class. It just started yesterday. The first thing we were supposed to do was to post in the discussion area an introduction and a reason we're taking the class. Here's my introduction: "I live in Burbank, California with my roommate Linda who's also my best friend, and my two (and her one) fart-monkey cats. They are hairy and lovable and loving and obnoxious and frustrating and I love them. The cats. The roommate, she is not so hairy."

The instructor dryly responded, "Already your humor shines through, Laura." Yay! Mission accomplished.

Seriously, I'm looking forward to the opportunity to become familiar with different methods of writing motivation, as well as having my work critiqued and reviewed. This also means I'll probably be posting a lot of those assignments here. Consider yourselves forewarned.

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What I'm Reading, or will be soon, as soon as I'm done with the current batch of library books: "Rachel and Leah: Women of Genesis," by Orson Scott Card. This is the third in a series about women in the book of Genesis. First there was Sarah, then Rebekkah, now these two. He also did one about Moses. It's fun to read these because of the character development about people we know about but don't really know.

Best Movie I've Seen Lately: "King Arthur." I have been interested in the Arthurian legend for as long as I care to remember, and I love it because of the high fantasy legends, but also because there's a good chance that this guy actually existed. He probably didn't do all the things we romanticize him for, and he certainly didn't do them during Medieval times as is so often portrayed. This movie takes the fantasy aspect away from the story, and lets the legend live in the time he probabaly did -- 200 or 300 A.D.; just as the Romans are leaving Breton after centuries of occupation. It's very historically based, and thoroughly enjoyable.