"When he shall die,
take him and cut him out in little stars
and he will make the face of Heaven so fine
that all the world will be in love with the night ..."
I've always noticed the sky. Sunrises, Moonrises, stars, planets, rays streaming through clouds ... I've seen and appreciated each experience. I've pulled over while driving to just to focus clearly. As far as I'm concerned, if I'm late for the reason of noticing the sky, that's far more acceptable than any other reason.
Less than an hour ago, I was running errands and dropping of some mail and I noticed the *best* thumbnail moon I've seen in quite awhile. It was low in the bluer part of the night horizon and better still was that Venus and Jupiter were close, too. It was a heck of a sight.
And I got home and, lo and behold, Yahoo had a headline about the awesome night sky we'll be experiencing over the next few days.
So if you're headed somewhere after sunset in the next few days and you see someone pulled over staring up into the sky, you can either whiz by them, roll your eyes, curse the traffic and keep going ... or join 'em. If you see two people pulled over staring up into the sky, one of them will probably be me.
"Kool! Pu ni eht yks! S'ti a drib. S'ti a enalp. S'ti Namrepus!
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Thankful Journey
It's been a long year for her, and it's nearly time. Her body has had more than enough.
Things have been fairly calm one this pathway. Not easy - and not pain-free - but all things considered, fairly calm. And that's all this really is too. It's a path - a journey - and each of us find our way. When we're children, we have VERY little control over things. It makes sense - or, at least, it closes the loop - that when we're elderly, we have very little control over things.
*******
My parents celebrated Thanksgiving today, a day before the rest of the nation. Not because they're so incredibly blessed that they need more than 24 hours to acknowledge each thing ('tho that may, in fact, be true), but because my mother would prefer to not have to remember Thanksgiving as the day her sister died.
And, in all likelyhood sometime between now and the end of the weekend, the loop will be completed, and this journey will have concluded.
I learned how to waterski in Lake Tahoe around the age of 9 or so. I was terrified of ANY body of water and had not been taught to swim but my Dad's youngest sister, the "coolest" Aunt I had, insisted on tossing me into the lake anyway. I popped up and out from behind the boat and skied my little heart out. She was thrilled at my success, not realizing that I was not in fact a star pupil (nor she all that skilled of an instructor), but instead was just too petrified to let go of the rope. In fact, I didn't even really fall at the end of my run. My skinny little arms finally gave out and I let go of the lead, only to slowly sink into the water and prey that my life preserver would work until the boat circled around to come get me.
That Aunt passed away on November 19th, 2003 and Thanksgiving that year was quiet and done out of a feeling of "well we have to eat I guess" more than anything else.
I learned how to barefoot waterski in my teens behind the boat of my Mom's sister, the "other" Aunt. I wasn't particularly close to this Aunt or Uncle when I was a kid. Their children, my cousins, are a solid decade plus older than I, and I suppose I was somewhat of a mystery to them. I was outgoing and energetic, bookish and musically inclined, and it never failed that I'd need to be in yet another arm cast a week prior to spending time at the lake. But this one summer, very early in the morning while the lake was completely flat, I convinced my Uncle to get their Chris-Craft fired up pre-breakfast. And with my Aunt looking on from their dock and my boyfriend cheering me on from the back of the boat, I yelled "hit it", sunk my shoulders as low as they would into the water, and let the tow-line pull me to the top of the lake on a single ski, which I then stepped off from. To hear my Uncle tell it (to everyone who would listen for the rest of the week), I practically walked on the water all by myself. He never understood that his skill behind the wheel of their boat was the ONLY reason I didn't break a toe - or a foot - or a leg.
And now this Aunt takes the same journey, being guided by the same crappy disease.
*******
And yet, I am thankful. I am thankful that her pain and suffering will cease. I am thankful that we fought like hell - not against one another but as a family towards a goal - to get her one more beautiful Summer on the lake. Her Lake. And I am thankful that I have this memory, and so many others.
This path, as I try to comprehend it, ideally shouldn't be in any way painful for those making it. It is those left behind that mourn the loss of a good friend, loving spouse, supportive parent, caring Aunt or Uncle, or incredible sibling. It is a journey that we are all on, but those final steps are always made alone.
This Thanksgiving, allow me to urge you as strongly as I possibly can via this electronic diary of mine. If you have a good friend, a loving spouse, a supportive parent, a caring Aunt or Uncle or an incredible sibling - give thanks.
Things have been fairly calm one this pathway. Not easy - and not pain-free - but all things considered, fairly calm. And that's all this really is too. It's a path - a journey - and each of us find our way. When we're children, we have VERY little control over things. It makes sense - or, at least, it closes the loop - that when we're elderly, we have very little control over things.
*******
My parents celebrated Thanksgiving today, a day before the rest of the nation. Not because they're so incredibly blessed that they need more than 24 hours to acknowledge each thing ('tho that may, in fact, be true), but because my mother would prefer to not have to remember Thanksgiving as the day her sister died.
And, in all likelyhood sometime between now and the end of the weekend, the loop will be completed, and this journey will have concluded.
I learned how to waterski in Lake Tahoe around the age of 9 or so. I was terrified of ANY body of water and had not been taught to swim but my Dad's youngest sister, the "coolest" Aunt I had, insisted on tossing me into the lake anyway. I popped up and out from behind the boat and skied my little heart out. She was thrilled at my success, not realizing that I was not in fact a star pupil (nor she all that skilled of an instructor), but instead was just too petrified to let go of the rope. In fact, I didn't even really fall at the end of my run. My skinny little arms finally gave out and I let go of the lead, only to slowly sink into the water and prey that my life preserver would work until the boat circled around to come get me.
That Aunt passed away on November 19th, 2003 and Thanksgiving that year was quiet and done out of a feeling of "well we have to eat I guess" more than anything else.
I learned how to barefoot waterski in my teens behind the boat of my Mom's sister, the "other" Aunt. I wasn't particularly close to this Aunt or Uncle when I was a kid. Their children, my cousins, are a solid decade plus older than I, and I suppose I was somewhat of a mystery to them. I was outgoing and energetic, bookish and musically inclined, and it never failed that I'd need to be in yet another arm cast a week prior to spending time at the lake. But this one summer, very early in the morning while the lake was completely flat, I convinced my Uncle to get their Chris-Craft fired up pre-breakfast. And with my Aunt looking on from their dock and my boyfriend cheering me on from the back of the boat, I yelled "hit it", sunk my shoulders as low as they would into the water, and let the tow-line pull me to the top of the lake on a single ski, which I then stepped off from. To hear my Uncle tell it (to everyone who would listen for the rest of the week), I practically walked on the water all by myself. He never understood that his skill behind the wheel of their boat was the ONLY reason I didn't break a toe - or a foot - or a leg.
And now this Aunt takes the same journey, being guided by the same crappy disease.
*******
And yet, I am thankful. I am thankful that her pain and suffering will cease. I am thankful that we fought like hell - not against one another but as a family towards a goal - to get her one more beautiful Summer on the lake. Her Lake. And I am thankful that I have this memory, and so many others.
This path, as I try to comprehend it, ideally shouldn't be in any way painful for those making it. It is those left behind that mourn the loss of a good friend, loving spouse, supportive parent, caring Aunt or Uncle, or incredible sibling. It is a journey that we are all on, but those final steps are always made alone.
This Thanksgiving, allow me to urge you as strongly as I possibly can via this electronic diary of mine. If you have a good friend, a loving spouse, a supportive parent, a caring Aunt or Uncle or an incredible sibling - give thanks.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Tuesday Twaddle
Just some random stuff in my head, written out to clear space for new stuff.
- The trees around here are JUST incredible these days. I keep trying to take photos as Jake and I go on errands and such, but they never work out to be as beautiful as they are in real life. I guess because I keep trying to get the WHOLE tree. A friend of mine shared photos recently of just very individual things and that seems like a much smarter move. I'll work on it, while the leaves are still there to be had.
- I haven't been to the mall in awhile, I guess. Not Stanford - heck, I'm there all the time. Practically have my own parking space. But the indoor one has changed quite a bit. I zipped up there today to buy a new pair of "loaf and do nothing" shoes and the shoe store where I get them? Totally gone. Replaced by a "Vintage Tee Shirt" store. (Insult to injury - the "Vintage" shirts in question were mid-90s.) I slowly found a way to drift towards Williams-Sonoma - JUST TO LOOK, I SWEAR! - and was sidetracked by a new Coach store. Suuuuuure woulda been cheaper if the shoe store was still open.
- It's gonna rain before the day is over. I can kind of smell it in the air - and for being on 2pm, it's pretty dark outside. Somehow, I don't care. It's late November - I've "graduated" a step, according to my doctors anyway - let it rain. I have friends whom I can surprise with random cool gifts and they seem pleased so bring it on. (It's beginning to sound like I'm paraphrasing "My Girl" here - sorry ... but I DO have sunshine on a cloudy day.)
- I've been working on my "other" blog and while I realize that the memory of Hurricane Katrina is horrible and thankfully distant for many, revisiting that time has made me quite happy. Though the reason for being there sucked - a LOT - that I had the opportunity to jump in and do something ... well there's a reason for giving thanks right there, doncha' think?
- Jake and I have an appointment in a little bit and a mail-run to pick up, too. Which - heck - makes me go right back to the whole "sunshine on a cloudy day" thing. Don't care. Having a great experience. Plan to continue to have it, too. It's about damn time.
Friday, November 21, 2008
The pre-pre-pre-pre Thanksgiving post.
The holidays ... ok "Christmas" ... as a child, could NOT arrive quickly enough. The countdown would begin usually when my mom would remind us about the upcoming changing of the clocks. From there, Halloween would follow, not too much later would be Thanksgiving and then - what felt like 192 days later - Christmas.
As a kid, Halloween day lasted about 42 hours. Twilight would occur and shortly thereafter, Karin and I would be on our way to the house of a third friend. (Karin and I lived in the hills - where we had no neighbors to trick OR get treats from. Plus we had no sidewalks ... or streetlights. Two little kids walking in the dark on a major road, even then, was a recipe for disaster.)
Christmas occurred in our house anytime from December 20th onwards. Once I was about 5 or so, my Dad would typically sign up to work either on the 24th or the 25th, thereby allowing his coworkers to be at home with their young families. I didn't mind this at all - heck, most times this meant we'd celebrate more than once and there's not a kid alive who would turn down THAT idea. The tree in the living room would be so tall that the tip would bend backwards (which was ok, we never had an angel for the top anyway) and we'd be able to hang every ornament ... even the "ugly" or "boring" ones. (Oh stop it - you have those ones, too. The "we really SHOULD hang this little drummer boy on the tree even tho' ... well ... yuck".)
Thanksgiving was a whole other matter. It was a day of football (and the pre-game show, the pre-pre game analysis, the pre-pre-pre-game stats, and the parade of course) and food and boring older cousins and very distant relatives that we saw only during funerals, weddings or other necessary "family" times. Oh sure - there were the "fun" relatives too - my dad's sisters with their families, and my mom's aunts, but sometimes there'd be a few "clunkers" in there and, as a rambunctious child or obnoxious teen, it was a big yawn of a day. My love and understanding of football started as a young adult, and my desire to cook was encouraged on the less important days. (Honestly, my folks had a ridiculously tiny kitchen. Having one more person in there asking "can I do this" woulda been more hindrance than help.)
I was also the only one at the table who had no desire to eat themselves stupid. Even today, I'm the skinniest member of my immediate family, and I eat until I'm comfortable and only if I'm actually hungry. Just because the calendar tells us that this is a day of massive meals and truckloads of thankfulness doesn't mean I'm going to pile up my plate. I enjoy food, BELIEVE ME I do, but food comas don't appeal to me at all.
In my early to mid-twenties, Thanksgiving was spent with family or friends and an early night to bed, so that Karin and I could be at the mall at the crack of dawn (or shortly before) the next day. We never did much actual shopping on those days. Mostly we'd catch some coffee and a danish at the bakery, and then pick up a sweater or a scarf or earrings for our sisters or mothers, and we'd spend the bulk of the day watching the bleary-eyed husbands doing their best to make up for the previous days "sin" of sitting in front of the TV and not helping with the meal.
From then until now 'tho, Thanksgiving really IS my day of thanks. I am blessed beyond measure, 'tho it'd be easy to not see the good that occurs every day. I have a warm safe home when others shuffle through ash saving whatever memories are left. I have the love of two healthy pets, who sit next to me each day while I enjoy their purrs and a good book. I have family who stand by me sans judgement, worrying about me but not letting it show - for my sake. I have friends, near and far, who talk with me and provide warmth, laughter, encouragement, jokes and smiles. I have love and compassion available to me with no limitations and no strings attached.
I may spend too much time writing about what's wrong with me and the various failures in my health, employment, or life, but rest assured there is MUCH that is good. I'll do my best between now and the end of the year to enjoy a better balance.
Here comes the "Tidy Wrap Up" ... beauty and blessings abound. Notice them, accept them, embrace them, cherish them. They really ARE there, possibly just waiting, for you to be thankful.
As a kid, Halloween day lasted about 42 hours. Twilight would occur and shortly thereafter, Karin and I would be on our way to the house of a third friend. (Karin and I lived in the hills - where we had no neighbors to trick OR get treats from. Plus we had no sidewalks ... or streetlights. Two little kids walking in the dark on a major road, even then, was a recipe for disaster.)
Christmas occurred in our house anytime from December 20th onwards. Once I was about 5 or so, my Dad would typically sign up to work either on the 24th or the 25th, thereby allowing his coworkers to be at home with their young families. I didn't mind this at all - heck, most times this meant we'd celebrate more than once and there's not a kid alive who would turn down THAT idea. The tree in the living room would be so tall that the tip would bend backwards (which was ok, we never had an angel for the top anyway) and we'd be able to hang every ornament ... even the "ugly" or "boring" ones. (Oh stop it - you have those ones, too. The "we really SHOULD hang this little drummer boy on the tree even tho' ... well ... yuck".)
Thanksgiving was a whole other matter. It was a day of football (and the pre-game show, the pre-pre game analysis, the pre-pre-pre-game stats, and the parade of course) and food and boring older cousins and very distant relatives that we saw only during funerals, weddings or other necessary "family" times. Oh sure - there were the "fun" relatives too - my dad's sisters with their families, and my mom's aunts, but sometimes there'd be a few "clunkers" in there and, as a rambunctious child or obnoxious teen, it was a big yawn of a day. My love and understanding of football started as a young adult, and my desire to cook was encouraged on the less important days. (Honestly, my folks had a ridiculously tiny kitchen. Having one more person in there asking "can I do this" woulda been more hindrance than help.)
I was also the only one at the table who had no desire to eat themselves stupid. Even today, I'm the skinniest member of my immediate family, and I eat until I'm comfortable and only if I'm actually hungry. Just because the calendar tells us that this is a day of massive meals and truckloads of thankfulness doesn't mean I'm going to pile up my plate. I enjoy food, BELIEVE ME I do, but food comas don't appeal to me at all.
In my early to mid-twenties, Thanksgiving was spent with family or friends and an early night to bed, so that Karin and I could be at the mall at the crack of dawn (or shortly before) the next day. We never did much actual shopping on those days. Mostly we'd catch some coffee and a danish at the bakery, and then pick up a sweater or a scarf or earrings for our sisters or mothers, and we'd spend the bulk of the day watching the bleary-eyed husbands doing their best to make up for the previous days "sin" of sitting in front of the TV and not helping with the meal.
From then until now 'tho, Thanksgiving really IS my day of thanks. I am blessed beyond measure, 'tho it'd be easy to not see the good that occurs every day. I have a warm safe home when others shuffle through ash saving whatever memories are left. I have the love of two healthy pets, who sit next to me each day while I enjoy their purrs and a good book. I have family who stand by me sans judgement, worrying about me but not letting it show - for my sake. I have friends, near and far, who talk with me and provide warmth, laughter, encouragement, jokes and smiles. I have love and compassion available to me with no limitations and no strings attached.
I may spend too much time writing about what's wrong with me and the various failures in my health, employment, or life, but rest assured there is MUCH that is good. I'll do my best between now and the end of the year to enjoy a better balance.
Here comes the "Tidy Wrap Up" ... beauty and blessings abound. Notice them, accept them, embrace them, cherish them. They really ARE there, possibly just waiting, for you to be thankful.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
"There was salt on the glass - BIG grains of salt".
So I found myself walking down a hallway today trying to get in a specific mind set. "It is time", I told myself, "to focus a bit. Here are the things you want to say. Here are the things you want to ask about. Here are the subjects to stay away from. Here's what to make sure you're very clear about. You're a grown-up and you have business to take care of. So get it together and do this."
Sounds sane so far, right?
My eyes were straight ahead as I walked down this hallway. (In spite of my being a klutz, I DO try to give myself an edge by making sure I'm usually looking in the general direction of where I'm walking.) For whatever completely random reason, for one brief half-second, my eyes darted to a name-plate on a wall. "Samir N." was the image my eyes sent to my brain.
And my brain flipped immediately to a scene in "Office Space", where two outside consultants are sorting through the files of those individuals they will recommend be laid off. One of the consultants comes across a name he cannot pronounce and he stumbles as he says "Samir Naa ... Samir Nahhhgaa ... well 'Notgonnaworkhereanymore'".
And my brain, this mass of tissue and energy in my skull, which I was depending on to help me at least appear like I was an actual grown up? Instead decided to run various scenes of this film through my head for the next several minutes.
*This* is the fear. *This* is the dread. *These* are the contents of my head.
("Office Space" can be found broken up into 9 sections on YouTube, and I've given you Sections 1 through 3 above. If you have ever worked for a start-up, had an incompetent boss, been laid off, or wanted to gut a fish on your desk, you MUST watch this film.)
Sounds sane so far, right?
My eyes were straight ahead as I walked down this hallway. (In spite of my being a klutz, I DO try to give myself an edge by making sure I'm usually looking in the general direction of where I'm walking.) For whatever completely random reason, for one brief half-second, my eyes darted to a name-plate on a wall. "Samir N." was the image my eyes sent to my brain.
And my brain flipped immediately to a scene in "Office Space", where two outside consultants are sorting through the files of those individuals they will recommend be laid off. One of the consultants comes across a name he cannot pronounce and he stumbles as he says "Samir Naa ... Samir Nahhhgaa ... well 'Notgonnaworkhereanymore'".
And my brain, this mass of tissue and energy in my skull, which I was depending on to help me at least appear like I was an actual grown up? Instead decided to run various scenes of this film through my head for the next several minutes.
*This* is the fear. *This* is the dread. *These* are the contents of my head.
("Office Space" can be found broken up into 9 sections on YouTube, and I've given you Sections 1 through 3 above. If you have ever worked for a start-up, had an incompetent boss, been laid off, or wanted to gut a fish on your desk, you MUST watch this film.)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Across The Miles, Around Town, Down The Street
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SCOTT!!!!
You're marvelous, fantastic, thoughtful, caring, wonderful and always always always will be older than me :-D
^That's the "Across The Miles" part.
***************
"Around Town"
As I walked towards my coffee shop, Monica was outside handing out samples. She's back from maternity leave and I haven't seen her in months, so I expected to be greeted with pictures of the baby, questions about the job status, etc. Instead I was met with "Jules - oh wow - I just know you're gonna be so excited! Guess what we're doing?"
Starting November 27th and running through January 2nd, when you order various beverages (one of which happens to be a varition of my "usual" beverage), Starbucks will donate 5 cents to the Global Fund - which uses that money to fight AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria. When January 3rd rolls around, Starbucks will designate certain products as (RED) of which similar donations be given from their sales.
Monica is right - I am THRILLED by this. A lot of folks will hrumph at the idea of donating via nickles and dimes, saying that they'd just rather write a check to the charity of their choice. And I say more power to them and that they should do just that. But I don't know of a single non-profit org. out there that would turn DOWN a nation-wide, month-long corporate donation committment, so if Starbucks wants to do this, I will absolutely be their venti-peppermint twist mocha swilling monkey.
The other thing that makes me happy about this charitable act is that, when the staff at my corner Starbucks was told about the drive, three of them said "Jules is just gonna LOVE this". Betcha Santa is gonna do something special for these "kids".
***************
"Down The Street"
I was adopted by Minnie about four years ago, I guess. She's still an even mix of outdoor hunter and indoor spoiled feline and we're both fine with that. But if it weren't for Minnie, I never would have met Ruth and George.
Ruth is probably in her early 80s. She always smiles, is always cooking something, and loves to sit on the back deck to enjoy the sounds of the creek that runs along the back of their property. She's an avid reader and while she uses a walker to steady herself and is clearly dealing with aches and pains, she's just not the "poor me" type. I get the feeling she doesn't allow herself any pity party time.
George is likely also in his early 80's - but it's hard to tell. George has a Gold Wing motorcycle and a beautiful sedan, both of which live in a garage so clean that there is artwork on the walls and carpet on the floor. (I'm not exaggerating.) George walks the neighborhood at least once a day and has a front and back garden that is probably what Heaven looks like. I have no idea how George made his living when he was working, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn if he was in a federal relocation program of some sort. He has a face that is all business, until he smiles and that's when you can easily see him as the awesome Grandfather that I'm sure he is.
Three and a half years ago, on the day that I had made an appointment to get Minnie and her latest batch of kittens errr - fixed, I opened up the front door and called for her. It was breakfast time, so this wasn't suspicious behavior on my part. She and one of her kittens came trotting in ... but the other two were not with her. After a brief search in the usual hiding places, I gave up and took Minnie and her daughter, Zoey, to the vet's office. I was determined to at least take care of 50% of the family.
I ran a few errands, feeling very guilty about leaving my adopted kitty-family alone in a strange office, and came home to a post-it note on the front door and in very shaky handwriting was the following: "Hi! Two kittens have been lounging in the back yard all morning. Still here at 1pm. No sight of mama or the 3rd kitty. Hope all is well. - George"
It seems that the two at-large kitties had seen George and Ruth's garden (no doubt on a scouting trip with Minnie) and recognized it as a safe haven. I walked up the street and there was George, all smiles as I explained that all was well and that the kitties were just hiding from me - likely because word had gotten out about a trip to the vet's office. He laughed as we walked in back and there was Ruth, feeding freshly-cooked shreaded chicken breast to the two runaways. Proper introductions were made ("Groucho" because of his markings and "Harpo" because I never heard him meow) and neighbors who had lived down the street from each other for more than a decade became friends and co-caregivers of cats.
Well, about two weeks ago, I noticed a lot of very upscale cars being parked throughout the neighborhood and folks walking up to George and Ruth's. I didn't see any presents being carried by the visitors, all nicely dressed and there were no outward signs of the house having any decorations. I'll admit that I feared the worst and while I wanted to reach out and ask if all was well, I didn't know what'd I'd be able to do if the answer was that all was NOT well. I did was so many often do - I did nothing.
Today, while arriving home with my coffee and a smile from the news Monica had shared, George and his son were walking down the street. I waived as I got out of the car, and he smiled broadly and said "Well there you are! How's our girl doing?" and I told him that she's been putting a significant dent in the bird population as of late and turned to his son to explain that we'd been adopted by the same cat. We all chuckled and George offered "do you think she'd like fish? Ruth wants me to use up some smoked trout from our anniversary party" (hearing this made me breathe MUCH easier) and I teased him that he was still trying to steal my kitty after all these years.
As we parted company, I heard George turn to his son and say "God bless her. She always has a smile no matter what, and you know, she wouldn't accept a DIME from us to help pay for those vet bills. That cat was no dummy in choosing to trust her."
Note to self: Make sure that Minnie gives something nice to George and Ruth for the holidays.
You're marvelous, fantastic, thoughtful, caring, wonderful and always always always will be older than me :-D
^That's the "Across The Miles" part.
***************
"Around Town"
As I walked towards my coffee shop, Monica was outside handing out samples. She's back from maternity leave and I haven't seen her in months, so I expected to be greeted with pictures of the baby, questions about the job status, etc. Instead I was met with "Jules - oh wow - I just know you're gonna be so excited! Guess what we're doing?"
Starting November 27th and running through January 2nd, when you order various beverages (one of which happens to be a varition of my "usual" beverage), Starbucks will donate 5 cents to the Global Fund - which uses that money to fight AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria. When January 3rd rolls around, Starbucks will designate certain products as (RED) of which similar donations be given from their sales.
Monica is right - I am THRILLED by this. A lot of folks will hrumph at the idea of donating via nickles and dimes, saying that they'd just rather write a check to the charity of their choice. And I say more power to them and that they should do just that. But I don't know of a single non-profit org. out there that would turn DOWN a nation-wide, month-long corporate donation committment, so if Starbucks wants to do this, I will absolutely be their venti-peppermint twist mocha swilling monkey.
The other thing that makes me happy about this charitable act is that, when the staff at my corner Starbucks was told about the drive, three of them said "Jules is just gonna LOVE this". Betcha Santa is gonna do something special for these "kids".
***************
"Down The Street"
I was adopted by Minnie about four years ago, I guess. She's still an even mix of outdoor hunter and indoor spoiled feline and we're both fine with that. But if it weren't for Minnie, I never would have met Ruth and George.
Ruth is probably in her early 80s. She always smiles, is always cooking something, and loves to sit on the back deck to enjoy the sounds of the creek that runs along the back of their property. She's an avid reader and while she uses a walker to steady herself and is clearly dealing with aches and pains, she's just not the "poor me" type. I get the feeling she doesn't allow herself any pity party time.
George is likely also in his early 80's - but it's hard to tell. George has a Gold Wing motorcycle and a beautiful sedan, both of which live in a garage so clean that there is artwork on the walls and carpet on the floor. (I'm not exaggerating.) George walks the neighborhood at least once a day and has a front and back garden that is probably what Heaven looks like. I have no idea how George made his living when he was working, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn if he was in a federal relocation program of some sort. He has a face that is all business, until he smiles and that's when you can easily see him as the awesome Grandfather that I'm sure he is.
Three and a half years ago, on the day that I had made an appointment to get Minnie and her latest batch of kittens errr - fixed, I opened up the front door and called for her. It was breakfast time, so this wasn't suspicious behavior on my part. She and one of her kittens came trotting in ... but the other two were not with her. After a brief search in the usual hiding places, I gave up and took Minnie and her daughter, Zoey, to the vet's office. I was determined to at least take care of 50% of the family.
I ran a few errands, feeling very guilty about leaving my adopted kitty-family alone in a strange office, and came home to a post-it note on the front door and in very shaky handwriting was the following: "Hi! Two kittens have been lounging in the back yard all morning. Still here at 1pm. No sight of mama or the 3rd kitty. Hope all is well. - George"
It seems that the two at-large kitties had seen George and Ruth's garden (no doubt on a scouting trip with Minnie) and recognized it as a safe haven. I walked up the street and there was George, all smiles as I explained that all was well and that the kitties were just hiding from me - likely because word had gotten out about a trip to the vet's office. He laughed as we walked in back and there was Ruth, feeding freshly-cooked shreaded chicken breast to the two runaways. Proper introductions were made ("Groucho" because of his markings and "Harpo" because I never heard him meow) and neighbors who had lived down the street from each other for more than a decade became friends and co-caregivers of cats.
Well, about two weeks ago, I noticed a lot of very upscale cars being parked throughout the neighborhood and folks walking up to George and Ruth's. I didn't see any presents being carried by the visitors, all nicely dressed and there were no outward signs of the house having any decorations. I'll admit that I feared the worst and while I wanted to reach out and ask if all was well, I didn't know what'd I'd be able to do if the answer was that all was NOT well. I did was so many often do - I did nothing.
Today, while arriving home with my coffee and a smile from the news Monica had shared, George and his son were walking down the street. I waived as I got out of the car, and he smiled broadly and said "Well there you are! How's our girl doing?" and I told him that she's been putting a significant dent in the bird population as of late and turned to his son to explain that we'd been adopted by the same cat. We all chuckled and George offered "do you think she'd like fish? Ruth wants me to use up some smoked trout from our anniversary party" (hearing this made me breathe MUCH easier) and I teased him that he was still trying to steal my kitty after all these years.
As we parted company, I heard George turn to his son and say "God bless her. She always has a smile no matter what, and you know, she wouldn't accept a DIME from us to help pay for those vet bills. That cat was no dummy in choosing to trust her."
Note to self: Make sure that Minnie gives something nice to George and Ruth for the holidays.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Agreeing with my 10-year old self.
I was 10.
I've written that me and my grasp of the passage of time don't exactly play well together. So when I looked at the paper this morning and recognized the determined face of Congresswoman Jackie Speier looking off towards some unseen focal point, I was puzzled. That I know of, Congresswoman Speier hasn't exactly been the political topic in the news lately.
But when I saw other words ... "Guyana, South America", "airstrip", "Representative Leo Ryan", I knew. It must be mid-November. My 10-year-old self remembers other words, too - "cult", "Peoples Temple", "mass suicides".
My 40-year-old self realizes that she has casually said the phrase "drank the kool-aide" to other business associates, to signify a blind following of something or another. However, being reminded that 30 years ago, acting upon that phrase led to a loss of more than 900 lives ... 400 of them were just babies ... the phrase now sickens me. I make a mental note to refrain from using it ever again.
Each generation, it seems, has lots of periods of awakening. For some, it will be the tragic death of a young energetic President, or the carrying out of a hideous and almost inconceivable plot involving planes and buildings. Others will remember the start (or end) of wars, police actions, riots, or highway chases being covered like a sporting event, the public beating of an individual by those we trust to protect us, or a family thrust into a spotlight when an innocent child is stolen from her own bedroom.
I remember Jim Jones and his legacy because my father was a firefighter in San Francisco, and Dad knew people who had family and friends who never left Jones' so-called church. I remember my dad working a lot of extra shifts, probably covering for co-workers who were in mourning. This meant that my mom was left to try to help my sister and I understand what had happened and why it wouldn't happen to us. I remember thinking that Jones had created hell on Earth and, in my 10-year-old head, that made him the Devil. He wasn't mad, he wasn't crazy - no, he was evil. The worst kind of evil a 10-year old could ever want to imagine. Thirty years has not dimmed my opinion. Though I have seen other evils, I still cannot find anything but true hate in Jim Jones.
All too soon after Jonestown, the city was to experience a hell even closer to home, provided by a different evil named Dan White. His actions actually galvanized the city in probably the exact opposite way he was hoping for and while many in my state clearly disagree, San Francisco is proud of the freedoms she gives to her residents.
A bit of a downer post today - sorry for that. But if you're interested at all in Jonestown, the San Francisco Chronicle asked Jackie Speier to write about her experiences in Guyana, and it makes for an excellent read. I encourage you to take a moment.
I've written that me and my grasp of the passage of time don't exactly play well together. So when I looked at the paper this morning and recognized the determined face of Congresswoman Jackie Speier looking off towards some unseen focal point, I was puzzled. That I know of, Congresswoman Speier hasn't exactly been the political topic in the news lately.
But when I saw other words ... "Guyana, South America", "airstrip", "Representative Leo Ryan", I knew. It must be mid-November. My 10-year-old self remembers other words, too - "cult", "Peoples Temple", "mass suicides".
My 40-year-old self realizes that she has casually said the phrase "drank the kool-aide" to other business associates, to signify a blind following of something or another. However, being reminded that 30 years ago, acting upon that phrase led to a loss of more than 900 lives ... 400 of them were just babies ... the phrase now sickens me. I make a mental note to refrain from using it ever again.
Each generation, it seems, has lots of periods of awakening. For some, it will be the tragic death of a young energetic President, or the carrying out of a hideous and almost inconceivable plot involving planes and buildings. Others will remember the start (or end) of wars, police actions, riots, or highway chases being covered like a sporting event, the public beating of an individual by those we trust to protect us, or a family thrust into a spotlight when an innocent child is stolen from her own bedroom.
I remember Jim Jones and his legacy because my father was a firefighter in San Francisco, and Dad knew people who had family and friends who never left Jones' so-called church. I remember my dad working a lot of extra shifts, probably covering for co-workers who were in mourning. This meant that my mom was left to try to help my sister and I understand what had happened and why it wouldn't happen to us. I remember thinking that Jones had created hell on Earth and, in my 10-year-old head, that made him the Devil. He wasn't mad, he wasn't crazy - no, he was evil. The worst kind of evil a 10-year old could ever want to imagine. Thirty years has not dimmed my opinion. Though I have seen other evils, I still cannot find anything but true hate in Jim Jones.
All too soon after Jonestown, the city was to experience a hell even closer to home, provided by a different evil named Dan White. His actions actually galvanized the city in probably the exact opposite way he was hoping for and while many in my state clearly disagree, San Francisco is proud of the freedoms she gives to her residents.
A bit of a downer post today - sorry for that. But if you're interested at all in Jonestown, the San Francisco Chronicle asked Jackie Speier to write about her experiences in Guyana, and it makes for an excellent read. I encourage you to take a moment.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Hannah Jones - My Hero
Who is Hannah Jones?
I don't honestly give a rats ass what your individual opinion is about the whole "right to die" debate.
But I LOVE that a thirteen year old girl who has gone through more ... well, more crap ... than any one person ever should have to endure ... realizes that it SHOULD be a "right to live on my own terms" debate.
When (and if) I ever decide to grow up, I want to be as smart as Hannah Jones.
Crackers and Nuts
So this is the fourth month of unemployment, eh?
*looks left*
*looks right*
*pets a sleeping tabby*
At what point does it change from "unemployment" to flat out "retirement"?
So here's the thing ... I know what I can do - what I'm capable of, job-wise. I know what I LIKE doing, I know the environment that I do best in, I know what kind of management style I respond well to ... I know all those things. And yet I find myself unmoved to actually DO anything about this ... ermmmmm ... "retirement".
Truth be told, I don't really have to do anything at all about it and, while that's nice, it's obvious to me as I stroll - slowly stroll - through the "Crackers/Nuts/snacks" aisle of a grocery store at 1pm on a Tuesday, I'm in the minority here. People my age don't retire. People my age who aren't receiving a paycheck have children, usually a couple of them. They spend their day picking up the mess from the family dinner the night before, they go to the pharmacy to get their prescription, stop by the library to return a few books, and then they drop by school to pick up their kids.
Now before ya' say it, I'll save you the trouble. Employment - or the lack thereof - hasn't exactly been my biggest issue as of late, I know. I'm not making light of what my body has put me through ... what it did to me. I respect my limitations, though I am not fond of them. Even so, those limitations seem to be more and more limited these days. I'm running out of excuses ... maybe that's when one starts saying "retired" instead of "unemployed".
Typically, I end my day under a hot stream of water. I've always been an evening shower person. I find the warmth and the sound very relaxing and a great way to make my head shut up. Earlier this week, I stepped out of the shower and, for whatever reason, I spent several long minutes just looking at my reflection in the mirror. That person there? She didn't "look" sick. She didn't "look" sore. She didn't "look" like a patient (my newest least-favorite word). Despite the massive bruising that seems to never go away completely and the arms that have been witness to a barrage of needles, she looked ... calm, actually. At peace. She looked alright.
Additional strangeness - she seems to be smiling. And I've think I've been hearing her laugh, too. What the hell is THAT all about?
*looks left*
*looks right*
*pets a sleeping tabby*
At what point does it change from "unemployment" to flat out "retirement"?
So here's the thing ... I know what I can do - what I'm capable of, job-wise. I know what I LIKE doing, I know the environment that I do best in, I know what kind of management style I respond well to ... I know all those things. And yet I find myself unmoved to actually DO anything about this ... ermmmmm ... "retirement".
Truth be told, I don't really have to do anything at all about it and, while that's nice, it's obvious to me as I stroll - slowly stroll - through the "Crackers/Nuts/snacks" aisle of a grocery store at 1pm on a Tuesday, I'm in the minority here. People my age don't retire. People my age who aren't receiving a paycheck have children, usually a couple of them. They spend their day picking up the mess from the family dinner the night before, they go to the pharmacy to get their prescription, stop by the library to return a few books, and then they drop by school to pick up their kids.
Now before ya' say it, I'll save you the trouble. Employment - or the lack thereof - hasn't exactly been my biggest issue as of late, I know. I'm not making light of what my body has put me through ... what it did to me. I respect my limitations, though I am not fond of them. Even so, those limitations seem to be more and more limited these days. I'm running out of excuses ... maybe that's when one starts saying "retired" instead of "unemployed".
Typically, I end my day under a hot stream of water. I've always been an evening shower person. I find the warmth and the sound very relaxing and a great way to make my head shut up. Earlier this week, I stepped out of the shower and, for whatever reason, I spent several long minutes just looking at my reflection in the mirror. That person there? She didn't "look" sick. She didn't "look" sore. She didn't "look" like a patient (my newest least-favorite word). Despite the massive bruising that seems to never go away completely and the arms that have been witness to a barrage of needles, she looked ... calm, actually. At peace. She looked alright.
Additional strangeness - she seems to be smiling. And I've think I've been hearing her laugh, too. What the hell is THAT all about?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Look "sad" - great. Give me "conflicted". How about "mad"?
I know that I've discussed the hit-and-miss art of active (and accurate) communication via any sort of electronic means in the past, but I guess I wasn't listening when I wrote it, or maybe I was using the wrong voice when I read it afterwards.
(Yes, I realize that one doesn't listen to something written. See now that was meant to be a tongue-in-cheek funny kind of thing but if you weren't reading it in the voice I had intended, ya' missed it. Explaining it, as I've just done, makes it boring and stupid. *sigh* Moving on ...)
It still fascinates - and disappoints, moves, angers, tickles - me how much we, as human beings, try to put ourselves in what we read, perhaps in an effort to understand the writers point of view, which then helps us to formulate an opinion one way or another. I GUESS that's what it is anyway. How else to explain the various rantings in the Editorial column of any newspaper? Or the comment section of a movie critic when the general population decides to make sure they tell him how wrong he was for not liking "Summer Random Blockbuster Film Starring Nick Cage".
(See now there - with that fake movie title I created? I was hoping you'd put in your own title for a film that maybe you loved ... or loathed. The fact that I included Nick Cage in it only alerts MY inner voice to say "soooo this would be a film that I actively avoided". Ahhhhh Nick Cage ... Founder of the Derek Zoolander School of Celluloid Emoting.)
We all probably, at one point or another, have exchanged communication with someone and have "heard" disappointment or sadness in their words. Sometimes it's an obvious conclusion to draw. If the conversation is about the loss of a pet or dealing with a no-win situation at work, it makes sense that there might be a tone involved. But I find it almost impossible to not insert my own tone, my own voice, emotions, circumstances when reading something, especially an email (to draw upon a specific example).
So it is when trying to convey information via email to a group of people. I could write out a perfectly eloquent paragraph to let folks know what's going on in my little corner of the world, and I'd get back responses ranging from "thanks for keeping me in the loop - I appreciate it and it's great to hear the hope in this message" to "wow - sending you virtual hugs and just know that things will look up soon" to "You don't like Nick Cage? How the fuck can you not like Nick Cage?"
But we - that is to say "I" - keep trying anyway, right? The alternative would be to either limit ourselves to having friends and family that live within easily-traveled visiting distances so that all communication would be face to face. So we - I - just keep trying to have those open lines of communication with people we - I - know well enough to allow them to have a comfort level sufficient to write us - me - back and say "Seriously, J. You REALLY don't like Nick Cage. Did you see his 'Random Blockbuster Film' this past Summer??"
(Yes, I realize that one doesn't listen to something written. See now that was meant to be a tongue-in-cheek funny kind of thing but if you weren't reading it in the voice I had intended, ya' missed it. Explaining it, as I've just done, makes it boring and stupid. *sigh* Moving on ...)
It still fascinates - and disappoints, moves, angers, tickles - me how much we, as human beings, try to put ourselves in what we read, perhaps in an effort to understand the writers point of view, which then helps us to formulate an opinion one way or another. I GUESS that's what it is anyway. How else to explain the various rantings in the Editorial column of any newspaper? Or the comment section of a movie critic when the general population decides to make sure they tell him how wrong he was for not liking "Summer Random Blockbuster Film Starring Nick Cage".
(See now there - with that fake movie title I created? I was hoping you'd put in your own title for a film that maybe you loved ... or loathed. The fact that I included Nick Cage in it only alerts MY inner voice to say "soooo this would be a film that I actively avoided". Ahhhhh Nick Cage ... Founder of the Derek Zoolander School of Celluloid Emoting.)
We all probably, at one point or another, have exchanged communication with someone and have "heard" disappointment or sadness in their words. Sometimes it's an obvious conclusion to draw. If the conversation is about the loss of a pet or dealing with a no-win situation at work, it makes sense that there might be a tone involved. But I find it almost impossible to not insert my own tone, my own voice, emotions, circumstances when reading something, especially an email (to draw upon a specific example).
So it is when trying to convey information via email to a group of people. I could write out a perfectly eloquent paragraph to let folks know what's going on in my little corner of the world, and I'd get back responses ranging from "thanks for keeping me in the loop - I appreciate it and it's great to hear the hope in this message" to "wow - sending you virtual hugs and just know that things will look up soon" to "You don't like Nick Cage? How the fuck can you not like Nick Cage?"
But we - that is to say "I" - keep trying anyway, right? The alternative would be to either limit ourselves to having friends and family that live within easily-traveled visiting distances so that all communication would be face to face. So we - I - just keep trying to have those open lines of communication with people we - I - know well enough to allow them to have a comfort level sufficient to write us - me - back and say "Seriously, J. You REALLY don't like Nick Cage. Did you see his 'Random Blockbuster Film' this past Summer??"
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Piano Man
You may have noticed from my most recent entry that my soundtrack this weekend was presented to me by Billy Joel. (In fact, he just finished singing the last few desperate words of "Pressure" in my ears.)
Every generation has their musical poet. There are those that say Bob Dylan holds this title, and maybe he does. I could never get past his voice to actually listen to (or even decipher, at times) what he was singing. I've been told it is moving and meaningful stuff. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about "what the hell did he just say?" to be moved.
Today, with close to 4,000 songs on my iTunes account, I have categories that possibly didn't exist when I was a child. What artist would I possibly categorize as "Funk Polka"? How would Scott Joplin feel to know that he's musically listed between Norah Jones and Keane? John Legend, John Lennon, Annie Lennox and Jerry Lee Lewis may wonder who the hell their musical neighbor, Lifehouse, is but thus far things seem calm enough.
I can't even say that Billy Joel is the musical poet of "my generation". I still fear that me and the rest of the 1968 children are unclaimed, generationally speaking. Musically, I missed the 60s and only became aware of so-named popular music in the mid-70s. I not only remember when MTV played music videos but, way before that, I remember thinking that Daryl Dragon was super dreamy, even with the hat.
Oh just shut up.
I'm about to shut this machine off for the evening, but I'd like to share this with you first. While it is clearly a song, I'd suggest reading it as a poem.
**********
In the beginning,
there was the cold and the night.
Prophets and angels gave us the fire and the light.
Man was triumphant,
armed with the faith and the will
that even the darkest ages couldn't kill.
Too many kingdoms,
too many flags on the field.
So many battles, so many wounds to be healed.
Time is relentless - only true love perseveres.
It's been a long time and now I'm with you
after two thousand years.
This is our moment
here at the crossroads of time.
We hope our children carry our dreams down the line.
They are the vintage.
What kind will they live?
Is this a curse or a blessing that we give?
Sometimes I wonder
why are we so blind to fate?
Without compassion, there can be no end to hate.
No end to sorrow caused by the same endless fears.
Why can't we learn from all we've been through
after two thousand years?
There will be miracles
after the last war is won.
Science and poetry rule in the new world to come.
Prophets and angels
gave us the power to see
what an amazing future there will be.
And, in the evening
after the fire and the light,
one thing is certain: nothing can hold back the night.
Time is relentless and, as the past disappears,
we're on the verge of all things new.
We are two thousand years.
**********
Every generation has their musical poet. There are those that say Bob Dylan holds this title, and maybe he does. I could never get past his voice to actually listen to (or even decipher, at times) what he was singing. I've been told it is moving and meaningful stuff. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about "what the hell did he just say?" to be moved.
Today, with close to 4,000 songs on my iTunes account, I have categories that possibly didn't exist when I was a child. What artist would I possibly categorize as "Funk Polka"? How would Scott Joplin feel to know that he's musically listed between Norah Jones and Keane? John Legend, John Lennon, Annie Lennox and Jerry Lee Lewis may wonder who the hell their musical neighbor, Lifehouse, is but thus far things seem calm enough.
I can't even say that Billy Joel is the musical poet of "my generation". I still fear that me and the rest of the 1968 children are unclaimed, generationally speaking. Musically, I missed the 60s and only became aware of so-named popular music in the mid-70s. I not only remember when MTV played music videos but, way before that, I remember thinking that Daryl Dragon was super dreamy, even with the hat.
Oh just shut up.
I'm about to shut this machine off for the evening, but I'd like to share this with you first. While it is clearly a song, I'd suggest reading it as a poem.
**********
In the beginning,
there was the cold and the night.
Prophets and angels gave us the fire and the light.
Man was triumphant,
armed with the faith and the will
that even the darkest ages couldn't kill.
Too many kingdoms,
too many flags on the field.
So many battles, so many wounds to be healed.
Time is relentless - only true love perseveres.
It's been a long time and now I'm with you
after two thousand years.
This is our moment
here at the crossroads of time.
We hope our children carry our dreams down the line.
They are the vintage.
What kind will they live?
Is this a curse or a blessing that we give?
Sometimes I wonder
why are we so blind to fate?
Without compassion, there can be no end to hate.
No end to sorrow caused by the same endless fears.
Why can't we learn from all we've been through
after two thousand years?
There will be miracles
after the last war is won.
Science and poetry rule in the new world to come.
Prophets and angels
gave us the power to see
what an amazing future there will be.
And, in the evening
after the fire and the light,
one thing is certain: nothing can hold back the night.
Time is relentless and, as the past disappears,
we're on the verge of all things new.
We are two thousand years.
**********
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Big Giant Boob
Ok, I need to be elegant, here. I don't do elegant often. I am rusty, but here goes ...
You know how, when you're in the process of making a new friend or even just getting to know someone better, sometimes they'll make the most INNOCENT of comments that triggers a memory inside of you? Maybe even a memory of something that you're utterly embarrassed or ashamed of (no matter why) and, for the very briefest of moments, a crazy disconnect in your head makes you think "My GOD, they knowwwwwww. They know all about it. They probably always HAVE known."?
I had that happen to me today ... and (act shocked) I botched it. I utterly botched it.
Now, for whatever reason, I've noticed that my choice of verbage has changed as of late. I say the word "boob" a lot, just as an easy example. The Camry that cut in front of me and left their turn signal on? The driver was a boob. The person ordering Chinese food at the take out counter and says their order is "to go"? They're a boob.
I would imagine that hyper-sensitivity happens due to all manner of things. You'd never wanna say "I can totally see what you're saying" to a blind person. You'd probably want to avoid saying "Oh just take a hike" to the person in a wheelchair. (And I'm certain that there are other examples, too - but haven't I offended enough people for one day?)
And the very worst part isn't that I was embarrassed. (Please. If you've read anything I've written, you realize I spend a good part of my life embarrassed.) No. For me anyway, the very worst part is that the other person, who said the most innocent of funny comments - probably still thinks that they said something wrong or inappropriate, based only on my reaction. Now sure ... the easy thing to do would be to try to explain why I reacted as I did. But doing so would, in all likelyhood, mean I'd have to also tell them the memory that was triggered.
Sharing this memory? Well ... it could change this person's perception of me, and not exactly in a terrific way. That being said, we all make mistakes as we gather our experiences. If my explaining the reasons for my reaction prevents this person from worrying that they misspoke or offended me, then ... well .... I've been a boob for lesser things.
You know how, when you're in the process of making a new friend or even just getting to know someone better, sometimes they'll make the most INNOCENT of comments that triggers a memory inside of you? Maybe even a memory of something that you're utterly embarrassed or ashamed of (no matter why) and, for the very briefest of moments, a crazy disconnect in your head makes you think "My GOD, they knowwwwwww. They know all about it. They probably always HAVE known."?
I had that happen to me today ... and (act shocked) I botched it. I utterly botched it.
Now, for whatever reason, I've noticed that my choice of verbage has changed as of late. I say the word "boob" a lot, just as an easy example. The Camry that cut in front of me and left their turn signal on? The driver was a boob. The person ordering Chinese food at the take out counter and says their order is "to go"? They're a boob.
I would imagine that hyper-sensitivity happens due to all manner of things. You'd never wanna say "I can totally see what you're saying" to a blind person. You'd probably want to avoid saying "Oh just take a hike" to the person in a wheelchair. (And I'm certain that there are other examples, too - but haven't I offended enough people for one day?)
And the very worst part isn't that I was embarrassed. (Please. If you've read anything I've written, you realize I spend a good part of my life embarrassed.) No. For me anyway, the very worst part is that the other person, who said the most innocent of funny comments - probably still thinks that they said something wrong or inappropriate, based only on my reaction. Now sure ... the easy thing to do would be to try to explain why I reacted as I did. But doing so would, in all likelyhood, mean I'd have to also tell them the memory that was triggered.
Sharing this memory? Well ... it could change this person's perception of me, and not exactly in a terrific way. That being said, we all make mistakes as we gather our experiences. If my explaining the reasons for my reaction prevents this person from worrying that they misspoke or offended me, then ... well .... I've been a boob for lesser things.
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Legend of the Tell Tale Cart of Dot Bomb Layoffs
Sometimes, finding the funny is an effort. Sometimes it takes age, or reflection, or just the simple passage of time. The following is a snippet of a period in my life that was not, at the time, funny. It is, however, completely true.
**********
I was working 14+hour days at a job I liked for a manager I adored at a company where I was respected - and was exceedingly well-paid. The company was a start-up, and the funding was flowing. We lived LARGE - heck, every start-up at the time did. We had accounts to bill against for dang near whatever we wanted - not just food, but supplies, services - we had a massuse visit the building twice a month, and the car detail guy visited weekly. I'm not kidding. It was incredible.
We grew by leaps and bounds. I was in charge of keeping the company-wide org chart and we once hired 87 people in one month. No lie - 87 in a 30-day period. I was employee #62 - but even at our biggest, we had only about 800 folks. Yes, that's still quite small - but keep in mind this whole story is only over a 2 year period of time. Everyone - every company - was growing by leaps and bounds.
We went public and the money was even BETTER. We drove ourselves insanely hard, demanding 184% out of each person to be*their*best and give*their*all. I remember spending a New Years Day working in the office to bang out a sales proposal and not caring about it at all. It was that kind of atmosphere. We played just as hard as we worked.
And then - the winds changed. Dot com became dot bomb.
It started slowly, really. The delivery of pizzas slowed, Friday keggers were starting to be a bit more conservative, and the tubs of candy and crap from CostCo that kept us fueled weren't refilled as often. The round 1 layoffs were hardly even layoffs really - it was more like 7 people were asked to not come back the next day. Hardly a ripple was felt and, looking back now, maybe that was the problem. The IT folks were dispatched to collect the machines left behind, choosing a sad little cart that our facilities crew had assembled after too many beers one Friday night. The back wheel dragged and it was noisy, so it had been retired to our shipping area.
The round 2 layoffs were bigger and more ... cruel. Suddenly the human resources team, people - friends, really - who were right there with us swilling beer and snacking on popcorn during "movie night", were locking their doors before meetings. Cars started leaving the parking lot before 8pm. The CEO stopped smiling as much and was harder to meet with. My boss met with me and together we figured out how to save as many of "our guys" as we could - candidly discussing the differences between those that could afford to lose their job and those who probably would have a tougher time of finding a replacement gig.
During the round 2 layoffs, our HR team outsourced a "clean up" crew. Essentially they had the fabulous task of clearing out the office (or cube) while one was being told that their services were no longer required, probably because our IT staff was among the departments being cut. It was maybe the second or third day of the round 2 layoffs that I noticed the sound. While these mass layoff meetings were happening, a distinct "screee ... screee ... screee" was heard. The cube groundhogs in the area would pop their heads up from behind the gray-patterned walls to see where the evil sound would stop. It seems that the shipping cart that was being used to collect the laptops ... and that wheel became the sound of impending unemployment.
Round 3 was really nasty. I wouldn't swear to it, but I believe we may have cut our remaining staff by 60%. The 76 page org chart was down to 9 pages, and I was using a much larger font - just to make myself feel better, I guess. And I'll be damned if that same cart didn't make a return. "Screee ... screee ... screee". It was ... the tell tale cart of the dot bomb layoffs.
When the winds of "Round 4 layoffs" started to catch my ear, I walked into my bosses office and told him that I just couldn't take the insecurity anymore. I demanded he put me on the list to be let go. When HR saw his list, they pushed it back saying that he'd made a mistake and to remove my name. He came to me and asked me to reconsider. I would not and instead strolled in at the end of a "highly classified" meeting and said that if I needed to do something to earn being let go that I would but that I'd prefer to keep my dignity intact. (I may have mentioned something about setting up a tequila body shot booth outside my office to help raise money for the company ... but it can't be proven.) I didn't stick around to listen for the cart. I sensed it was on the way.
I was unemployed afterwards for 5 months - partly because I was not looking for work, partly because of the holidays - which are an awful period to try to find employment, and partly because I had three pre-set vacations during that time that would have made it impossible for me to work anyway.
**********
Today while at Starbucks, I had a 10 minute conversation with a total stranger. We discussed the written work of Steve Martin, the movie "Office Space" and that led to him telling me that he was escaping for a coffee while his company was in the process of downsizing. I told him a much-abridged version of the legend of the tell tale cart of dot bomb layoffs. He said it deserved to be a short story.
And now the legend can live on.
**********
I was working 14+hour days at a job I liked for a manager I adored at a company where I was respected - and was exceedingly well-paid. The company was a start-up, and the funding was flowing. We lived LARGE - heck, every start-up at the time did. We had accounts to bill against for dang near whatever we wanted - not just food, but supplies, services - we had a massuse visit the building twice a month, and the car detail guy visited weekly. I'm not kidding. It was incredible.
We grew by leaps and bounds. I was in charge of keeping the company-wide org chart and we once hired 87 people in one month. No lie - 87 in a 30-day period. I was employee #62 - but even at our biggest, we had only about 800 folks. Yes, that's still quite small - but keep in mind this whole story is only over a 2 year period of time. Everyone - every company - was growing by leaps and bounds.
We went public and the money was even BETTER. We drove ourselves insanely hard, demanding 184% out of each person to be*their*best and give*their*all. I remember spending a New Years Day working in the office to bang out a sales proposal and not caring about it at all. It was that kind of atmosphere. We played just as hard as we worked.
And then - the winds changed. Dot com became dot bomb.
It started slowly, really. The delivery of pizzas slowed, Friday keggers were starting to be a bit more conservative, and the tubs of candy and crap from CostCo that kept us fueled weren't refilled as often. The round 1 layoffs were hardly even layoffs really - it was more like 7 people were asked to not come back the next day. Hardly a ripple was felt and, looking back now, maybe that was the problem. The IT folks were dispatched to collect the machines left behind, choosing a sad little cart that our facilities crew had assembled after too many beers one Friday night. The back wheel dragged and it was noisy, so it had been retired to our shipping area.
The round 2 layoffs were bigger and more ... cruel. Suddenly the human resources team, people - friends, really - who were right there with us swilling beer and snacking on popcorn during "movie night", were locking their doors before meetings. Cars started leaving the parking lot before 8pm. The CEO stopped smiling as much and was harder to meet with. My boss met with me and together we figured out how to save as many of "our guys" as we could - candidly discussing the differences between those that could afford to lose their job and those who probably would have a tougher time of finding a replacement gig.
During the round 2 layoffs, our HR team outsourced a "clean up" crew. Essentially they had the fabulous task of clearing out the office (or cube) while one was being told that their services were no longer required, probably because our IT staff was among the departments being cut. It was maybe the second or third day of the round 2 layoffs that I noticed the sound. While these mass layoff meetings were happening, a distinct "screee ... screee ... screee" was heard. The cube groundhogs in the area would pop their heads up from behind the gray-patterned walls to see where the evil sound would stop. It seems that the shipping cart that was being used to collect the laptops ... and that wheel became the sound of impending unemployment.
Round 3 was really nasty. I wouldn't swear to it, but I believe we may have cut our remaining staff by 60%. The 76 page org chart was down to 9 pages, and I was using a much larger font - just to make myself feel better, I guess. And I'll be damned if that same cart didn't make a return. "Screee ... screee ... screee". It was ... the tell tale cart of the dot bomb layoffs.
When the winds of "Round 4 layoffs" started to catch my ear, I walked into my bosses office and told him that I just couldn't take the insecurity anymore. I demanded he put me on the list to be let go. When HR saw his list, they pushed it back saying that he'd made a mistake and to remove my name. He came to me and asked me to reconsider. I would not and instead strolled in at the end of a "highly classified" meeting and said that if I needed to do something to earn being let go that I would but that I'd prefer to keep my dignity intact. (I may have mentioned something about setting up a tequila body shot booth outside my office to help raise money for the company ... but it can't be proven.) I didn't stick around to listen for the cart. I sensed it was on the way.
I was unemployed afterwards for 5 months - partly because I was not looking for work, partly because of the holidays - which are an awful period to try to find employment, and partly because I had three pre-set vacations during that time that would have made it impossible for me to work anyway.
**********
Today while at Starbucks, I had a 10 minute conversation with a total stranger. We discussed the written work of Steve Martin, the movie "Office Space" and that led to him telling me that he was escaping for a coffee while his company was in the process of downsizing. I told him a much-abridged version of the legend of the tell tale cart of dot bomb layoffs. He said it deserved to be a short story.
And now the legend can live on.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
MMMM ... Duarte's Pie
Have you ever wanted to do something that you knew would be viewed as kinda silly to pretty much EVERYONE else but, to you anyway, it'd be kinda cool?
http://falltograce.blogspot.com/2008/09/flame-on.html
Yeah, me neither. Dunno why I brought that up. Nevermind.
So anyway, here's a shot of the Duarte's Pie - well, the box anyway - that I just *had* to get two weeks ago. It's nearly all gone after two weeks of me picking at it. It's kinda hard to see because it's behind my
smoking
hot
FLAMING MIXER!!!!!!!
(Yes yes, I know. I'm a silly dork. Who asked you?)
It's rather hard to tell - but after 4 flaming coats, it was then overlaid with a platinum blast for "added sparkle", detailed in a light blue hand brush, and then completely sealed in 6 - count em 6 - clear coats because, after all, this is no unitasker.
And, my fave shot ...
http://falltograce.blogspot.com/2008/09/flame-on.html
Yeah, me neither. Dunno why I brought that up. Nevermind.
So anyway, here's a shot of the Duarte's Pie - well, the box anyway - that I just *had* to get two weeks ago. It's nearly all gone after two weeks of me picking at it. It's kinda hard to see because it's behind my
smoking
hot
FLAMING MIXER!!!!!!!
(Yes yes, I know. I'm a silly dork. Who asked you?)
It's rather hard to tell - but after 4 flaming coats, it was then overlaid with a platinum blast for "added sparkle", detailed in a light blue hand brush, and then completely sealed in 6 - count em 6 - clear coats because, after all, this is no unitasker.
And, my fave shot ...
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