As you can see from the picture of the ol' Stang to the right, I am in need of an F so that I no longer drive an 'ord.
If you have one, know of where I can get one, please let me know. Thanks!
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Cruising
At age 16 I started driving the '65 Stang. Luckily I never wrecked it, though I did slide in the rain across a road, nearly ending up on the sidewalk once.
There was also the time that I managed to drive over a yellow & black sign and almost hit a neighbor's fence. I think I was 17. I remember driving by that bent up sign for weeks, but didn't say a word. I remember my Dad noticing some paint damage on the underside of the convertible when we were washing it, months later. I'm not sure I owned up to what happened - probably denied it, playing dumb, even though I was the only one driving it, except for him.
As an only child I remember getting blamed for various things around the house - crayon marks on the wall, spilled Kool Aid on the floor, unmade bed, etc. It really sucked as I had no one to frame except my dog. I did peg her for several acts, even though she was all of seven pounds and canine. Never hurts to try, right?
This weekend I started up ol' Betsy - the Mustang - for the first time this spring. Amazingly, she started. 41 years old and still runs well. Granted she's had her share of paint jobs, replacement parts and tune ups; her share of flooding engines, butterfly choke issues, rough idling and a certain rattle & hum ride. But she's much simpler to trouble shoot when she stalls. Once in high school she died and I rolled into the shoulder. My parents were out of town, I didn't know about AAA, and had to call my Grandmother. While I waited at the nearby donut shop, an older gentleman taught me about the butterfly choke and all was well. I went on my way.
This weekend the urban family went for an afternoon drive and a stop for a round of root beer floats. It was really nice to take the car for a spin. Two members of the UF are leaving this summer - moving away from STL - which means that 50% of the UF will soon live out of town. J left last year (AL), now M & V are abandoning ship (CO & MA respectively).
Of course, we'll still be close, just not in terms of proximity. I'll miss our Thursday night UFSs, our occasional rampages, our weekends at the cabin, apple picking & kettle korn in IL, and the simple luxury of spending time together spontaneously and frequently.
Onwards with the memory-making and entering a new phase in our friendships. Unlike the weaning from my best friends in college who moved out of state, nowadays long distance calls are inexpensive and email is widespread. Plus I am actually not a broke 21-year old making barely enough to live on my own, buy clothes, food and go out.
Good times, good times.
There was also the time that I managed to drive over a yellow & black sign and almost hit a neighbor's fence. I think I was 17. I remember driving by that bent up sign for weeks, but didn't say a word. I remember my Dad noticing some paint damage on the underside of the convertible when we were washing it, months later. I'm not sure I owned up to what happened - probably denied it, playing dumb, even though I was the only one driving it, except for him.
As an only child I remember getting blamed for various things around the house - crayon marks on the wall, spilled Kool Aid on the floor, unmade bed, etc. It really sucked as I had no one to frame except my dog. I did peg her for several acts, even though she was all of seven pounds and canine. Never hurts to try, right?
This weekend I started up ol' Betsy - the Mustang - for the first time this spring. Amazingly, she started. 41 years old and still runs well. Granted she's had her share of paint jobs, replacement parts and tune ups; her share of flooding engines, butterfly choke issues, rough idling and a certain rattle & hum ride. But she's much simpler to trouble shoot when she stalls. Once in high school she died and I rolled into the shoulder. My parents were out of town, I didn't know about AAA, and had to call my Grandmother. While I waited at the nearby donut shop, an older gentleman taught me about the butterfly choke and all was well. I went on my way.
This weekend the urban family went for an afternoon drive and a stop for a round of root beer floats. It was really nice to take the car for a spin. Two members of the UF are leaving this summer - moving away from STL - which means that 50% of the UF will soon live out of town. J left last year (AL), now M & V are abandoning ship (CO & MA respectively).
Of course, we'll still be close, just not in terms of proximity. I'll miss our Thursday night UFSs, our occasional rampages, our weekends at the cabin, apple picking & kettle korn in IL, and the simple luxury of spending time together spontaneously and frequently.
Onwards with the memory-making and entering a new phase in our friendships. Unlike the weaning from my best friends in college who moved out of state, nowadays long distance calls are inexpensive and email is widespread. Plus I am actually not a broke 21-year old making barely enough to live on my own, buy clothes, food and go out.
Good times, good times.
Magic Smoking Monkey
This weekend I went to the RAC and saw The Ten Commandments, live, by the Magic Smoking Monkey Theater group. They're always campy and entertaining; guaranteed yuks. I've seen them perform Speed Racer (one of my favorite cartoons as a kid, totally had a crush on ol' Speed Racer and his big blue eyes), It's A Wonderful Life, and Refer Madness. I highly recommend their performances.
I took someone whom I've just started dating - inducting him into the elite followers of these primate antics. Normally there is no audience participation nor any type of projectile that falls on the audience. So I felt confident sitting in the front row - even though my date was a little skeptical about the proximity. And rightfully so. This time there were locusts (aka rubber insects) as well as hail (aka ping pong balls) thrown into the audience. The crowning worry was when a theater member handed out a plastic tarp to the front row, stating that there were two times during the course of the show when we might get wet! My poor date had a very small corner of the edge of the tarp - it wasn't long enough for the entire row and, just like sharing the bedroom comforter, he had to tug to get just a corner. Luckily there wasn't much projectile liquid and we both remained dry - but that'll teach me to sit in the front row so casually in the future!
Then, we enjoyed drinks afterwards and a rather awkward attempt at a first kiss. We hugged and I didn't realize he was going in for a kiss. So his lips landed on some strange quadrant of my cheek. Somewhere between my lips and right ear. I was a little tipsy and feeling like 15 all over again.
Times like these remind me of pimples, boy-girl dances, and not having the 'right' clothes to be cool. And then realizing that even having the in-clothes would not make me cool. That while I did date the captain of a high school sports team - it just wasn't the football team, the baseball team, the basketball or even the soccer team. I was the girlfriend of the captain of the bowling team. He wore man jewelry (a gold necklace) which was cool in the late 80s. Maybe.
I remember my first attempt at French kissing as a young teen. He said "it's not a race" after a few minutes of my tongue lapping his, looping around and around as quickly as possible. I was embarrassed, but had no idea how to do it "right."
I guess that's kind of the gritty (and witty) reality of new relationships - the awkwardness, the uncertainty, the first this & the first that - but boy is it comical.
I took someone whom I've just started dating - inducting him into the elite followers of these primate antics. Normally there is no audience participation nor any type of projectile that falls on the audience. So I felt confident sitting in the front row - even though my date was a little skeptical about the proximity. And rightfully so. This time there were locusts (aka rubber insects) as well as hail (aka ping pong balls) thrown into the audience. The crowning worry was when a theater member handed out a plastic tarp to the front row, stating that there were two times during the course of the show when we might get wet! My poor date had a very small corner of the edge of the tarp - it wasn't long enough for the entire row and, just like sharing the bedroom comforter, he had to tug to get just a corner. Luckily there wasn't much projectile liquid and we both remained dry - but that'll teach me to sit in the front row so casually in the future!
Then, we enjoyed drinks afterwards and a rather awkward attempt at a first kiss. We hugged and I didn't realize he was going in for a kiss. So his lips landed on some strange quadrant of my cheek. Somewhere between my lips and right ear. I was a little tipsy and feeling like 15 all over again.
Times like these remind me of pimples, boy-girl dances, and not having the 'right' clothes to be cool. And then realizing that even having the in-clothes would not make me cool. That while I did date the captain of a high school sports team - it just wasn't the football team, the baseball team, the basketball or even the soccer team. I was the girlfriend of the captain of the bowling team. He wore man jewelry (a gold necklace) which was cool in the late 80s. Maybe.
I remember my first attempt at French kissing as a young teen. He said "it's not a race" after a few minutes of my tongue lapping his, looping around and around as quickly as possible. I was embarrassed, but had no idea how to do it "right."
I guess that's kind of the gritty (and witty) reality of new relationships - the awkwardness, the uncertainty, the first this & the first that - but boy is it comical.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Le Freak, C'est Chic
Last month I saw David Sedaris live. His delivery of personal stories is amazing. He makes you laugh, guffaw, gape and from the first sentence, I'm hooked. I aim to replicate this level of engagement in my writing.
Earlier this week I read my first piece by Augusten Burroughs. My writing buddy Temporary Digs really likes him and I've always been curious. The essay I read was about getting a second dog. Such a simple topic, could be very boring, and yet I found myself actually snorting and chortling while reading this excerpt. I was alone, sitting on my couch, reading; the only sound is me laughing. I'm going to have to read more of his work.
Also am now on a quest to write my own personal essay, complete with my own quirky but true life examples injected with some laugh out loud morsels. We'll see how it goes ... I will keep in mind that, with each workshopping of another's short story in the Daily Grind, I realize that those tidbits in our fiction writing that seem to detract from the plausibility of the tale are usually real life incidents, not imagined by the writer. From the neighbor with Tourette's Syndrome to Athena's last name, truth is stranger than fiction.
And thus I will attempt to embrace my inner freak and share it, in black and white, with others. A little scary, but hopefully entertaining - even if it may be mildly alarming.
Earlier this week I read my first piece by Augusten Burroughs. My writing buddy Temporary Digs really likes him and I've always been curious. The essay I read was about getting a second dog. Such a simple topic, could be very boring, and yet I found myself actually snorting and chortling while reading this excerpt. I was alone, sitting on my couch, reading; the only sound is me laughing. I'm going to have to read more of his work.
Also am now on a quest to write my own personal essay, complete with my own quirky but true life examples injected with some laugh out loud morsels. We'll see how it goes ... I will keep in mind that, with each workshopping of another's short story in the Daily Grind, I realize that those tidbits in our fiction writing that seem to detract from the plausibility of the tale are usually real life incidents, not imagined by the writer. From the neighbor with Tourette's Syndrome to Athena's last name, truth is stranger than fiction.
And thus I will attempt to embrace my inner freak and share it, in black and white, with others. A little scary, but hopefully entertaining - even if it may be mildly alarming.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Sleep walking
How bad is it that my last two posts were bitching about bitching? Bad! Sometimes it must be done. Even if it is annoyingly ironic.
Tonight driving home from work in my quirky little neighborhood, I saw a common sight - a man walking his dog. When I sit in my living room on the sofa by the front windows, watching tv and surfing the internet, I'll often see dogs and their owners stroll by. But tonight, as I pulled up to one of the many stop signs in my area, I saw a dog walker with the most eye-catching outfit.
If I didn't know better, I'd have said he was homeless.
The owner's mismatched outfit nearly distracted me from coming to a full stop. The first alarming aspect were his bottoms. Brightly colored die, each the size of his hand, were printed on them. If I had to guess, I'd say they were flannel pajama bottoms. Red, black and white pajama bottoms with large dice, in action.
I didn't catch the shoes, so guessing they weren't fuzzy slippers. Instead my eyes naturally gravitated upwards to his chambray button up shirt, complete with snag-looking holes, as if he'd been jousting with a thorny tree.
And crowning his ensemble was the black skull cap. The cap covered the top of his head and his ears. On top of his helmet like cap, he wore a tiara in the form of bright yellow headphones. A finishing touch.
I wonder, does he cover his ears with a cap to muffle the music? With all the buzz about hearing loss from ear buds and headphones, is he attempting to protect his ear drums?
As I lifted my foot from the brake and pushed on the accelerator, my eyes lingered on the rear view mirror for one last glimpse.
As for the dog, I have no idea what it looked like ... but I'm fairly certain that there was a dog, attached to the leash, attached to the man with the fascinating outfit. I think.
Tonight driving home from work in my quirky little neighborhood, I saw a common sight - a man walking his dog. When I sit in my living room on the sofa by the front windows, watching tv and surfing the internet, I'll often see dogs and their owners stroll by. But tonight, as I pulled up to one of the many stop signs in my area, I saw a dog walker with the most eye-catching outfit.
If I didn't know better, I'd have said he was homeless.
The owner's mismatched outfit nearly distracted me from coming to a full stop. The first alarming aspect were his bottoms. Brightly colored die, each the size of his hand, were printed on them. If I had to guess, I'd say they were flannel pajama bottoms. Red, black and white pajama bottoms with large dice, in action.
I didn't catch the shoes, so guessing they weren't fuzzy slippers. Instead my eyes naturally gravitated upwards to his chambray button up shirt, complete with snag-looking holes, as if he'd been jousting with a thorny tree.
And crowning his ensemble was the black skull cap. The cap covered the top of his head and his ears. On top of his helmet like cap, he wore a tiara in the form of bright yellow headphones. A finishing touch.
I wonder, does he cover his ears with a cap to muffle the music? With all the buzz about hearing loss from ear buds and headphones, is he attempting to protect his ear drums?
As I lifted my foot from the brake and pushed on the accelerator, my eyes lingered on the rear view mirror for one last glimpse.
As for the dog, I have no idea what it looked like ... but I'm fairly certain that there was a dog, attached to the leash, attached to the man with the fascinating outfit. I think.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
R & B
No, not Rhythm and Blues.
Ranting and Bitching.
Which, in addition to Miss HIGH MAINTENANCE, also includes my neighbors. My first year of home ownership I attended the association meetings. Overall, they were fairly informative and not unpleasant. No major griping. Good times.
Since then I've joined the association's Yahoo group. And now, on ocassion, en masse, see the flock of dullards who spew their malarky electronically. It's off putting. People take umbrage at other's comments - from assuming a stolen political sign was for a Republican (or was it a Democrat) - that became a rash of emails about judging and taking offense. That was in 2004.
The latest barrage concerned dumpster divers, panhandling, kids playing in the alley, and a stolen bike. All fair things to be discussed, but it derailed into a ten car pile up. Fatalities included gays, aldermen, police, retail outlets, and much more.
Mixed in between it all were a few positive comments, thankfully, and a rather misplaced usage of "my bad." I still don't understand that term.
The challenge with email - professionally and personally - is how flat it is. It can be cold, harsh, and one-dimensional. Caps, bold, and too many punctuation points or question marks are offensive. My aunt usually types in all caps - I don't think she understands that it seems like she's shouting. And for some reason I don't tell her. She probably hates that I often respond in all lower case. So between the two of us is a happy medium I suppose.
With email - particularly professionally where no prior relationship exists - the lack of an opening, closing or any niceties can seem coarse and impersonal. At work, I remember when shared Wang computers with their yellow typewriter font were the norm; when we had a 'fax man' at work who handled all of the incoming & outgoing faxes; when a word processing team took our handwritten edits to documents and typed them up; when work was busy but not as frenetic and sloppy as now.
One woman who's worked at my company for more than 25 years now starts her emails as if they were letters. In the body she types the date and is rather formal throughout. The only exclusion is the omission of the mailing address in the top left section. Sometimes I think she's got the right idea, other times I think she's rather antiquated.
Back to the R&B of the neighborhood group. I still subscribe to the Yahoo group because there can be good information (such as a rash of car break ins in the area, recommendations for a good plumber, a new shop opening up in the area, etc.) but it's like removing layer upon layer of wallpaper in an old home where it was never primed. It's tedious and takes a lot of work.
I'm beginning to wonder if the occasional tidbit gleaned is worth the headache. Just like friends who have gone from old homes with character (and frequent repairs) to brand new homes with new plumbing, new wiring, and less headaches ... maybe. But I'm happy where I am.
Ranting and Bitching.
Which, in addition to Miss HIGH MAINTENANCE, also includes my neighbors. My first year of home ownership I attended the association meetings. Overall, they were fairly informative and not unpleasant. No major griping. Good times.
Since then I've joined the association's Yahoo group. And now, on ocassion, en masse, see the flock of dullards who spew their malarky electronically. It's off putting. People take umbrage at other's comments - from assuming a stolen political sign was for a Republican (or was it a Democrat) - that became a rash of emails about judging and taking offense. That was in 2004.
The latest barrage concerned dumpster divers, panhandling, kids playing in the alley, and a stolen bike. All fair things to be discussed, but it derailed into a ten car pile up. Fatalities included gays, aldermen, police, retail outlets, and much more.
Mixed in between it all were a few positive comments, thankfully, and a rather misplaced usage of "my bad." I still don't understand that term.
The challenge with email - professionally and personally - is how flat it is. It can be cold, harsh, and one-dimensional. Caps, bold, and too many punctuation points or question marks are offensive. My aunt usually types in all caps - I don't think she understands that it seems like she's shouting. And for some reason I don't tell her. She probably hates that I often respond in all lower case. So between the two of us is a happy medium I suppose.
With email - particularly professionally where no prior relationship exists - the lack of an opening, closing or any niceties can seem coarse and impersonal. At work, I remember when shared Wang computers with their yellow typewriter font were the norm; when we had a 'fax man' at work who handled all of the incoming & outgoing faxes; when a word processing team took our handwritten edits to documents and typed them up; when work was busy but not as frenetic and sloppy as now.
One woman who's worked at my company for more than 25 years now starts her emails as if they were letters. In the body she types the date and is rather formal throughout. The only exclusion is the omission of the mailing address in the top left section. Sometimes I think she's got the right idea, other times I think she's rather antiquated.
Back to the R&B of the neighborhood group. I still subscribe to the Yahoo group because there can be good information (such as a rash of car break ins in the area, recommendations for a good plumber, a new shop opening up in the area, etc.) but it's like removing layer upon layer of wallpaper in an old home where it was never primed. It's tedious and takes a lot of work.
I'm beginning to wonder if the occasional tidbit gleaned is worth the headache. Just like friends who have gone from old homes with character (and frequent repairs) to brand new homes with new plumbing, new wiring, and less headaches ... maybe. But I'm happy where I am.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
High Maintenance
I've often wondered about managing people. I haven't had any direct reports yet, and I'm not sure I ever want any of them. Some people say it's like babysitting, others say that if they're peers/equals, it's really great.
My company is employing more contract workers on project by project basis. So far I've only worked with a handful of them, but boy is it an even split. I've got Cain and Abel, Frick and Frack, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde on payroll. Temporarily, thank God.
Half of them are self-starting, industrious, hard working, honest employees. They're easy to manage with an excellent work ethic. If every employee were like them, I'd clone them, have a 499 direct reports and be the most productive manager on earth. Heck, I'd start my own company with those clones, be listed at the top of the Fortune 500, and offer each and every employee six weeks of paid vacation annually.
The other half are HIGH MAINTENANCE. As in caps lock, bold, with a million exclamation points.
There's very much drama surrounding their needs, their gripes, and the so-called system's imperfections. Their emails can be very demanding. I tend to be rather patient and tolerant, but EMAILS THAT YELL AT YOU AND HAVE TOO MANY !!!! MAKE ME CRAZY.
One in particular is a serious threat to my sanity. I'll soon be indulging in vodka shots at 8am or stitching up a voodoo doll with her face on it and chanting non-sensical verses.
Miss CAPS LOCK, aka Miss HIGH MAINTENANCE, is hell bent (hell bent, to the penny, on the value of her Neiman wardrobe) on pushing back on anything (and don't forget everything) that does not suit her. When something doesn't go her way, she's quick to defend herself, throw her hands up in the air, all to maintain her alleged "good name" within the company. Granted, as a contractor, she has much more power and in some ways less accountability than the average full time employee. However, I don't know that she gets that her demands erode away any respect she might garner from a job well done. Rather, the mere first syllable of her name evokes images of HIGH MAINTENANCE, not HARD WORKER.
Soon, however, Miss HM will have completed her project and I will be HM-free. 30 days to go.
My company is employing more contract workers on project by project basis. So far I've only worked with a handful of them, but boy is it an even split. I've got Cain and Abel, Frick and Frack, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde on payroll. Temporarily, thank God.
Half of them are self-starting, industrious, hard working, honest employees. They're easy to manage with an excellent work ethic. If every employee were like them, I'd clone them, have a 499 direct reports and be the most productive manager on earth. Heck, I'd start my own company with those clones, be listed at the top of the Fortune 500, and offer each and every employee six weeks of paid vacation annually.
The other half are HIGH MAINTENANCE. As in caps lock, bold, with a million exclamation points.
There's very much drama surrounding their needs, their gripes, and the so-called system's imperfections. Their emails can be very demanding. I tend to be rather patient and tolerant, but EMAILS THAT YELL AT YOU AND HAVE TOO MANY !!!! MAKE ME CRAZY.
One in particular is a serious threat to my sanity. I'll soon be indulging in vodka shots at 8am or stitching up a voodoo doll with her face on it and chanting non-sensical verses.
Miss CAPS LOCK, aka Miss HIGH MAINTENANCE, is hell bent (hell bent, to the penny, on the value of her Neiman wardrobe) on pushing back on anything (and don't forget everything) that does not suit her. When something doesn't go her way, she's quick to defend herself, throw her hands up in the air, all to maintain her alleged "good name" within the company. Granted, as a contractor, she has much more power and in some ways less accountability than the average full time employee. However, I don't know that she gets that her demands erode away any respect she might garner from a job well done. Rather, the mere first syllable of her name evokes images of HIGH MAINTENANCE, not HARD WORKER.
Soon, however, Miss HM will have completed her project and I will be HM-free. 30 days to go.
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