Fluorescent lights are never flattering. I avoid looking in the mirror at work too long - each blemish, errant gray hair, and other flaw seem to be on spotlight. I guess it's the next best thing to daylight?
Which brings me to an interesting phenomenon developing in my workplace ... mood lighting. Two of my coworkers, who joined the department in the past year, do not use their overhead lights. I've never seen this before so it's fascinating.
Instead of those awful, fluorescent overhead lights, these colleagues have either a table lamp or torchiere which ever so subtly casts shadows on their workspace.
Very curious, I must say. One of them almost looks like a gamer: door closed; laptop and torchiere glowing through the window (which looks out into a maze of cubicles); earbuds always in; and shoulders slumped towards the computer screen. I keep waiting to hear beeps from Donkey Kong or Super Mario Brothers when he makes it to the next level. Or at least the yelps and yahoos of a record breaking game. (Yes, I know there are much more advanced games these days, but this colleague and I are both 30-somethings from the good ol' days of Atari.)
What makes me smile most is the fact that when my colleague is actually out of the office, his overhead light is on. So it's brighter in there when he's not working, than when he is.
Just the opposite of 99% of the rest of us ...
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
More Important Than ...
"A mini-break means more than just shagging," as Bridget Jones once said.
Is it true?
Mini-breaks offer rare opportunities to step out of everyday life and spend 24 hours a day with someone. Complete with less distractions, less personal space, and less housecleaning.
It's been awhile, maybe never, since I've spent 96 hours - 22 of which were in a car - with a guy I'm dating. Until two weekends ago.
I went to his hometown, met the friends, tailgated, watched a football game, met some family.
It went well. I had a good time. My foot remained several feet away from my mouth. No major foibles.
Except one ...
SDG is a die hard, college football fan. He hasn't missed a home game in 15 years. He wears his oversized U of M jersey, cap, and even logoed pants.
Having gone to a university that wasn't particularly known for its sports, this is all very foreign to me. At the tailgate spot we ate made to order omelettes pre-game. Bloody Marys and a rather extensive bar was set up. Post-game menu included soup and steak sandwiches. I knew I'd eat and drink well, I just wasn't sure of the game itself.
College football is SDG's passion, or perhaps his vice. There are worse vices, to be sure. But SDG has his game day routine down, and it's pretty much a full day event. He doesn't drink alcohol or much liquid pre-game. This is to ensure that he remains on his bleacher seat for all four quarters. No breaks. Can't miss a thing.
He set fairly low expectations for me. He said he'd be happy if I made it through half-time. After that I was free to go back to tailgating or walk a few blocks to the local shops. I thought this was do-able. After all, I'd been to a game at Purdue before and found it entertaining enough. I can people watch and daydream with the best of them.
First quarter zipped along quickly, until I saw lightning. Then the rainfall. I tried to make a quick exit for shelter while SDG remained. No sweat, I'd wait it out and we'd meet back up.
Or not. There was a mass exodus and not enough exits and/or covered areas. I waited, ten steps from my bleacher seat and ten steps from the exit as the fattest raindrops pelted down. The U of M ballcap he bought me came in handy - but I still got drenched.
Because of the lightning, the game was delayed. Of course the football players took shelter, but the poor band - complete with tubas - remained on the field. Hello? Does anyone else see a problem with that?
SDG and I met up as everyone exited the stadium. He apologized a thousand times over. I was so ready to go - soggy and cold - and thought he was ready, too. Wrong! I quickly remembered that he sat through entire games - rain, sleet, snow - and that a silly girl might break his 15 year record. And that his request that I stick it out through half time was currently at risk.
Over time we compromised. The game started up again one hour later. We stayed awhile at the tailgate, watched part of the game on the satellite, and then left. The weekend was packed with time with various friends and family, and that night we had dinner with his oldest, best friends.
We negotiated and, while he was disappointed to leave, and admitted as such, he also said that I was more important than football; but if they had been playing team a, b, or c (he limited it to three, I think), he'd have had to kill me. I appreciated his honesty. The second comment (even with the caveat) also garnered mega points - though I'm sure I'll repay him someday.
Ok, so now that we've jumped this hurdle, this 96-hour trial, perhaps I need to embrace that term ... boyfriend. He's my boyfriend.
Is it true?
Mini-breaks offer rare opportunities to step out of everyday life and spend 24 hours a day with someone. Complete with less distractions, less personal space, and less housecleaning.
It's been awhile, maybe never, since I've spent 96 hours - 22 of which were in a car - with a guy I'm dating. Until two weekends ago.
I went to his hometown, met the friends, tailgated, watched a football game, met some family.
It went well. I had a good time. My foot remained several feet away from my mouth. No major foibles.
Except one ...
SDG is a die hard, college football fan. He hasn't missed a home game in 15 years. He wears his oversized U of M jersey, cap, and even logoed pants.
Having gone to a university that wasn't particularly known for its sports, this is all very foreign to me. At the tailgate spot we ate made to order omelettes pre-game. Bloody Marys and a rather extensive bar was set up. Post-game menu included soup and steak sandwiches. I knew I'd eat and drink well, I just wasn't sure of the game itself.
College football is SDG's passion, or perhaps his vice. There are worse vices, to be sure. But SDG has his game day routine down, and it's pretty much a full day event. He doesn't drink alcohol or much liquid pre-game. This is to ensure that he remains on his bleacher seat for all four quarters. No breaks. Can't miss a thing.
He set fairly low expectations for me. He said he'd be happy if I made it through half-time. After that I was free to go back to tailgating or walk a few blocks to the local shops. I thought this was do-able. After all, I'd been to a game at Purdue before and found it entertaining enough. I can people watch and daydream with the best of them.
First quarter zipped along quickly, until I saw lightning. Then the rainfall. I tried to make a quick exit for shelter while SDG remained. No sweat, I'd wait it out and we'd meet back up.
Or not. There was a mass exodus and not enough exits and/or covered areas. I waited, ten steps from my bleacher seat and ten steps from the exit as the fattest raindrops pelted down. The U of M ballcap he bought me came in handy - but I still got drenched.
Because of the lightning, the game was delayed. Of course the football players took shelter, but the poor band - complete with tubas - remained on the field. Hello? Does anyone else see a problem with that?
SDG and I met up as everyone exited the stadium. He apologized a thousand times over. I was so ready to go - soggy and cold - and thought he was ready, too. Wrong! I quickly remembered that he sat through entire games - rain, sleet, snow - and that a silly girl might break his 15 year record. And that his request that I stick it out through half time was currently at risk.
Over time we compromised. The game started up again one hour later. We stayed awhile at the tailgate, watched part of the game on the satellite, and then left. The weekend was packed with time with various friends and family, and that night we had dinner with his oldest, best friends.
We negotiated and, while he was disappointed to leave, and admitted as such, he also said that I was more important than football; but if they had been playing team a, b, or c (he limited it to three, I think), he'd have had to kill me. I appreciated his honesty. The second comment (even with the caveat) also garnered mega points - though I'm sure I'll repay him someday.
Ok, so now that we've jumped this hurdle, this 96-hour trial, perhaps I need to embrace that term ... boyfriend. He's my boyfriend.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Just Plain Wrong
MORE AMERICANS PASSING UP VACATIONS TO GET AHEAD.
The official end of summer is approaching, signaling the end of peak vacation season and the return of the working masses to the daily grind. But many of us aren't trudging back to work well rested from a couple of weeks of lying on the beach.
Increasingly, Americans loaded with work are foregoing their vacation time and clocking more hours on the job, widening the disparity between the U.S. and other countries where vacations are mandatory and often stretch to a month of idle bliss.
The U.S. is the only industrialized country that does not require employers to give workers paid time off--vacation leave, sick leave or maternity leave.
It's up to employers to design vacation policies, and about 25% of U.S. workers get no paid leave at all, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. (Chicago Tribune.com/Business, 9/13)
The official end of summer is approaching, signaling the end of peak vacation season and the return of the working masses to the daily grind. But many of us aren't trudging back to work well rested from a couple of weeks of lying on the beach.
Increasingly, Americans loaded with work are foregoing their vacation time and clocking more hours on the job, widening the disparity between the U.S. and other countries where vacations are mandatory and often stretch to a month of idle bliss.
The U.S. is the only industrialized country that does not require employers to give workers paid time off--vacation leave, sick leave or maternity leave.
It's up to employers to design vacation policies, and about 25% of U.S. workers get no paid leave at all, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. (Chicago Tribune.com/Business, 9/13)
Monday, September 04, 2006
Follow my Finger with your Eyes, Hester
This Labor Day weekend included a trip to the wineries. We went to one of the more popular ones, with a big patio, live music, etc. It was crowded, but with a little ingenuity we were able to find a table and extra chairs to join the throng while having our own private feast.
Of course the dance floor provided the most excellent people watching. Talk about sea of humanity. Wine, it's not just for the discriminating palate anymore. There were the requisite Paris HIlton-esques crowd mixed in with the hillbilly couple (he with suspenders, she with long gray hair in a braid) and those folks you'd expect in a dive bar, drinking beer on tap and holding belching contests. Of course, this is Missouri. And there are those wine cooler-esque concoctions that taste more like a sugary Kool-Aid than a Shiraz.
Equally intriguing was the wedding reception going on the north side of the seating area. Not sure I'd want the Bayou band and VP Fair crowd elbowing up against my wedding party ... but, hey, it was cheap entertainment, I suppose! The bride's gown included a band of red at the top and bottom, about an inch or two thick. Someone said this was the latest trend - a white gown with a splash of color. Traditionalist that I am, I was reminded of Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter rather than a fashionista.
But back to my group. EG, the DD, got a nauseating migraine. I think the mix of cigar smoke blowing in her face combined with a few other factors jump-started it. She wasn't feeling all that great so I drove her car back to STL. She has a manual, and since stick shifts are a dying breed, there weren't many in the carload that were experienced and/or not totally tipsy.
Winding back to the highway, we came upon a sobriety checkpoint.
I've never had experience with a checkpoint really. Except a year ago after having been at a 50th Anniversary party in which no liquor was served. The cop simply asked where I'd been; I pointed about a block backwards and said "that Southern Baptist church. I had lemonade." Why I felt the need to call out - twice in one sentence - my absolute lack of liquor - is my self-inflicted guilt syndrome. For some reason I immediately feel guilty at the sight of a cop.
So this time, having not anticipated being the driver, and coming upon a ten cop-car checkpoint, I felt instantly guilty. How many drinks had I had? I didn't really know. More than the migrained car owner but less than the other two passengers.
I felt my face flush - which happens when I drink alcohol, or am overheated, or embarrassed, or all of the above ... while waiting for my turn, I started chewing gum, but trying not to smack it like a "mad cow" as I tend to do in stressful situations.
I rolled up to the first of the line of cops and stopped. I pushed the button to roll down the window. Oops, that's the rear window. Play it cool and push the button for your window, dumbass. He asked where I had been, what time I had got there, how many drinks I'd had. Oh, and license and registration. I answered these questions. And then wondered what was next?
I saw my life flash before my eyes. By some fluke my ankle would give out while walking a straight line, I’d fall and he’d issue a DUI. Talk about Scarlet Letter. . . I’ve always prided myself on not driving drunk, suddenly to be caught unawares and be the next schlub with a drunk driving violation.
Luckily, I didn’t have to move. My clumsiness would certainly have betrayed me, sober or not. Instead he raised his index finger and told me to follow it with my eyes only and not move my head. He moved his finger from a center point to the far right, center to the far left, center to the far right, etc. etc. I’d say at least 8 times. It felt like an eternity.
Sometimes he’d stop midway, other times he went slowly and nearly exceeded my peripheral vision. A few time I expected my contact lens might pop out from staring out of the corner of my eyes. Course I wasn’t going to mouth off to the cop about this – unless it really happened. And it didn’t. I did move my head once though, and he called me on it. Sorry, said a small voice inside me as my jaws clamped tighter.
I was free to go after the 'follow the finger' exercise, but had an awful adrenaline rush. Poor EG, still recuping from her migraine, had to deal with all of our animated talking the rest of the drive home.
And of course, in my usual clumsy way, right before handing over her keys and going to my own car, I drove over a curb. Just one back tire as I took a turn onto a one-way street. Yup. Classic.
I’m sure they were all thinking “Yup, she’s drunk. We dodged a bullet back in Augusta.”
To which, I said, out loud, “I have a problem with curbs.”
Because I do.
Of course the dance floor provided the most excellent people watching. Talk about sea of humanity. Wine, it's not just for the discriminating palate anymore. There were the requisite Paris HIlton-esques crowd mixed in with the hillbilly couple (he with suspenders, she with long gray hair in a braid) and those folks you'd expect in a dive bar, drinking beer on tap and holding belching contests. Of course, this is Missouri. And there are those wine cooler-esque concoctions that taste more like a sugary Kool-Aid than a Shiraz.
Equally intriguing was the wedding reception going on the north side of the seating area. Not sure I'd want the Bayou band and VP Fair crowd elbowing up against my wedding party ... but, hey, it was cheap entertainment, I suppose! The bride's gown included a band of red at the top and bottom, about an inch or two thick. Someone said this was the latest trend - a white gown with a splash of color. Traditionalist that I am, I was reminded of Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter rather than a fashionista.
But back to my group. EG, the DD, got a nauseating migraine. I think the mix of cigar smoke blowing in her face combined with a few other factors jump-started it. She wasn't feeling all that great so I drove her car back to STL. She has a manual, and since stick shifts are a dying breed, there weren't many in the carload that were experienced and/or not totally tipsy.
Winding back to the highway, we came upon a sobriety checkpoint.
I've never had experience with a checkpoint really. Except a year ago after having been at a 50th Anniversary party in which no liquor was served. The cop simply asked where I'd been; I pointed about a block backwards and said "that Southern Baptist church. I had lemonade." Why I felt the need to call out - twice in one sentence - my absolute lack of liquor - is my self-inflicted guilt syndrome. For some reason I immediately feel guilty at the sight of a cop.
So this time, having not anticipated being the driver, and coming upon a ten cop-car checkpoint, I felt instantly guilty. How many drinks had I had? I didn't really know. More than the migrained car owner but less than the other two passengers.
I felt my face flush - which happens when I drink alcohol, or am overheated, or embarrassed, or all of the above ... while waiting for my turn, I started chewing gum, but trying not to smack it like a "mad cow" as I tend to do in stressful situations.
I rolled up to the first of the line of cops and stopped. I pushed the button to roll down the window. Oops, that's the rear window. Play it cool and push the button for your window, dumbass. He asked where I had been, what time I had got there, how many drinks I'd had. Oh, and license and registration. I answered these questions. And then wondered what was next?
I saw my life flash before my eyes. By some fluke my ankle would give out while walking a straight line, I’d fall and he’d issue a DUI. Talk about Scarlet Letter. . . I’ve always prided myself on not driving drunk, suddenly to be caught unawares and be the next schlub with a drunk driving violation.
Luckily, I didn’t have to move. My clumsiness would certainly have betrayed me, sober or not. Instead he raised his index finger and told me to follow it with my eyes only and not move my head. He moved his finger from a center point to the far right, center to the far left, center to the far right, etc. etc. I’d say at least 8 times. It felt like an eternity.
Sometimes he’d stop midway, other times he went slowly and nearly exceeded my peripheral vision. A few time I expected my contact lens might pop out from staring out of the corner of my eyes. Course I wasn’t going to mouth off to the cop about this – unless it really happened. And it didn’t. I did move my head once though, and he called me on it. Sorry, said a small voice inside me as my jaws clamped tighter.
I was free to go after the 'follow the finger' exercise, but had an awful adrenaline rush. Poor EG, still recuping from her migraine, had to deal with all of our animated talking the rest of the drive home.
And of course, in my usual clumsy way, right before handing over her keys and going to my own car, I drove over a curb. Just one back tire as I took a turn onto a one-way street. Yup. Classic.
I’m sure they were all thinking “Yup, she’s drunk. We dodged a bullet back in Augusta.”
To which, I said, out loud, “I have a problem with curbs.”
Because I do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)