A Bad Influence?

As much as I appreciate cute purses, I don’t always like to use them. Such was the case this last weekend when I went to Utah to eat turkey and be thankful. Since I was forgoing a purse, each time I went out somewhere, I’d grab a credit card, my driver’s license, a $20 bill, and my cell phone. With both hands and shoulders free from encumbrance, I was free to roam about.

It’s become a bit of a tradition for my niece and I to go to Gardner Village the day after Thanksgiving. While the crazies are fighting over $12 plasma televisions, it’s lovely to stroll around the little shops and admire the Christmas decorations. And, at some point each year, we stop at the bakery—usually for lunch. But, since we’d gotten off to a rather late start with breakfast around noon, we opted out of lunch and decided on a quick snack before concluding our trip into quaintness. My whopping bill came to $2.64, so I decided to pay with cash. When I paid, the clerk handed me change from $10.

Me: “Umm, I gave you a twenty.”
Clerk: “I’m so sorry. That’s the second
time I’ve done that today.”
Me: “No problem.”

The clerk then handed me a $10 bill.

Later that evening, I was emptying my pockets and getting settled at my friend’s house, when I discovered I had too much cash. (Not a problem to which I am accustomed.) Ten dollars too much to be precise. It appears that in my excitement over snack time, I had completely forgotten that I had broken my $20 at breakfast that day, and had indeed paid for my snack with a $10 bill.

I always thought that when I turned to a life of crime, it would be big and splashy and earn me one of those two-hour specials on a primetime news magazine. If I’m going down, I may as well make it worth it. Turns out my scandalous nature looks a whole lot like senility and not so much like the work of a criminal mastermind.

That Would be "No"

To answer the questions that have been asked with increasing frequency lately:

1. No, I don’t know where I’ll be working in January.
2. Yes, this is kind of late not to know.
3. Yes, it is frustrating.
4. No, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Ggrrrrr.

The Circles Don’t Intersect

There’s been a nagging feeling at the back of my head for the last few weeks, exacerbated when I think about Christmas. I assume this is because I hadn’t started shopping or even planning, and, if last year is anything to go by, the next six weeks are going to be gone in the blink of an eye. So Saturday, after receiving a tip from a neighbor, I headed to the local outlet mall in hopes of jumpstarting the buying.

As I closed in on hour five of dodging free roaming strollers whilst scanning the racks for those perfect somethings, I found myself in line at the very last store. This happened to be one of those stores that uses poles and nylon ropes to create one mega-line that feeds into all the registers; thus negating my incessant need to determine if I chose the best line. After a few moments, I sensed that the person behind me was standing strangely close. So, as soon as the person in front of me advanced, I stepped forward. Again, the gentleman behind me moved ridiculously close to me. So close, that as I executed a half turn (the universal signal for “that’s annoying”), the jacket that was folded over his arm brushed up against me.

While the line was admittedly long, it was single-file and the space wasn’t crowded. But every time I moved forward, he insisted on getting as close to me as physically possible. The jacket bumped me four more times. I tried ever-so-hard not to overreact, but I was tired, it was raining, and I have personal space issues. It was almost my turn to proceed to a register, when I felt something pull my purse. This time he had stepped so close to me that he had managed to wrap the hanger from something he was buying around the shoulder strap of my bag. I half looked over my shoulder and heard him mutter, “Sorry.” I am not the kind of woman to confront a stranger, but I found myself telling him that he really didn’t need to stand so close to me. I was a little taken aback by my behavior. I understand that different cultures have different standards around these things. I’d like to think if I was travelling abroad, I would have been fine with it. Go with the flow. When in Rome, etc. But here, in the outlet malls that make this nation great, I expect folks to play by my rules. AKA . . . don’t touch me!

Who Knew it Was All Right Here?

After living in San Jose for more than three months, I finally took some time to explore the local attractions. (Thanks to Amanda for visiting; otherwise, who knows how long it would have been before I got around to that.)

Turns out I live in a pretty cool place. Muir Woods alone would qualify as one of the most perfect places I’ve ever been, but then you add Sausalito, the Golden Gate Bridge, Monterey, and Santa Cruz and you’re talking serious hip-ness.

When It’s Okay to Lie

Last Saturday, in the middle of an otherwise goal-oriented shopping excursion, I took a brief side trip into the world of cheap shoes. I didn’t find anything that I just had to have, but I did have a quick encounter that intrigued me.

Teenage girl holding up two pairs of shoes: “Which ones should I get?”
Me: “The ones with the pink lining.”
Teenager: “That’s what everyone says.”
Me: “Well, they’re more unique.”

Had I been at all honest with her, I would have mentioned that both pairs were so ugly that I couldn’t possibly advise her to buy either. But I assumed that she wouldn’t be terribly enthused with that opinion. On the other had, if she was so crippled with indecision that she was asking shabbily-dressed strangers for advice, she may have wanted to hear the truth. I decided not to bet on that one.

I Thought I Was Sending a Clear Signal

About a year and a half ago, I acquired a set of noise-canceling headphones. Now I can’t imagine flying without them and the down blanket / pillow combo my dad gave me for Christmas a few years back. Muting everyone from flight attendants to chatty neighbors to screaming children certainly makes air travel more enjoyable.

Over the weekend I flew from my real home (Maine) to my current home (California). I drifted in and out of wakefulness on the early morning flight from Portland to Detroit, cocooned in my snuggly blankie and the soothing tones of my iPod.

Not only was the flight from Detroit to San Francisco completely full, the plane had less legroom than anything I’ve ever flown in. Before take off I made small talk with the couple sitting next to me. On their way to visit the grandkids. Yadda yadda yadda. As soon as we hit 10,000 feet, I put on my headphones, pulled out my book, and tried to find a Zen-like state. Thankfully, I found myself drifting off . . .

Only to be awakened by a distinct poke in the arm. I pried one eye open to find the woman next to me poking my arm, pointing to the flight attendant coming down the aisle, and mouthing the word “Coffee?” About two hours later, it happened again. This time it was for the drink cart.

Seriously? Barring oxygen masks appearing for immediate use, I cannot imagine a circumstance where it’s appropriate to wake a sleeping stranger on a plane.

Guess I'm White

If you believe the assessment of Stuff White People Like, there's no question about my color. In case there was any doubt, post #106 solidified it. I just can't get enough Facebook.

Well That’s a First

I felt “off” almost all day yesterday. From brushing my teeth in the morning through the drive home at night, something just wasn’t quite right. It nagged at the back of my mind until, while I was making supper, a thought occurred to me.

Before I go on, I offer a brief bit of history. I got my first pair of contact lenses in December of 1988. And, I’ve been wearing them everyday for the last twenty years (with rare exception).

With that in mind, when I came up with a hypothesis about my off-kilter day, I quickly dismissed it. I’m a contact pro; no rookie mistakes for me. But by the third time the idea popped into my head, I couldn’t dismiss it. I tested out my theory, and much to my own amusement, it was spot on.

I had spent the previous twelve hours with my contacts in the wrong eyes: right in left and left in right. Now thankfully, that was a first.

What Happened to Those 41 Items?

Last year this time I was lamenting about how much stuff I had. 147 items to be exact. That was when I made the grandiose goal of reducing my stuff by 5% each time I moved. With this wonderful target in site I made a few runs to my local Goodwill stores, and several runs to the dumpster.

Now I’m down to 106. Perhaps I went overboard. Or, more likely, the crew who packed my belongings to leave California did a much more thorough job than the crew who packed me to return. Leaving: each pair of shoes was wrapped in packing paper before being placed in a box. Returning: a large glass vase was wrapped in a single sheet of paper, then placed in the corner of a box holding a whole lot of other stuff. Suffice it to say, the shoes made it in better shape than the vase did.

I haven’t even attempted to start a charity pile this go around. It doesn’t necessarily feel like I have any less stuff than I did a year ago, but it also doesn’t seem like I have anything extra. (And foils to that day I sorted my closet in Stamford! I really wanted to wear a green shirt today that I apparently decided to donate to the local charity. Word to the wise: never make these kinds of decisions while under an unpacking deadline!)

So I think I’m done getting rid of things. I’ll always be a perpetual closet cleaner, but no more full carloads of stuff to donate. I’m too busy trying to figure out what I can wear in place of that green shirt.

Taking Time Off

Turns out I live in a pretty amazing place. Wouldn't you know that now that I'm leaving I've finally spent just enough time in the city to declare that I'm absolutely, head-over-heels in love with Manhattan.

338 Days In Exile

It didn’t really hit me until I went back, but it’s been 11 months since I’ve been in California. My memory wasn’t wrong: the air really is softer there. But I’m not quite sure how I forgot Jacaranda trees (a lovely surprise) or lane splitting (a startling surprise). It does feel a little strange to be heading west again.

I’m happy to report that every time I go apartment hunting I’m a little wiser. This time around I ensured that I saw both an exact model of the available apartment I was investigating (not just the model that they show everybody), and the precise location within the complex. No more dubiously-named first-floor apartments for me. I’m sure there’s something I missed this time around, but at least the hot and cold water come out of the same tap. (I always double-check that one based on the less-than-ideal face-washing experiences of my first post-college apartment.) Who knows what San Jose will add to my list of items to watch out for?

I Care . . . Really I Do

It’s official: my inbox is almost under control. I have it down to half a dozen work-related emails and a whole lotta personal ones. So, if you are still waiting for a response to your note with the subject line “Merry Christmas,” you’re not alone. Actually, you’re in quite good company. Perhaps knowing you’re not alone will help you to not take it personally.

Not Exactly, but I'm Sure I'll Find it Somehow

Perhaps I Should Have Showed Up

Earlier this afternoon I ran into our CMO and he asked me if I would be attending the all marketing meeting today. I jokingly (of course it was jokingly, this is me) reminded him that I’m in business development for this rotation and I’m busy closing deals.

Fast forward an hour or two and I receive an instant message that says “Congrats!” I offer my thanks and then ask the obvious-to-me question, “Congrats for what?” As I discover through a series of IMs and emails, I received an award at the all marketing meeting. Apparently there were lots of nice things said about me. Lots of nice things that I didn’t hear because I had to be funny instead of asking if I should attend.

Let this be a lesson to you boys and girls . . . when people several pay grades above you invite you to a meeting, it’s best to show up. Trust me.

Maybe I Didn’t Really Want to Know

For all my complaining last fall about not finding out where I was heading, I think I may have been better off not knowing. Eight days ago I found out where I’m going next and it’s completely consuming me. My mind is spinning with plans and excitement, and I’ve entirely lost interest in my current assignment. Senioritis at it’s finest.

My first reaction was relief at finding out so early; I mistakenly thought that knowing would prevent any anxiety and allow me to focus. There may not be any anxiety, but I am anything but focused.

And no, I’m not announcing where I’m going quite yet. Call me a tease if you must, but I’ve been asked to keep it quiet for a bit. If all goes according to plan, I should be able to talk freely by month’s end.

Top Ten Things I Learned Over a Long Weekend

10. That Heathrow experience isn't all it's cracked up to be
9. I look like someone who might be able to offer directions
8. I do not sound like someone who can offer credible directions in London
7. All you need to see the entire city is an Oyster card and a good pair of shoes
6. You can die of painful starvation waiting for table service
5. When it comes to footwear, comfortable is not the same as supportive
4. I can't actually afford anything in Harrod's outside the foodhalls, even when I'm treating myself
3. You aren't lost if you want to be right where you are
2. When you're on foot, it's always farther than it looks on the map

and

1. You might be lost if you're not quite sure how to get to where you planned to go, and it's raining

Find a few pictures of the things I saw here.

This is What it Sounds Like When the Universe Laughs

Was I really so dumb as to announce that I felt that I had too much time on my hands?!? Oh, the foolishness . . .

The Good Thing About Working Way Too Much . . .

. . . is not what you think it is. (I wonder what anyone would suspect the benefit is.) The real benefit is the perspective.

Back in my crazy, workaholic days (i.e. two weeks ago), I averaged about seven hours a day to myself. That actually sounds like a lot of time. Let me assure you that it’s not. That seven hours included getting ready for work, commuting (not far, but every 15 minutes counts), doing laundry, checking the mail, eating breakfast and / or dinner, occasionally putting dishes in the dishwasher (although this usually wouldn’t happen until my roommate called from the airport to tell me she’d landed), maintaining some sort of minimal contact with the outside world (that kind of fell by the wayside), and, my personal favorite, sleeping. But I digress.

The benefit is in the perspective. I haven’t worked more than ten hours a day in more than a week now, and boy, do I feel like a slacker. I get home in plenty of time to take the trash out. There are other people around when I get my mail. I listen to the BBC World Service by choice these days, not just because no one’s talking on NPR. I have all the time in the world.

I think all this time on my hands is starting to make me a little stir crazy.

Miss a Day . . .

Stories you won’t be hearing:

• The day I discovered that my car really does have anti-lock brakes
• The Easter dinner I had on Valentine’s Day
• The conversation that began with someone asking me “What’s wrong with your face?”
• The week where my goal everyday was to get home in time to take out the trash
• The night I got in an argument with a checker at Stop & Shop
• How I got an iPod shuffle for free through effective procrastination
• The week I got weepy over the Today Show
• The day I got to have lunch

Okay, that last one probably wouldn’t have been much of a story anyway. But I remember that day fondly. It was two weeks ago today and I still remember those 20 minutes in the cafeteria with a sense of nostalgia.

I’ve been working a bit. Perhaps more than a bit. I’ve definitely had a few things to write about (see above list), just not a moment to put fingers to keyboard. What’s a workaholic to do?

And I was Worried it was a Stranger

To the white, male, middle-aged business traveler flying from Detroit to State College late Friday evening, the appropriate usage of the term “It’s just me” is governed by two constraints: 1) there is some question about your identity by a second party 2) you and the second party are fairly-well acquainted. Am I the only one who plays by these rules?

I found myself in the Detroit airport late Friday night; headed home after a week of corporate indoctrin . . . oops, I mean training, in Orlando. I was not in my best state of mind for travel, exacerbated by many things, not the least of which were the head cold I picked up from my colleagues and the eight-minute sprint I’d just completed between terminals. (When the flight attendant says “You might make it if you run,” you run. At least I’d had the foresight to change into a pair of sneakers before boarding my flight in Florida.)

Luckily, the flight was delayed while we waited for the crew to arrive. (Not a sentence anyone’s likely to use very often.) The gate area was fairly empty, so I sat down at the end of a double row of chairs where only one other person was sitting. I’m talking a line of 15 chairs, with another 15 backed up to it; a woman reading on one end and me on the opposite end. There were three or four similarly populated rows in the near vicinity.

So, I’m sitting in my self-imposed, semi-quarantine (due to the above-mentioned cold), when my chair shakes and something bumps my shoulder. I employ the standard half turn to see what it is, and see that a gentleman has settled in directly behind me. Interesting seating choice, but that’s not the strange part. Apparently he noticed me turn, and responded with, “It’s just me.” I waited for a moment then shot a quick glance back to see if a) he was talking on the phone or b) it was someone I knew. No, on both counts. Now, I don’t really care that he sat that close to me (hope he enjoys this cold as much as I am) or even that he bumped me a little (it’s an airport, it happens). But “It’s just me!???!?!” I can’t overlook that.

For a limited time . . .

So the movers met me in Stamford a week ago, and despite my best efforts, it seems like I have just as much crap as I did when I landed in Georgia. Perhaps I can blame some of it on the thoroughness with which my belongings were packed, but, alas, I believe most of the blame lies in the fact that I own too much stuff.

The majority of my colleagues started this little adventure directly out of grad school . . . a.k.a. the inflatable furniture years. So, while moving is still tedious, I’m tempted to think that it’s harder for me. (“Sounds like somebody has a case of the Mondays.”) I was established. I had a home. I had a sectional. I still have the sectional (I think)—it just happens to be under a mountain of junk.

As far as the unpacking process goes, it’s much better if you don’t have any friends. Yes, I realize that sounds a little off. But trust me on this one. In Georgia, I was an organizing machine. The movers came on Thursday and by Sunday morning my apartment was completely set up, with everything in its place. This time the movers also came on Thursday: last Thursday. And, while my bed is set up, and the kitchen stuff is more or less put away, I have not yet identified a place for everything, let alone put everything in its place.

When I moved to Georgia, I didn’t know a soul there. Therefore, I had nothing better to do than unpack all day and night. On the contrary, I know a few people in Stamford (not the least of which is my roommate). And when it comes to getting stuff done, people = distractions. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Just know that if you’re planning a trip to hotel Kelly anytime soon, you might get to enjoy our new feature: the cardboard box maze. Hurry! Book now! Slots are filling up!