Out of Theory, Into Reality

My mornings have been starting later and later these days. I could come up with all sorts of reasons for this: staying up too late, lack of motivation to go to work, a really comfortable bed that has recently been enhanced by an electric blanket. But in reality, I quote the immortal words of The Housemartins to explain this phenomenon:

You can put it down to lack of patience
You can put it down to lack of sleep
But it’s in my head to stay in bed
Tucked under the sheets

And even after relenting to the umpteenth snooze alarm, I find myself distracted by all sorts of little things instead of actually getting ready for the day. This morning I decided to try on the two pairs of shoes that have been sitting by the front door, waiting to be returned, for the better part of the month. Yes, I had already tried them on twice since purchasing them, and both times deemed that both pairs should be returned. But, since I was actually planning on returning them today during my lunch, I decided I better be sure. I wouldn’t want to place too little thought into such an important decision.

I took the first pair out of the box, then realized that I shouldn’t try them on with bare feet, so I proceeded to my bedroom to retrieve a pair of socks. Nearly there, I was overcome by the piercing shriek of an alarm. I quickly surmised that this was not the smoke alarm for my apartment, but rather the building alarm. The volume of this alarm made Beethoven jump out of his grave and say “What’s the racket?!?” I stood in my room with a shoe in one hand and a pair of socks in the other, and realized that the question “If your house was on fire, what would you grab?” had some very real implications.

Mind you, I didn’t smell any smoke and certainly didn’t see any flames lapping at the window; but in a building the size and structure of mine, there’s simply no way of telling what’s going on around the corner. And who knows how many of my neighbors smoke in bed and leave rooms full of lit candles unattended for hours?

How did I answer this age-old conundrum? I put on a pair of warm shoes, grabbed my best winter coat and scarf, and threw my cell phone and my car key into my purse before locking the door behind me. Once outside, my neighbors and I were informed that one of the maintenance men had hit the fire alarm with a dumpster. As I trudged back upstairs, I began to think of all the things I didn’t grab. If I really wasn’t ever going to see my apartment again, it may have been nice to be wearing clothing other than my pajamas. A pair of contacts would have been helpful too.

After thinking about this a little more, it would have been nice to grab some of the Christmas presents that are so neatly wrapped and displayed in the living room. My journals would have been another nice grab. Or my photo albums; or my family history. Or even the 50gb flash drive that has almost every electronic file of value in my life. But I didn’t take any of those things.

When I finally left for work, I picked up the shoes and did in fact return them today over lunch. Wouldn’t want to lose them in the next emergency.

Enough Sense to Come In

One of the things I love about living in Stamford is that I get to indulge my city-living fantasies, while enjoying the comforts of suburbia. Transit strikes have no effect on my morning commute. I can still see the stars at night. And when I go to the store, I can buy as many heavy items as I like since I’ll just be putting them in the trunk to transport them home. On the flip side, pretty much everything I need is within reasonable walking distance from my apartment. Library? Check. At least a dozen restaurants? Check. Shopping mall? Check. Train station? Technically, check; but the prospect of walking under I-95 keeps me from trying that one.

Last night I walked to the mall to do a little Christmas shopping. While I was there, I noticed there was a watch shop, so I decided to ask them how much it would cost to size the watch I was wearing. This is the watch I received as a ten-year anniversary gift from my employer. For more than a year this watch has been close to falling off since it is so large. I’ve considered taking it to a jeweler, but hadn’t because I am so che . . . make that financially responsible. It cost $10 and took less than 5 minutes, and now my watch fits like a watch instead of a bangle. Yes, I’m feeling a little silly for not having asked the question sooner.

I finished my shopping and exited the mall to head home, when it hit me. Make that, the rain hit me. Turns out there is a down side to this pseudo-urban life, and it involves standing on a corner with no umbrella, waiting for the world’s longest light to change.

Existential Crisis

Thanks to my tenth-grade English teacher, I know enough about existentialism to recognize where I am psychologically. For the last two days, I’ve been going back and forth between the phrase “existential crisis” and Mark Twain’s statement that “reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

Monday morning I returned to my office after a week’s vacation (much-deserved if I do say so myself). When I attempted to log into my computer, I kept receiving an error, so I phoned the help desk. The automated system asked me to enter my employee identification number, then informed me that the number I entered wasn’t recognized. I was then transferred to a representative who informed me that I was an ex-employee. After eleven years with my employer, I never imagined that this is how it would end. A person half a world a way, who’s never even met me, informing me that I am no longer employed in much the same manner that he might have advised me to reboot my computer.

After four hours of investigative work, I discovered that someone in human resources accidentally terminated me. I haven’t found out who that was specifically, as I believe the guilty party is being protected from the full force of my wrath. As it turns out, having an employee ID reinstated is a task on par in difficulty with raising the dead. Yes, it really does take a miracle.

In the meantime, anything sent to my work email address receives a response that “The e-mail account does not exist at the organization this message was sent to,” the only work system I have access to is our internal instant messenger, my health insurance is no longer valid, and last Friday’s paycheck has been withdrawn from my bank account. Yes, that was indeed the kicker. Human resources has assured me that this will all be corrected, but, in the meantime, I have to wonder if this is a sign.

The Strangest Thing I’ve Ever Seen

I try to stay away from such bold declarations, but I think it may be deserved. I’m on day three in my new office in Connecticut. (For those of you who didn’t know . . . hey, I got a job in Connecticut!) I’m still getting acclimated, finding my way around, and sorting through the anomalies (e.g. is there a reason people don’t park in those empty spaces next to the door?). This afternoon I encountered something that I have to believe is not a regular occurrence.

This story takes place in the ladies room. Now, I have to mention that normally I wouldn’t discuss events that occur in restrooms under any circumstances; certainly not in mixed company. Yup, I was raised right.

I noticed as I entered the restroom that one stall was occupied. As I washed my hands, I happened to look in the mirror and see shoes. Nothing noteworthy there, right? Wrong. I saw shoes, not feet with shoes on them. There, toward the front of the closed stall, right where you’d expect, were two ladies pumps facing front. No feet or legs in sight.

About 45 seconds before that moment, I’d been in a rather negative state. But, the whole way back to my desk, I couldn’t stop laughing. Does anyone have any plausible explanation? Should I be worried about alien abductions?

Was There No Public Bathroom Available?

Last week, during one of those rambling, no-topic phone conversations that I’m such a fan of, I mentioned that I had never received payment for some merchandise that I had sold. Yes, I understand that “sold” implies some sort of exchange of currency, but that was indeed the intent. I don’t know how these things come up in conversation, they just do. When asked why I hadn’t pursued payment more aggressively, I responded that, given the circumstances, the buyer must have really needed the items. My friend was having none of that. “I need lots of things, but that doesn’t mean I just steal them!” Thus began a short but charged discourse on the definition of necessity and its justification for stealing. Or something like that.

Normally, I wouldn’t relate pointless phone conversations, but something happened yesterday that brought this one to mind. I was picking up a few items in my favorite store (one of the joys of working from home is the mid-day, mid-week run to the store). As I sauntered down the aisle, something caught my eye: a 12-pack of store-brand toilet paper had been opened, and one roll was missing. I couldn’t help but laugh as I thought of the conditions that sometimes justify stealing.

Busy, Busy, What?

Last Saturday was a packed day—running around from 7:30 in the morning until11:30 at night. Yes, some of that was entertainment, but busy time nonetheless. Somewhere around the middle of the day, I was rushing through a department store when a beautiful piece of clothing caught my eye. I stopped to touch it and found the softest wool imaginable. It was an ivory coat with black trim, mid-thigh length, double-breasted with black buttons and three buttons at the bottom of each sleeve. Absolutely lovely. I continued on my way, then stopped in my tracks when I realized that this was the prominent item displayed at the front of a whole section of winter coats. The date was August 1. It was inching toward 90 degrees outside. I was in San Jose, California.

Now far be it from me to presume to be able to resolve the decline in retail sales so many economists keep talking about, but perhaps if stores stocked merchandise that was appropriate for location and season, they’d see better results. But, maybe not. I still remember the women who used to wear mittens and scarves in Los Angeles. Maybe a few of them will be looking for new winter coats.

The Underground

Not quite the same as bunker life, but a different kind of isolation. Some people drink when they get stressed out. Some people start fistfights. Others find a new hobby. All of those are fine choices, but not for me. I hide. Ask anyone who knew me when I was in Connecticut. Can’t find anyone? That’s because I hid so effectively that my roommate referred to me as Boo Radley. (Somehow that doesn’t seem like a compliment.)

I bring this up now in way of explanation. While I’ve had my usual share of amusing anecdotes and sarcastic observations to share, this blog has been woefully neglected. Mainly because I didn’t’ know how to address the elephant in the room: my final rotation ends in two days and, as of this moment, I have no idea what I’ll be doing next. I’m not really panicked, but find myself in a Zen-like state. Somehow it will work out. I’ll let you know when it does.

It’s Been So Long That Now I’m Dumb

There was a time in my life that I thought I was pretty smart. Sometime around ten years old, I discovered I was pretty good at math. What can I say? My brain responds well to boundaries; and nothing says boundaries like solving for “X.” Life has certainly given me my share of humbling experiences, but this week I heard a story that made me realize oh so vividly that I never was all that bright.

My boss has two sons. The twelve year old became upset that his ten-year old brother could solve a Rubik’s Cube faster than he could. His solution to this humiliating situation? He built a computer program / robot to solve a Rubik’s Cube. Um, yah. Did I mention he’s 12?

I’m now wondering if anything other than my thumbs differentiates me from the apes.

Still Working on a Dream

I’ve heard at least a dozen times that smell is the sense most closely associated with memory, but it’s hard to imagine anything invoking memory more than music. As soon as I saw Bruce’s silhouette when he walked on the stage last night, I was back in Amy’s living room seeing the Born in the USA album cover for the very first time. And then I was driving home from my cruddy summer job with the windows rolled down, singing “Born to Run” as loud as my lungs could belt it. It’s been more years than I can count on my fingers since either one of those things happened, but my heart tells me it was yesterday. I’m pretty sure Bruce didn’t realize how many years had passed either, because I can’t imagine anyone who’s only months shy of 60 working the stage for three hours the way he did.

If someone asked me who my favorite musician was, I’m not sure Springsteen would come to mind. But every note and word last night brought me back to places and times that I never want to forget. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that anyone who signs up to move every six months is decidedly Born to Run.

Turning the Tables

I often write about the less-than-brilliant moments of my own life, and certainly have enough of those to keep this blog going for years to come. But, in the spirit of equal airtime, I’d like to share a couple moments that caught my attention recently.

Last Week
As I was doing my weekly grocery shopping last Saturday, I overheard the following exchange.

Child, holding up package of whole-grain crackers: “Mom, can I get
these?”
Mother: “No. They don’t have any flavor; you won’t like
them.”

And with that, she put two packages of pizza-flavored crackers in her cart. Now, to give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps she’d been down this road before, and had wasted countless packages of things that caught her child’s eye in the store. I’m going to go out on a limb here, and suggest that if a child is requesting something that is even marginally healthier than average, it might be a good idea to indulge it. But what do I know?

Today
I was only half paying attention to the chit chat in the carpool this morning. Then, about halfway home the woman sitting next to me began talking about a small town in Idaho. To make sure we knew just how small it was, she emphasized that this town is, “Three blocks squared by three blocks squared.” And that was when I had to activate my snicker monitor. Because now I’m dying to know exactly how this town is laid out. Is the whole town two stories tall, or does it extend into a fourth dimension? And I have a feeling that I’ll never know.

Oh, the Guilt

The reason I resisted starting a blog for as long as I did was the inevitable guilt. See, I knew there would come a point when I stopped making updates and I would start feeling bad. That point came sometime in the last two months.

Despite having more than enough to share—finding out that I’d be staying in San Jose for another six months, a lovely trip to Maine, singing Christmas carols with Tom Brady, two weeks in the Czech Republic—I just haven’t gotten around to posting an update. And now there are simply too many things to catch up on, so I’m throwing my hands up in the air and leaving both of my faithful readers with pictures of Prague.

Enjoy.