Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Blackberries

Earlier this week I went to a concert. It was supposed to start at 8, but, knowing that there would be an opening band, my friend and I opted for dinner and a late arrival. Strolling to the ticket booth of the Fabulous Fox Theatre around 8:30 we saw the sign that the first opener would start at 8, the second opener would begin at 9, and the band we were actually there to see, Kings of Leon, would be starting at 10:30. Did I mention that this was a school night? I tried not to calculate the maximum number of hours I could possibly devote to sleep that night.

So, after a quick walking tour of downtown Atlanta, we made our way back to the concert, where I noticed a few signs for a consulting company event. Interesting team building choice, but who am I to criticize? We stood at the back of the auditorium for most of the second opener, and I couldn't help looking around and noticing all the typical elements of a concert: the energy of the teenagers away from adult supervision for a night, the glimpse of the flask being put back in its discreet hiding place, that sweet distinct smell that lets you know you're listening to rock n' roll inside. Then I spotted the consultants.

They didn't have a banner, and they weren't wearing matching shirts, but the six men sitting two rows in front of us had to be part of the group. Even if I hadn't noticed the polo shirts and hearty handshakes, the blackberries would have given them away. If they just happened to carry their crackberries with them it wouldn't have been noticeable. But when I spotted three of them actively checking their email while I was dancing to the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, I knew who they were. And (I probably shouldn't admit this) it made me feel somewhat cooler. I realized that I know the difference between work and play, and there's no doubt about which one I was engaged in at 9:30 at night.

My life as a Time Life Operator

There was a time not so long ago when the only people you ever saw sporting a telephone headset were those friendly operators who were standing by to take your order. Many of them were named Judy. But alas and alack, Judy no longer has a corner on the headset market.

I fought it as long as I could. I used speakerphone. I booked conference rooms. I held the receiver between my ear and shoulder. I’ve officially ceded the point: I use a headset. The office I work out of makes the typical town library seem like a Metallica concert. There are mime conventions that are louder. That pretty much rules out putting any call on speaker. I occasionally still go the conference room route, but it really hampers my productivity to be away from the computer for that long. (Don’t hate me because I multi-task.) And, as the calls become longer and more frequent, holding the phone with my shoulder just stopped being practical and started being painful.

So now I spend a large part of my day looking like I’m about to offer you a set of Ginsu knives for ordering now. I didn’t realize how much pent-up aggression I had toward the headset until it came up in casual conversation last week. It surprised me a little; but, now that I think about it, a headset is just another way to be chained to my desk. Literally. And that’s never a good thing.

Am I Where Yet?

I spent last weekend in Longboat Key, Florida. Since I thought the keys referred only to the chain of islands south of Miami, this trip was a geography lesson as well as a vacation (or, as my dad would say, not a total waste). There was plenty of downtime, lots of laughter, abundant time at the beach (even if some of that time was rain-soaked) . . . basically everything you’d want out of a weekend. For my money, the one thing that distinguished Longboat from other beaches I’ve been to is the softest sand on the planet. Really. It’s just one of those things that you have to feel for yourself. In a place I’d never heard of, they have beach sand like powdered sugar. A super-fine layer of which now resides on the floor of my laundry room.

I was home for just about 36 hours before I flew out of town again. Not quite up to my old travel schedule yet, but there’s a sense of excitement about airports, hotels, and rental cars that I still thrive on. After working in Connecticut for a couple days, I did something I’ve always wanted to: took the train into the city to meet with a client. I know it’s a little goofy, but I found an incredible energy in walking out of Grand Central, getting a cab, then walking down the sidewalk in Manhattan with my briefcase. For a brief moment I thought I might actually be an adult.

Then came the reverse trip. Both the train ride back to Connecticut and the drive to the airport were non-eventful. I checked in, then found a monitor to double-check how much time I had. I had a lot. In general I like smaller airports: simple to navigate, easy to get in and out of. I’ve now discovered the downside: there’s generally not a lot of entertainment available. After four hours there, I can assure you that in the Westchester County airport, there is none. But somewhere in that time a miracle occurred: I found myself longing to be home . . . as in Alpharetta. I hadn’t really felt like this was home, but sometime between leaving Manhattan and walking through my front door, my brain finally made the switch. Now I wonder where I’ll be moving next.

What Was I Afraid Of?

I’d never really thought of myself as a technophobe until my friends started trying to suck me into their digital world.

Here, borrow this movie.
I don’t have a DVD player.

Text me your address.
I don’t text.

Be my friend on MySpace and Facebook. Join my network on LinkedIn.
I don’t use those sites.

I’ve had enough of these conversations in the last two months to make me wonder. I’d never consciously avoided technology. (With the exception of the DVD player. I can’t get one of those because my brother told me I had to. Don’t ask.) I just never prioritized it. And with the advent of the new frugal Kelly a few years back, a lot of these things just seemed like expenses I could live without. Then I met Maggie.

Back in July Maggie bet me $10 that I’d be “texting like a fiend” before we left Georgia. I cracked eleven days later. Not long after that she invited me to join her professional network on LinkedIn. It didn’t seem intelligent to turn down an opportunity to make more business connections. Then she sent me an invitation to be her friend on Facebook. How can you say no to being someone’s friend?

And that’s how they get you. I spent a large portion of yesterday waiting for a guy to come set up high-speed internet in my apartment . . . a first for me. Of course, since the internet people are connected to the cable people, he didn’t show up when he was supposed to. For one brief moment I thought maybe I should just cancel the whole thing. Then I realized that my Facebook profile really needs some work and I found myself demanding that they come as soon as possible.

I’m not quite positive how this all happened, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to blame Maggie. If you have any other ideas, feel free to text me.

Bunker Life

Someone has it in for me. Actually, not someone, but rather something, an entity, a group larger than mere people. It’s the network. And no one can hear me now.

Now that I’m back in Georgia and exploring the local peoples and customs, I’ve discovered one thing I hate: my apartment. Now, normally this would send me into all sorts of emotional upheaval, but the greatest joy of my current life is my newfound mantra: it’s only for six months. (Make that less than five now, but who’s counting?) The apartment itself isn’t all bad. Not necessarily what I would design, and there’s no window over the kitchen sink, but I’ve lived in worse. There is, however, one major problem with it: location.

Here’s the deal. In my mind, a first-floor apartment means the apartment is on the same level as the parking lot. a.k.a. no stairs. Apparently, this definition is not universal. I discovered on moving day that to reach my first-floor apartment, I must go down a flight of stairs. Where I come from they call that a basement, but the clever marketers that leased me this place probably know that no one ever opts for a basement apartment. The building is on a hillside, so for anyone entering from the woods, my floor is the first. But, if all goes according to plan, no one is coming in from the woods.

The location isn’t necessarily a problem in and of itself; I really don’t care if I have to climb stairs to leave. What I do mind are the sorts of things that live in basements. Mainly things they eat on Fear Factor. I thought I was pretty much over my bug-o-phobia, but alas I had not been truly tested in quite some time. At least they haven’t carried me off in my sleep.

And, as if the bugs weren’t bad enough, I have no cell service. I take that back. I have found one spot that I can sit in, and, as long as I don’t move my head at all, I can get a call out. A call that will have horrible reception. A call that will be lost within no more than 30 minutes. I’d never realized how much I walk around, or even move my head, while I’m on the phone. I dare you to try to sit perfectly still the next time you’re on the phone. Go ahead: try it. Makes you cranky, doesn’t it?

So, for everyone who thinks I’m ignoring their calls: I am. I make as many calls as I can while I’m not at home. I’ve had quite a few conversations in my parked car. But the joy of talking on the phone is (temporarily) gone. I’m going to call my cell provider today. I don’t have much hope that they can help, but I’ve got to try. I just have to make sure to get the call out before I go home.

So, What’s Georgia Like?

My simple little life has become complicated in a most unexpected way. I don’t know where I’m from. This phenomenon appears in two distinct ways.

The first: a friend will ask me how I like Georgia. It seems like a perfectly rational question. I moved eighteen days ago. It would seem reasonable that I have some sort of impression of the place by now. Unfortunately, I really don’t know much more about it than I did before I moved.

Let me explain. I flew to Atlanta on July 4. The movers unloaded my stuff on the fifth. I spent the next couple days unpacking. I went into my new office on the ninth and tenth, then flew out on the evening of the tenth. That really doesn’t seem like sufficient experience on which to base an impression. I’ll be flying back on July 27th. Maybe by the end of the month I’ll be able to let you know what I think.

The second scenario: someone asks me where I’m from. Since I’m in training with 300 outgoing people, none of whom really know each other, this happens a lot. I clearly identify with Maine as the place I grew up. That’s who I am. But there are also those eleven years I spent in Utah. And the last three and a half in California. Not to mention my most recent week in Georgia. I think I’m beginning to have an identity crisis.

Perhaps I’m overcomplicating something that’s altogether common. But it doesn’t feel right yet to tell people that I’m from Georgia. And to tell them I’m from Maine isn’t the whole truth anymore either. To answer with either Utah or California would seem to be leaving out crucial elements of the story.

My solution? I make a judgment call. If it’s exceptionally loud, I’m exceptionally tired or just feeling lazy, I’ve been offering that my first rotation’s in Georgia. If I have time, or the person asking seems genuinely interested, I’ve been opting for, “That’s a complicated question . . .” That’s a phrase I’ve been using a lot lately.

147 Items and a Pedicure

147. That’s how many things were moved from my apartment in California to my apartment in Georgia. Three dozen books in a box equal one item. My beloved sofa equals two items. By my quick calculations, that’s about 140 boxes too many. Honestly, how does one single girl possibly need that much stuff? If I can reduce my number of items by 5% each time I move, by the time I’m done I can be down to 120 items. At this very moment there is a large pile of stuff in the guest bedroom just waiting to be taken to the local Goodwill/Salvation Army/Deseret Industries. And I haven’t even unpacked the boxes from my office. I figure I can throw away or donate at least one more box worth of stuff.

It’s not really about the amount of stuff. Although I did stop to think how much money I could save if I got rid of enough that I could live in a one bedroom. And I have been thinking about George Carlin’s bit about the only reason anyone needs a home: it’s a place to put your stuff. But what I’ve really been thinking about is the amount of time I’ll be spending putting it all away. Now, in fairness, the movers do unpack. But that does not mean what you think it means. It means that they take everything out of the boxes and leave it all in piles. Large piles. Good luck finding two shoes that match each other (forget about matching what you’re wearing). I don’t want to complain. It is incredibly helpful to have the boxes emptied and removed. Just somewhere around day two of “sort and stow” it lost it’s charm. The only way I made it through day three was by promising myself a manicure and pedicure.

Every nail place I’ve been to has slight variations in the ritual. The place around the corner from my new home offers supposedly-soothing background music. I may be in the minority here, but new age and pan flute are not necessarily relaxing to me. But I really don’t care about all the nuances. Especially at this point. I was just thrilled to be sitting down in a massage chair. When it came time to address my calluses (a perennial problem for my feet; I blame it on my penchant for walking around barefoot), the girl working on my feet got a worried look on her face. She then apologized for the fact that they don’t use a razor. They don’t ever use the razor. But this very strong chemical will work even better. The state board doesn’t allow the razor. But this is better; because when you use the razor on a callus it’s just like when you shave a baby’s head. It comes back thicker. Keep in mind that I never asked for the razor. I don’t care how my calluses are removed as long as my feet don’t snag the carpet when I’m done. Are there legions of people out there who complain about the absence of the razor? Was there a look on my face that indicated I was somehow dissatisfied?

I’ll probably be returning to this salon. It’s less than a half mile from my house, they have the brand of nail polish I like, and they did a reasonable job on my toes. And maybe next time I’ll get some more details on the razor. And, for those of you keeping score, my manicure color is “Hearts and Tarts” and my pedicure color is “California Raspberry.”