I don't know what happened. It was like I blinked my eyes and - poof - summer was gone. Just when I got the shorts and tank tops unpacked, I realize that the need for sweatshirts and layers came earlier than anticipated.
For the first time since I can remember I'm actually going to have an Autumn birthday on September 5th. Being so close to labor day and the beginning of school, I typically received some sort of back to school fashion gift. When I was younger it involved some sort of itchy wool skirt and sweater with saddle shoes my Mom thought was adorable, but I couldn't wear my new outfit until it got colder. In Utah that was usually around the end of October. This year it's not even the end of August and I'm contemplating turning on the heat to adjust to the mid-50 degree weather outside. As one friend put it: Welcome to the north!
I have it on good authority that Milwaukee is not as cold as Minneapolis in the winter. That makes sense seeing that it is a bit closer to the north pole. I also heard a rumor/wives tale that because it was a mild summer we should expect a mild winter. However this knowledge does not protect me from the mild chiding from my husband that I will freeze this winter. I keep telling him I'll adapt. I will. But, he finds it humorous when I say this given that I can be cold on an 80 degree summer day.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Right Fit
Looking for jobs has got to be one of the most painful things to do. I'm getting the most polite "you suck" emails from corporations. I'm either too qualified, not specialized enough, don't have international conglomerate business experience, or my personal favorite: I'm not the right fit, but they wish me well with future endeavors. How can you tell if I'm the right fit if you haven't even talked with me and yet I have all the desired qualifications? Seriously?
Today I got blocked from a job I really wanted because my email thought the invitation to complete step two of the online process was junk mail and I missed the opportunity. It's leaving me clutching my heart in one hand and throwing my fist up to the sky dramatically asking, "Why? Why?!" while Edgar is simultaneously licking my toes to show he loves me and yes, I am in fact a good human being. I find the formula is something like this: the more you want the job = the less likely you will get it = the more the pain will crush you. Truly, it's a good time.
I remember being on the other side of the hiring desk. Sorting people based on obscure resume data is challenging. Are they "seasoned" or "green"? Are they too new of a grad or is their education even relevant to the position? Hell, does their education or experience make me think this person would get bored with the job? Nine times out of ten, it's usually an HR generalist who is doing the first screening and they aren't exactly sure what to look for. As a hiring person I dreaded when employees came into my office with a letter in hand and "need to tell you something." While they are telling me all about their impending move/wedding/baby/inheritance/life revelation for their two week notice, I'm thinking about the HR hell.
There are rules of engagement when hiring and I'm surprised by how many hiring people don't understand them. Granted, you kind of learn about them as you go. There are specific things you cannot ask. I've been asked the most insulting and lawsuit inviting questions by people like the directors of human resources. Do you have kids? Are you planning on having kids? Are you married? Which church do you attend? Good hell!
Behavioral interviewing is typically the way to go, as in, "tell me about a time when..." I made sure my panels were briefed on what you could and could not ask before the candidate even walked through the door. My favorites were the ones who looked flawless on paper thanks to a resume professional, but would reveal something odd in the interview. Something like how they were abducted by aliens and ever since then knew they needed to be on this professional path. Others who would ask if I'd be willing to talk to their probation officer or would I have leniency for missing work due to an upcoming trial.
For now, I suppose I need to have patience, believe in the Universe, karma, intention, and pray. I also need to limit my time on the computer just to cushion my self-esteem!
Today I got blocked from a job I really wanted because my email thought the invitation to complete step two of the online process was junk mail and I missed the opportunity. It's leaving me clutching my heart in one hand and throwing my fist up to the sky dramatically asking, "Why? Why?!" while Edgar is simultaneously licking my toes to show he loves me and yes, I am in fact a good human being. I find the formula is something like this: the more you want the job = the less likely you will get it = the more the pain will crush you. Truly, it's a good time.
I remember being on the other side of the hiring desk. Sorting people based on obscure resume data is challenging. Are they "seasoned" or "green"? Are they too new of a grad or is their education even relevant to the position? Hell, does their education or experience make me think this person would get bored with the job? Nine times out of ten, it's usually an HR generalist who is doing the first screening and they aren't exactly sure what to look for. As a hiring person I dreaded when employees came into my office with a letter in hand and "need to tell you something." While they are telling me all about their impending move/wedding/baby/inheritance/life revelation for their two week notice, I'm thinking about the HR hell.
There are rules of engagement when hiring and I'm surprised by how many hiring people don't understand them. Granted, you kind of learn about them as you go. There are specific things you cannot ask. I've been asked the most insulting and lawsuit inviting questions by people like the directors of human resources. Do you have kids? Are you planning on having kids? Are you married? Which church do you attend? Good hell!
Behavioral interviewing is typically the way to go, as in, "tell me about a time when..." I made sure my panels were briefed on what you could and could not ask before the candidate even walked through the door. My favorites were the ones who looked flawless on paper thanks to a resume professional, but would reveal something odd in the interview. Something like how they were abducted by aliens and ever since then knew they needed to be on this professional path. Others who would ask if I'd be willing to talk to their probation officer or would I have leniency for missing work due to an upcoming trial.
For now, I suppose I need to have patience, believe in the Universe, karma, intention, and pray. I also need to limit my time on the computer just to cushion my self-esteem!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Arts and Crafty
You would think a girl coming from Utah would be inherently crafty. I mean, this is the land of scrap booking and Martha Stewart is practically a saint. (Although Mom once told me she spoke at a Junior League convention and referred to the Temple as that "cute little church" down the street.) We never had wreaths on our front door with the exception of Christmas. No strange Easter twig trees or hydrangea bloom wreaths heralding spring were found at our house, but we did color our own Easter eggs. We never flew the flag for the 4th of July. There were never any photos of us in the living areas. "It's just one more thing to dust," Mom would say. Instead of putting her creative juices into dust collecting items, Mom would can the hell out of our raspberries and apricots every year and make homemade cookies until the cows came home. Our house looked the same virtually every season.
The one exception of decor was Halloween: Mom's favorite holiday. Every year we pulled the cardboard cut outs of witches and pumpkins and placed them in the windows. Other moms would get actual bales of hay and stuff their own scarecrows for their front porch. We even did the fake spider webs for a while until it coincided with the biannual house painting which just got plain messy. We did once have a fake hand we buried in the ground as if a corpse was climbing out of its grave, but the neighbor's dog (named Satan, literally) dug it up and carried it around the streets like a chew toy. We found it extremely funny. When I was younger Dad did a hell of a job carving pumpkins. Mom also was awesome when it came to sewing and making costumes. You dreamed it; she would make it happen.
When I went to college and joined a sorority I was actually expected to do things like create a fabric wraparound cork board and puffy quilted scrapbook for my little sister of the house. It was like asking me to do calculus. The room practically stopped breathing when I told them I didn't own a glue gun or even know how to use one. Embarrassed, Mom did tell me we in fact owned a glue gun from the 1980's or so, but it was messy and hot and never really worked. I had no recollection of this gadget what-so-ever. Two of my sisters took me to the craft store to initiate me into the world of crafting. As I wandered around the fake flowers and whole aisles dedicated to ribbon, I felt a little like I was in a foreign country. There I bought my first glue gun.
Somewhere circa 1996 I also began to scrapbook with a little help from my friends. My first one was primitive to say the least. My skills progressed as I kept developing, but once I saw the creative instinct of my sister in law's best friend, I literally came to a stand still. This woman was beyond creative. She made pop-out folding lanterns for God's sake on one of the pages. I haven't picked up my scrap booking habit (an expensive one, by the way) since 2003. Good intentions, but those pop up lanterns still haunt me. Perhaps I really should find a class or something to foray my way back into the creative world.
My husband comes from a family where his Mom has ironed embroidered hand towels that change with the month. She artistically places glitter dusted autumn leaves and rattan among the pumpkin and gourd shaped candles. Her crafty prowess showed up at our rehearsal dinner, which the photographer loved getting all of the decorative details from every angle. I have secret envy of women and men who are inherently crafty, including my mother in law.
I'm still trying to learn the artful placement of items. I have two girlfriends in particular who have the gift of style. Seriously, both of their homes look like they came out of magazines. Placement of baskets, interesting wooden signs, window treatments look effortless. Honestly, that so so far out of my league I can't even stand it. Since I've been married I've picked up cues from catalogues and other media to begin to decorate with the seasons. Sands capes in hurricanes with tea lights, mixed leaves for the fall, and cranberries for winter will grace my coffee table at times.
My newest challenge in Wisconsin is doing basket liners. I noticed that the previous owners had used twine to artistically tack the liners into the baskets for clothes storage. It was a pretty good idea, minus the orange thread. Being the clean freak, I decided to wash all of the liners. That's when I learned they had only done the decorative thread on the outside liner. The inside fabric was glued down. Still, we took out the liners and washed them. I later ironed them as well.
J and I ventured to Michael's where I thought embroidery thread would be lovely. I am not the color specialist; I defer to my husband on that. He chose a pretty slate blue gray and I went hunting for needles since our sewing kit was still lost in one of the cardboard boxes. The only needles I found were quilting needles. No problem! A needle's a needle a needle, right? Not so much.
I spent a good 30 minutes trying to thread the sucker. Tiny eye holes and twisted strands do not mix. After getting stuck 3x I let my husband have a go. He did it and I began the artistic stitching. It looked terrible. I abandoned the project and started to search for my glue gun.
Here's the problem: I haven't really located my glue gun when I really needed it since the move in 2006. I'd find the glue sticks, but not the gun. Then when I would somehow stumble across the gun I'd say to myself, "See? That's a logical placement. Just remember where it is when you need it next time." A more logical person would have just reunited the damn gun and sticks to save this need of a mental note and high frustration for the future. Not me.
Throw in 2 other moves in the past 3 years and the repeated mental note, and let me tell you how frustrated I am. I've found the glue sticks, but in every box that I have semi-unpacked I have yet to find the stupid gun. On a positive, I did find the sewing kit with better needles. I suppose I'll have to go back to my original plan of the embroidery thread and once again stumble across the glue gun when I'm not looking for it.
The one exception of decor was Halloween: Mom's favorite holiday. Every year we pulled the cardboard cut outs of witches and pumpkins and placed them in the windows. Other moms would get actual bales of hay and stuff their own scarecrows for their front porch. We even did the fake spider webs for a while until it coincided with the biannual house painting which just got plain messy. We did once have a fake hand we buried in the ground as if a corpse was climbing out of its grave, but the neighbor's dog (named Satan, literally) dug it up and carried it around the streets like a chew toy. We found it extremely funny. When I was younger Dad did a hell of a job carving pumpkins. Mom also was awesome when it came to sewing and making costumes. You dreamed it; she would make it happen.
When I went to college and joined a sorority I was actually expected to do things like create a fabric wraparound cork board and puffy quilted scrapbook for my little sister of the house. It was like asking me to do calculus. The room practically stopped breathing when I told them I didn't own a glue gun or even know how to use one. Embarrassed, Mom did tell me we in fact owned a glue gun from the 1980's or so, but it was messy and hot and never really worked. I had no recollection of this gadget what-so-ever. Two of my sisters took me to the craft store to initiate me into the world of crafting. As I wandered around the fake flowers and whole aisles dedicated to ribbon, I felt a little like I was in a foreign country. There I bought my first glue gun.
Somewhere circa 1996 I also began to scrapbook with a little help from my friends. My first one was primitive to say the least. My skills progressed as I kept developing, but once I saw the creative instinct of my sister in law's best friend, I literally came to a stand still. This woman was beyond creative. She made pop-out folding lanterns for God's sake on one of the pages. I haven't picked up my scrap booking habit (an expensive one, by the way) since 2003. Good intentions, but those pop up lanterns still haunt me. Perhaps I really should find a class or something to foray my way back into the creative world.
My husband comes from a family where his Mom has ironed embroidered hand towels that change with the month. She artistically places glitter dusted autumn leaves and rattan among the pumpkin and gourd shaped candles. Her crafty prowess showed up at our rehearsal dinner, which the photographer loved getting all of the decorative details from every angle. I have secret envy of women and men who are inherently crafty, including my mother in law.
I'm still trying to learn the artful placement of items. I have two girlfriends in particular who have the gift of style. Seriously, both of their homes look like they came out of magazines. Placement of baskets, interesting wooden signs, window treatments look effortless. Honestly, that so so far out of my league I can't even stand it. Since I've been married I've picked up cues from catalogues and other media to begin to decorate with the seasons. Sands capes in hurricanes with tea lights, mixed leaves for the fall, and cranberries for winter will grace my coffee table at times.
My newest challenge in Wisconsin is doing basket liners. I noticed that the previous owners had used twine to artistically tack the liners into the baskets for clothes storage. It was a pretty good idea, minus the orange thread. Being the clean freak, I decided to wash all of the liners. That's when I learned they had only done the decorative thread on the outside liner. The inside fabric was glued down. Still, we took out the liners and washed them. I later ironed them as well.
J and I ventured to Michael's where I thought embroidery thread would be lovely. I am not the color specialist; I defer to my husband on that. He chose a pretty slate blue gray and I went hunting for needles since our sewing kit was still lost in one of the cardboard boxes. The only needles I found were quilting needles. No problem! A needle's a needle a needle, right? Not so much.
I spent a good 30 minutes trying to thread the sucker. Tiny eye holes and twisted strands do not mix. After getting stuck 3x I let my husband have a go. He did it and I began the artistic stitching. It looked terrible. I abandoned the project and started to search for my glue gun.
Here's the problem: I haven't really located my glue gun when I really needed it since the move in 2006. I'd find the glue sticks, but not the gun. Then when I would somehow stumble across the gun I'd say to myself, "See? That's a logical placement. Just remember where it is when you need it next time." A more logical person would have just reunited the damn gun and sticks to save this need of a mental note and high frustration for the future. Not me.
Throw in 2 other moves in the past 3 years and the repeated mental note, and let me tell you how frustrated I am. I've found the glue sticks, but in every box that I have semi-unpacked I have yet to find the stupid gun. On a positive, I did find the sewing kit with better needles. I suppose I'll have to go back to my original plan of the embroidery thread and once again stumble across the glue gun when I'm not looking for it.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Yokel Local
Believe it or not, that's the name of a New Glarus beer. We picked up a six pack of the local microbrew last week to celebrate becoming official Wisconsinites....or is it Sconies? Either way, we have the license plates and drivers licenses to prove that we are officially residents of America's Dairyland. So far it's my 4th State where I'm an official resident. I can't count Louisiana because I never did make that trip to the DMV.
This trip to the DMV wasn't as eventful as my others. The only thing worth blogging about is that the clerk kept trying to remember which town in Massachusetts she visited back in the 1980's. "You know, the one with the historical college that's been around for a long time?" Um, yeah, that TOTALLY narrows it down. Boston, and for that matter, Massachusetts, is known for it's universities, hospitals, bars, and cemeteries. Sure, I know exactly which town you visited.
There are a few things I've noticed about being in Wisconsin so far.
1) There are 3 dedicated polka radio stations in the Milwaukee area.
2) One of the polka music stations is right next to the Mexican radio station.
3) I never noticed how much polka and Mexican music sound the same. They both love the accordion.
4) There is a strong cajun influence here; go figure we're near where the French Canadians originated before migrating down to the bayou in Louisiana.
5) Zydeco, predominantly cajun music, also has a love affair for the accordion.
6) The State Fair is huge, although they are still years behind Minnesota's State Fair in the deep-fry-food-on-a-stick. Deep fried Snickers was sooo 2003.
7) Organic, buying local, supporting your own, and sustainable living are rooted strong here. Go farmers markets, local bistros, small bookstores, and Alterra coffee.
8) Restaurants are still not smoke-free. I'm just waiting for July 2010 for that celebration!!!
9) Dairies still do home delivery! Didn't think I'd see that again until we moved back to Utah.
10) The Green Bay Packers are named after meat packers. Blech. They are the only community owned sports franchise.
11) It's beautiful here. People are friendly. Neighbors look out for one another. The clouds are amazing.
12) Milwaukee is known for it's diversity and festivals. After Summerfest - the worlds largest music festival (yes, it even beats out Jazz Fest) - every weekend hosts a different cultural festival. Irish fest was last weekend. I believe Indian Summer festival is coming up soon.
13) My grandmother was born in Rhinelander, Wisconsin...a mere 3+ hours away up north. My husband works for the same medical school that graduated my great grandfather in dentistry (back then, medical and dental students spent 2 years together and then "specialized" their last 2 years of medical school.)
14) They have fireflies, bunnies, chipmunks, and squirrels on cool summer nights. Really? Can it get better?
I'll let you know how I feel about it once winter hits. My perception might shift a bit as the earth tilts away from the sun.
This trip to the DMV wasn't as eventful as my others. The only thing worth blogging about is that the clerk kept trying to remember which town in Massachusetts she visited back in the 1980's. "You know, the one with the historical college that's been around for a long time?" Um, yeah, that TOTALLY narrows it down. Boston, and for that matter, Massachusetts, is known for it's universities, hospitals, bars, and cemeteries. Sure, I know exactly which town you visited.
There are a few things I've noticed about being in Wisconsin so far.
1) There are 3 dedicated polka radio stations in the Milwaukee area.
2) One of the polka music stations is right next to the Mexican radio station.
3) I never noticed how much polka and Mexican music sound the same. They both love the accordion.
4) There is a strong cajun influence here; go figure we're near where the French Canadians originated before migrating down to the bayou in Louisiana.
5) Zydeco, predominantly cajun music, also has a love affair for the accordion.
6) The State Fair is huge, although they are still years behind Minnesota's State Fair in the deep-fry-food-on-a-stick. Deep fried Snickers was sooo 2003.
7) Organic, buying local, supporting your own, and sustainable living are rooted strong here. Go farmers markets, local bistros, small bookstores, and Alterra coffee.
8) Restaurants are still not smoke-free. I'm just waiting for July 2010 for that celebration!!!
9) Dairies still do home delivery! Didn't think I'd see that again until we moved back to Utah.
10) The Green Bay Packers are named after meat packers. Blech. They are the only community owned sports franchise.
11) It's beautiful here. People are friendly. Neighbors look out for one another. The clouds are amazing.
12) Milwaukee is known for it's diversity and festivals. After Summerfest - the worlds largest music festival (yes, it even beats out Jazz Fest) - every weekend hosts a different cultural festival. Irish fest was last weekend. I believe Indian Summer festival is coming up soon.
13) My grandmother was born in Rhinelander, Wisconsin...a mere 3+ hours away up north. My husband works for the same medical school that graduated my great grandfather in dentistry (back then, medical and dental students spent 2 years together and then "specialized" their last 2 years of medical school.)
14) They have fireflies, bunnies, chipmunks, and squirrels on cool summer nights. Really? Can it get better?
I'll let you know how I feel about it once winter hits. My perception might shift a bit as the earth tilts away from the sun.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Consumer Warnings
Moving to Wisconsin meant that I could finally get my Utah storage unit shipped. There were many things that I was looking forward to reuniting with. My Pottery Barn couch, the rug, my coffee table, and of course my beloved high efficiency washer and dryer. I'm one of those who get excited about energy star appliances. When I bought my first house I was thrilled to head down to Sears and explore the washers that only used 13 gallons of water per load vs. the typical 30 gallons. Not only that, but it didn't have an agitator so my delicates really would be better preserved. I'm telling you, this was exciting for me. My enthusiasm spread through the family and every so often I would end up washing Ginny's sofa slip covers or old quilts.
In anticipation of my shipment arriving I scheduled a Sears maintenance guy to come to the house and do the once over of my beloved appliances. I figured I wanted someone to look at the gaskets, hoses, and seals after they had been in storage for 3 years. Sears thought it was a bit overkill, but they were happy to take our money. I did some light reading of installation of the appliances from my file of manuals and warranties I keep handy. They offer special hints like suggesting to not reach into the washer while parts are moving and don't mix bleach with toilet cleaners in the washer. I'm not certain why anyone would put toilet cleaner in the washer to begin with, but I figure that someone did this at one point in time and filed a lawsuit that caused enough ruckus to actually have them now make it a specific warning in the use and care guide.
Over breakfast, my husband was perusing the light literature and noticed something. It was under the "Washing Procedures" heading.
I don't know about you, but I can understand not wanting to wash a crayon, keys, coins, or paperclip, but a FROG? Seriously, who keeps frogs in their pockets? Little boys, perhaps? I don't know of any little boys who wear suspenders or for that matter have their elbows bend like the way its depicted in the illustration. A frog. Now you know this booklet has gone through several proofs before it got published and yet no one seriously questioned the frog.
Note to self: remove all amphibians from pockets in the future.
In anticipation of my shipment arriving I scheduled a Sears maintenance guy to come to the house and do the once over of my beloved appliances. I figured I wanted someone to look at the gaskets, hoses, and seals after they had been in storage for 3 years. Sears thought it was a bit overkill, but they were happy to take our money. I did some light reading of installation of the appliances from my file of manuals and warranties I keep handy. They offer special hints like suggesting to not reach into the washer while parts are moving and don't mix bleach with toilet cleaners in the washer. I'm not certain why anyone would put toilet cleaner in the washer to begin with, but I figure that someone did this at one point in time and filed a lawsuit that caused enough ruckus to actually have them now make it a specific warning in the use and care guide.
Over breakfast, my husband was perusing the light literature and noticed something. It was under the "Washing Procedures" heading.
I don't know about you, but I can understand not wanting to wash a crayon, keys, coins, or paperclip, but a FROG? Seriously, who keeps frogs in their pockets? Little boys, perhaps? I don't know of any little boys who wear suspenders or for that matter have their elbows bend like the way its depicted in the illustration. A frog. Now you know this booklet has gone through several proofs before it got published and yet no one seriously questioned the frog.
Note to self: remove all amphibians from pockets in the future.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Up to Speed
For all you Mac users I must first apologize. The website must look like I took out the old typewriter font for my oh so fabulous makeover - and not achieving it. Akin to showing up to my prom in my brothers stinky tennis shoes. I assure you that if you actually borrowed a PC and found the website you would be a bit more pleasantly surprised. I spent all day yesterday playing with the template, fonts, colors, and other nuances in HTML. This is big because I do not speak HTML. For all I know it stands for Hippopotamuses Together Must Languish! It was only until the end of the day that I proudly showed my husband on the Mac to realize the incompatibility of the two. When looking at the screen I realized a third grader could have done better. At least they might be fluent in HTML. Makes me want to pull out my walker and mumble, "Those kids these days!" I might even pull out a shall for a grand effect of showing how old I am.
Now I knew these two systems are not compatible, but really? Fonts? How hard is it to get fonts across these two giant corporations? I've known PC doesn't play well with Apple. I've gone back and forth between these two systems all my life. In the 8th grade my newspaper adviser brought in his own Mac so I could layout the student paper. However, when I got into high school we were still using the light board with exact-o knives to literally cut and paste the pages together. In college we re-entered the renaissance and I remember I got my own email account that I could access only from the library PC's. The "sophisticated" program was akin to the stupid C prompt. I didn't use it much. My Mom always had PC's for her business even though there was a subtle rivalry even within the family as her oldest sister only worked on Macs. I can't believe it's now 2009 and the rivalry continues. Even within my own home we have a semi-working PC (it's the laptop with the shattered screen hooked up to the monitor that once belonged to the dead desk hard drive), and the sleek new sophisticated beautiful Mac Book Pro. Can you tell which one I'm working on primarily? I'll give you a hint: I have a ton of cords. *sigh* Well, that and I probably wouldn't have spent 5 hours working on fonts on a computer that wouldn't show the glories of my efforts!
Now several of you are probably wondering what the Hell happened to me. It's been like a month since I posted! Last time I checked the site she was going on and on about New England and then, poof! she's gone! It's called moving, folks. Come on, say it with me: "C-r-a-z-y."
So here is a brief summary of what I've been doing in the past month: Canoe down the Charles River to watch the fireworks for the 4th of July, insanely decide to make a last minute trip to Utah to see the family, have a great dinner with my brother and his wife, hang out with my husbands grandparents, play up in the canyons, make dinner for my in-laws, come back from 4 days behind the Zion curtain to find Edgar's paws to be a bit tender because the dog sitters played fetch on hot asphalt, proceed to carry Edgar "Skittle Toes" around the house for 2 days because he's too tender to walk, lick my emotional wounds, let college students pack our belongings in one day (a.k.a. sure it makes sense to put the pantry items like flour in with the scented candles!), pay 3 burly men to drag/carry our belongings onto a truck, spend a lot of money in buying every moving crew lunch plus tipping them, clean the empty apartment like mad men while trying to assure J that perfection is not needed, go stay with Boston Mom, take a side trip to Kennibunkport, Maine where the secret service guys like to hang to guard George Sr. and Barb, proceed to travel West staying in such glamorous spots like Cleveland and Lake Geneva, send postcards to nieces and nephews along the way so they can track your journey across the USA and learn little history lessons to boot, lament you don't have enough time this trip to do such diversions like Niagara Falls (something you promised you'd do on the trip West when you ran out of time going East), wish Wegman's Supermarket was national, learn our new mortgage person is not a detail oriented person (not good, folks), close on the house, have an awesome dinner with our Realtor, have the Boston shipment arrive the next morning, have the Utah shipment arrive a few days later, play "guess what's in this box?" game, play the "why in the world did I pay to store this crap for 3 years in Utah?" game, wrestle with self-examination and life purpose (you know, a light diversion), realize that queen bed box mattresses do not fit up the steep stairs, put 2 queen box springs in the dining room while you ponder what to do next, realize that you accidentally gave the Pottery Barn sofa slipcovers to Goodwill instead of the 2 bags of clothes that haven't fit since 2005, lament and grieve stupidity of having a naked couch and hope that a bargan hunter is enjoying the slipcovers, search for jobs, bake cookies for neighbors, learn you didn't make enough cookies for people 4 houses down who heard the new neighbors were giving out cookies, rejoice that you have your beloved high efficiency washer/dryer back, hear from niece and nephew's mom that while they enjoyed the postcards the kids keep asking for a lobster dinner now, take Edgar for walks so he can chase bunnies/squirrels/chipmunks and enjoy the fireflies, try to coordinate with Mom about coming for a visit, have a vegan picnic with work people at the lake front, go into a cooking frenzy, learn you've been eliminated in a job search you really wanted, do more self-examination, watch chipmunk steal new budding lemons off of "Lucinda the Lemon Tree" and curse them, bring Lucinda inside, watch husband obsess about CAT cable vs. Ethernet or whatever sprawling all over the house when considering ISP service, discover the stupidity of previous home owners in their "quick fixes" and random holes in walls/floors, make multiple trips to local hardware store and Home Depot, read mindless novels, obsess about how to fix the wool rug smell, do more self-examination, worry about things you can't control, and finally get tired of living in the maze of boxes, oddly prioritize organizing the guest room first (looks great, by the way), do more extreme gourmet cooking, work on blog, and finally decide that you will get one more room organized before the end of the day.
So there you have it. I have had a lot of experiences that do warrant more explicit blog entries. Believe me, there have been a lot of instances in the past few weeks that I have commented to my husband that it was blog-worthy, but alas no time. Well, no time and we just got internet 2 days ago.
Now I knew these two systems are not compatible, but really? Fonts? How hard is it to get fonts across these two giant corporations? I've known PC doesn't play well with Apple. I've gone back and forth between these two systems all my life. In the 8th grade my newspaper adviser brought in his own Mac so I could layout the student paper. However, when I got into high school we were still using the light board with exact-o knives to literally cut and paste the pages together. In college we re-entered the renaissance and I remember I got my own email account that I could access only from the library PC's. The "sophisticated" program was akin to the stupid C prompt. I didn't use it much. My Mom always had PC's for her business even though there was a subtle rivalry even within the family as her oldest sister only worked on Macs. I can't believe it's now 2009 and the rivalry continues. Even within my own home we have a semi-working PC (it's the laptop with the shattered screen hooked up to the monitor that once belonged to the dead desk hard drive), and the sleek new sophisticated beautiful Mac Book Pro. Can you tell which one I'm working on primarily? I'll give you a hint: I have a ton of cords. *sigh* Well, that and I probably wouldn't have spent 5 hours working on fonts on a computer that wouldn't show the glories of my efforts!
Now several of you are probably wondering what the Hell happened to me. It's been like a month since I posted! Last time I checked the site she was going on and on about New England and then, poof! she's gone! It's called moving, folks. Come on, say it with me: "C-r-a-z-y."
So here is a brief summary of what I've been doing in the past month: Canoe down the Charles River to watch the fireworks for the 4th of July, insanely decide to make a last minute trip to Utah to see the family, have a great dinner with my brother and his wife, hang out with my husbands grandparents, play up in the canyons, make dinner for my in-laws, come back from 4 days behind the Zion curtain to find Edgar's paws to be a bit tender because the dog sitters played fetch on hot asphalt, proceed to carry Edgar "Skittle Toes" around the house for 2 days because he's too tender to walk, lick my emotional wounds, let college students pack our belongings in one day (a.k.a. sure it makes sense to put the pantry items like flour in with the scented candles!), pay 3 burly men to drag/carry our belongings onto a truck, spend a lot of money in buying every moving crew lunch plus tipping them, clean the empty apartment like mad men while trying to assure J that perfection is not needed, go stay with Boston Mom, take a side trip to Kennibunkport, Maine where the secret service guys like to hang to guard George Sr. and Barb, proceed to travel West staying in such glamorous spots like Cleveland and Lake Geneva, send postcards to nieces and nephews along the way so they can track your journey across the USA and learn little history lessons to boot, lament you don't have enough time this trip to do such diversions like Niagara Falls (something you promised you'd do on the trip West when you ran out of time going East), wish Wegman's Supermarket was national, learn our new mortgage person is not a detail oriented person (not good, folks), close on the house, have an awesome dinner with our Realtor, have the Boston shipment arrive the next morning, have the Utah shipment arrive a few days later, play "guess what's in this box?" game, play the "why in the world did I pay to store this crap for 3 years in Utah?" game, wrestle with self-examination and life purpose (you know, a light diversion), realize that queen bed box mattresses do not fit up the steep stairs, put 2 queen box springs in the dining room while you ponder what to do next, realize that you accidentally gave the Pottery Barn sofa slipcovers to Goodwill instead of the 2 bags of clothes that haven't fit since 2005, lament and grieve stupidity of having a naked couch and hope that a bargan hunter is enjoying the slipcovers, search for jobs, bake cookies for neighbors, learn you didn't make enough cookies for people 4 houses down who heard the new neighbors were giving out cookies, rejoice that you have your beloved high efficiency washer/dryer back, hear from niece and nephew's mom that while they enjoyed the postcards the kids keep asking for a lobster dinner now, take Edgar for walks so he can chase bunnies/squirrels/chipmunks and enjoy the fireflies, try to coordinate with Mom about coming for a visit, have a vegan picnic with work people at the lake front, go into a cooking frenzy, learn you've been eliminated in a job search you really wanted, do more self-examination, watch chipmunk steal new budding lemons off of "Lucinda the Lemon Tree" and curse them, bring Lucinda inside, watch husband obsess about CAT cable vs. Ethernet or whatever sprawling all over the house when considering ISP service, discover the stupidity of previous home owners in their "quick fixes" and random holes in walls/floors, make multiple trips to local hardware store and Home Depot, read mindless novels, obsess about how to fix the wool rug smell, do more self-examination, worry about things you can't control, and finally get tired of living in the maze of boxes, oddly prioritize organizing the guest room first (looks great, by the way), do more extreme gourmet cooking, work on blog, and finally decide that you will get one more room organized before the end of the day.
So there you have it. I have had a lot of experiences that do warrant more explicit blog entries. Believe me, there have been a lot of instances in the past few weeks that I have commented to my husband that it was blog-worthy, but alas no time. Well, no time and we just got internet 2 days ago.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Yankee Doodle Dandy
When I was younger I never understood the odd fascination Ginny had with magazines. One in particular caught my eye: Yankee Magazine. Why in the world would a woman who lived on a ranch in Oakley, Utah keep a subscription dedicated to New England living? It made sense to me that she kept Sunset; after all, it was dedicated to living in the West. But really, Yankee?
Yesterday my adopted Boston mom took J and I up to one of her favorite places in the world: Rockport, Massachusetts. Her story is one of both independent marriage migration from New Jersey to New Hampshire, Boston to Chicago, and San Diego back to Boston. She had to leave home to find it. Her love affair with New England is palpable and when I was ruled by my back pain, she kept me entertained with stories of her journeys and places to which she felt a natural affinity. There she was taking my blood pressure and chirping away about kayaking on Spy Pond or taking the train to the New Jersey shore. Ever since we learned our time in Boston was limited, Judy's urgency and drive to play tour guide grew stronger. We specifically blocked out yesterday just for her, which was no small feat but something so worth while.
As J's and my time dwindles in Boston, our bucket list seems to grow longer. We've played tourist this past week by eating at the Nation's oldest restaurant The Union Oyster House, taking the T down to the common and catching a movie, and renting a canoe to take Edgar down the Charles River with a picnic to hear the Boston Pops and watch the fireworks explode over our heads. There we moored with a couple who had made this a ritual for 6 years and knew the ropes, so to speak. The current of the river is strong and they brought their own anchor as well as a small motor to get back upstream after the show. Thank God we met Rachelle and Peter otherwise we would have been paddling aimlessly around the river during the whole show. The Coast Guard isn't exactly friendly and strictly enforces the rule that all watercraft must be either in transit or at least 100 feet away from the shore. They don't tell you where you can go, but they make it very clear you can't stay where you are. By the end of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" there were 5 canoes and kayaks tied to Rachelle and Peter's boat. You could almost feel the small anchor groaning. Although we couldn't hear the music, the drunken choirs on all the yachts surrounding us would catch small chords of the song and keep echoing the embellished chorus of "so good, so good, so good" over and over again. Oddly enough, Peter is from Wisconsin. While J and Peter discussed the merits of taking a ferry from Michigan to Wisconsin on our upcoming cross country adventure, I learned all about Rachelle's masters in children's theater and her recent discovery of the Twilight series. Not bad for someone who is 62 and just bought her first house to claim she is now finally "settled and grown up." Rachelle, originally from California, talked about how she never thought she'd end up in Boston and how hard it was to start friendships here 14 years ago. We talked about how it can be hard to find friends here as they are a little slow to trust, but once you are let into their lives it's forever. My friendship with Judy was much like that only oddly enough I was the one who was slow to let down my guard. So much for the stereotype of the East Coast natives being the ones with so many boundaries.
We arrived at Judy's house late yesterday afternoon, which wasn't an issue. She nurtured our lateness and said we deserved to take it easy after such a demanding year. There I saw the photograph of J and I at my graduation framed on her mantle next to photos of her daughter and soon to be son-in-law. Not even my own family has photos of us on the mantle, but they aren't exactly the family photos on display kind of people. Judy shuffled us into her car and we began our trek up to Rockport, Massachusetts. The small Cape Ann town is home of such films like "The Witches of Eastwick" and "The Proposal." We wandered around Bearskin Neck to her favorite art gallery where she promptly bought an oil painting of two girls on the beach. We had lunch at a very elegant restaurant on the point complete with harbor views, sailcloth curtains, whitewash clapboard, and fresh fish sandwiches. As we talked about her daughter's upcoming wedding and the pondering of grandchildren she said, "You can't make wine before it's time." I realized it was a very Ginny thing to say. I also wondered if this was a town Ginny and Pop visited on their RV adventures through New England during retirement. Was it a town highlighted in Yankee Magazine she felt drawn towards?
We wandered around the little shops drawn into places that made "witches balls" - colorful hand blown glass balls with spider web strands inside to attract and capture evil spirits before they enter your home. We found local pottery, adorable crocheted baby sun hats and homemade fudge before finding the new age store. There crystals, tarot, and books on numerology ruled the shelves. J could only take so much of the chanting cd, but Judy and I perused the books on body-mind connections and various essential oils. She bought a book about mediums and inquired the Gaia inspired women about the meaning of the number 7 in her life. She was born on 7/7, one of 7 children, several 7's in her license and phone numbers. They were more than happy to oblige and I once again realized another connection to Judy. 7 is the number of the mystic and who would have thought new age would be yet another connecting point for us.
By the end of the day we took our Arnold Palmer's back to the car and discussed medicine, given the common connection between Judy and J's careers. We got caught in the 4th of July weekender traffic coming from Maine, but it gave us an excuse to take the scenic route through the Mystic Valley and Arlington. Before we departed from her home, she insisted upon lending us her recent copy of Yankee Magazine. She thought it would be good for us as there were some articles about lighthouses and Maine - places we may want to visit before we left.
This morning, for the first time in my life, I sat with a cup of coffee and read the whole magazine. I was captured by the photographs of Adirondack chairs, suggestions of bed and breakfasts around Maine, and the preservation of small towns in New Hampshire. I finally "got it" about life in New England. The juxtaposition of busy city life to small town heritage and small town preservation movements over simple things like colonial rock walls appealed to my soul the same way I fell in love with Ginny's herb garden.
Perhaps I'm over-romanticizing it or perhaps I'm just a little nostalgic, but I believe that people are sent into your life for a reason. Last year I lost Ginny, but within months I was given the gift of Judy. Who knows, I just might get a subscription to Yankee Magazine sent to my Wisconsin home.
Yesterday my adopted Boston mom took J and I up to one of her favorite places in the world: Rockport, Massachusetts. Her story is one of both independent marriage migration from New Jersey to New Hampshire, Boston to Chicago, and San Diego back to Boston. She had to leave home to find it. Her love affair with New England is palpable and when I was ruled by my back pain, she kept me entertained with stories of her journeys and places to which she felt a natural affinity. There she was taking my blood pressure and chirping away about kayaking on Spy Pond or taking the train to the New Jersey shore. Ever since we learned our time in Boston was limited, Judy's urgency and drive to play tour guide grew stronger. We specifically blocked out yesterday just for her, which was no small feat but something so worth while.
As J's and my time dwindles in Boston, our bucket list seems to grow longer. We've played tourist this past week by eating at the Nation's oldest restaurant The Union Oyster House, taking the T down to the common and catching a movie, and renting a canoe to take Edgar down the Charles River with a picnic to hear the Boston Pops and watch the fireworks explode over our heads. There we moored with a couple who had made this a ritual for 6 years and knew the ropes, so to speak. The current of the river is strong and they brought their own anchor as well as a small motor to get back upstream after the show. Thank God we met Rachelle and Peter otherwise we would have been paddling aimlessly around the river during the whole show. The Coast Guard isn't exactly friendly and strictly enforces the rule that all watercraft must be either in transit or at least 100 feet away from the shore. They don't tell you where you can go, but they make it very clear you can't stay where you are. By the end of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" there were 5 canoes and kayaks tied to Rachelle and Peter's boat. You could almost feel the small anchor groaning. Although we couldn't hear the music, the drunken choirs on all the yachts surrounding us would catch small chords of the song and keep echoing the embellished chorus of "so good, so good, so good" over and over again. Oddly enough, Peter is from Wisconsin. While J and Peter discussed the merits of taking a ferry from Michigan to Wisconsin on our upcoming cross country adventure, I learned all about Rachelle's masters in children's theater and her recent discovery of the Twilight series. Not bad for someone who is 62 and just bought her first house to claim she is now finally "settled and grown up." Rachelle, originally from California, talked about how she never thought she'd end up in Boston and how hard it was to start friendships here 14 years ago. We talked about how it can be hard to find friends here as they are a little slow to trust, but once you are let into their lives it's forever. My friendship with Judy was much like that only oddly enough I was the one who was slow to let down my guard. So much for the stereotype of the East Coast natives being the ones with so many boundaries.
We arrived at Judy's house late yesterday afternoon, which wasn't an issue. She nurtured our lateness and said we deserved to take it easy after such a demanding year. There I saw the photograph of J and I at my graduation framed on her mantle next to photos of her daughter and soon to be son-in-law. Not even my own family has photos of us on the mantle, but they aren't exactly the family photos on display kind of people. Judy shuffled us into her car and we began our trek up to Rockport, Massachusetts. The small Cape Ann town is home of such films like "The Witches of Eastwick" and "The Proposal." We wandered around Bearskin Neck to her favorite art gallery where she promptly bought an oil painting of two girls on the beach. We had lunch at a very elegant restaurant on the point complete with harbor views, sailcloth curtains, whitewash clapboard, and fresh fish sandwiches. As we talked about her daughter's upcoming wedding and the pondering of grandchildren she said, "You can't make wine before it's time." I realized it was a very Ginny thing to say. I also wondered if this was a town Ginny and Pop visited on their RV adventures through New England during retirement. Was it a town highlighted in Yankee Magazine she felt drawn towards?
We wandered around the little shops drawn into places that made "witches balls" - colorful hand blown glass balls with spider web strands inside to attract and capture evil spirits before they enter your home. We found local pottery, adorable crocheted baby sun hats and homemade fudge before finding the new age store. There crystals, tarot, and books on numerology ruled the shelves. J could only take so much of the chanting cd, but Judy and I perused the books on body-mind connections and various essential oils. She bought a book about mediums and inquired the Gaia inspired women about the meaning of the number 7 in her life. She was born on 7/7, one of 7 children, several 7's in her license and phone numbers. They were more than happy to oblige and I once again realized another connection to Judy. 7 is the number of the mystic and who would have thought new age would be yet another connecting point for us.
By the end of the day we took our Arnold Palmer's back to the car and discussed medicine, given the common connection between Judy and J's careers. We got caught in the 4th of July weekender traffic coming from Maine, but it gave us an excuse to take the scenic route through the Mystic Valley and Arlington. Before we departed from her home, she insisted upon lending us her recent copy of Yankee Magazine. She thought it would be good for us as there were some articles about lighthouses and Maine - places we may want to visit before we left.
This morning, for the first time in my life, I sat with a cup of coffee and read the whole magazine. I was captured by the photographs of Adirondack chairs, suggestions of bed and breakfasts around Maine, and the preservation of small towns in New Hampshire. I finally "got it" about life in New England. The juxtaposition of busy city life to small town heritage and small town preservation movements over simple things like colonial rock walls appealed to my soul the same way I fell in love with Ginny's herb garden.
Perhaps I'm over-romanticizing it or perhaps I'm just a little nostalgic, but I believe that people are sent into your life for a reason. Last year I lost Ginny, but within months I was given the gift of Judy. Who knows, I just might get a subscription to Yankee Magazine sent to my Wisconsin home.
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