I was proud and exhilirated today to witness an historic moment in American history. At 12 p.m. EST, I watched as Barack Obama, our nation's 44th, and first African American, president took the oath of office in 25-degree weather before a crowd of people so thick you could not see the grass on the entirety of the National Mall. I thought the classical arrangement of Simple Gifts was beautiful and moving, I smiled as our new president endearingly flubbed his lines (you'd be nervous too if you were being entrusted with leadership of this magnitude!), and I found his speech poignant, insightful, and inspiring.
But something troubles me now as it did during the election.
While I feel that Mr. Obama engenders the kind of optimism, forward-looking, and re-dedication that this country so needs right now, he is not the answer to all our problems and I feel it is a disservice to the man to consider him so.
I offer you an excerpt from Eavesdrop DC, a blog similar to Overheard in the Office in which random people submit bits of conversations they happened to overhear while traveling around Capital City:
"Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Overheard while transferring from ridiculously crowded Red Line train to ridiculously crowded Yellow Line train at China Town
Woman One: Dammmnnn girl! This Metro so damn c-rowded!
Woman Two: Shit yeah. Too many people here.
Woman One: Don’t worry, Obama gonna take care of that."
Seriously? I've heard other similar statements both personally and in print.
During and since the election, it seems people have looked upon him and treated him almost as the coming of the messiah. He is seen as the dawning of a Utopia, a right to all wrongs, the bringer of a harmonious society. They have painted a masterpiece-worthy image of him in their mind, and I'm sorry to break it to them, but no one can live up to that hype. That is an enormous amount of pressure to put on a person, and he will be under a level of scrutiny that would make even the most papparazzo-pestered starlet cringe on his behalf. His election was not a miracle, as some have called it; it was a reasoned act by people of all races of this country. The result will not be perfect. And there will be a lot of disappointed people when that becomes apparent.
The ugly truth: Obama will make mistakes. Obama will stumble through more than his oath of office. Obama will fail to deliver on some of his campaign promises. Obama will emerge as a fallible human being. Because he IS a fallible human being and he doesn't have all the answers, nor does he have a magic wand that he will wave and make our financial, international, and energy woes disappear. He's just a good person trying to do his best to lead his country in the direction he sees as the safest and most prosperous. And in that, the man has my gratitude, my respect, my faith, and my trust.
So on this momentous day, I say let us be grateful for the simple gifts of watching history made and observing the manifestation of Dr. King's dream, and let us look ahead on this new day with hope in our hearts and both eyes open.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
2008 Holiday Recap
Or, Adventures in Asshattery.
I know this is late, but I needed some distance from the last part. Also, this holiday required more running around than normal, and was followed up so closely by big events in friends' lives and actual real live work that this is the first time I've been able to sit down and put something together.
Overall, this holiday followed suit with the preceding 11 months and 24 days. It was a dud. The gifts were lovely; don't think me that ungrateful. But all furniture remained intact, all food was thoroughly cooked, demonstrable alcoholism was kept to a minimum, and family feuds merely sparked but did not rage.
Yet through all this, a hero emerged, bearing the mantle of Instigator, and shouldering the heavy burden of discomfiting the lot of us at every turn. The hero of whom I write is, as you may expect, my father.
By now, my faithful Rosie-fans are familiar with the semi-standard Holiday Pilgrimage. Christmas Eve with Dad&Co, Christmas Day with InLaws, Day After with Mom&Co. Usually, I am in contact with Dad at some point in early to mid-December, finalizing plans, determining expected dress code, and finding out what we can bring. However, 2008 threw us a loop.
Let me backup. This has to start back in October for the true effect to be made clear.
In mid-October, Dad wrote, asking if we could get together for dinner “so I have a chance to refresh my memory of what you two look like.” (Passiveaggressivesayswhat?) So I wrote him back, proposing dates on which we were free within the week and actual restaurants depending on whether he was coming from home or the office, to prove that we were serious about getting together (it has come up before). And I heard nothing. And nothing. The dates passed. Still nothing. I realized in time that nothing was coming, but knowing that we had made the last volley, I decided that it was his turn to reply and left it at that.
Now it’s November. Still nothing. He probably forgot and is too busy flying around to all his Very Important clients. Now it’s Thanksgiving. Still nothing. Not even a Happy Thanksgiving call, email, or text message. I know a card is beyond him.
Now it’s December. I get off my high horse and reach out by way of a Christmas card (the only one he received, as I understand).
And nothing.
And nothing.
And now it’s December 23. For several days, I’ve been saying that if he doesn’t call, we’re just not going. And I stomp around in a stew of self-righteousness (and I still know I was right in that determination, for what it’s worth) insisting loudly to no one that he’s cutting it awfully close. But Husband apparently inherited his mother’s need to bend over backwards in pursuit of family harmony and encouraged me to be the Mature One and call him. After more stomping around and railing at no one, I break down and do so. It’s 6pm on December 23, so I call his cell phone and his house phone and leave messages on both. Sister, Niece, and Sister’s Fiancé were all supposed to be there, so maybe they’re out seeing the sites of DC or at a nice dinner somewhere. They’ll call back and we’ll have a forced laugh.
And now it’s December 24, the day on which we are supposed to go to Dad’s. But I haven’t heard a peep out of him since mid-October. There certainly has been no invitation to Christmas Eve, no discussion of appropriate garb, and no suggestions of something I can bring to help out. I call again at 10 am – cell phone and house phone, but I know he has no cell reception to speak of and a questionable house line, so I also email both his home and work email addresses because even if his phone lines aren’t working, I know his email does.
And now it’s noon on December 24. And nothing. Now I’m not just bemused. I’m pissed off. Granted, my self-righteousness has been in overdrive, waxing poetic at the possibility of Best Christmas Ever (namely one in which we don’t go over to Dad’s on Christmas Eve and instead get to relax at home with the glow of the tree and a glass of good wine) and threatening to just not go and not try again since the man is an adult and needs to understand that inaction has its consequences as well. But my stubborn sense of What Is Right is simultaneously all up in a flutter over either being snubbed or outright forgotten. So I make one last round of calls to his cell phone, his house phone, and this time also to his work phone. No answer on any of the above. On each voicemail, I try to keep my voice light, but I do inform him that if we do not hear back by 2pm, we’re going to assume we are not invited this year and that we will make alternate plans. I email him this same information, again to both addresses. I also call Sister’s cell phone and text her for good measure, figuring that I’ve covered all of my bases this time and that there is nothing more I can do.
And now it’s 2:30 pm on December 24. Torn between giddiness over having Christmas Eve the way *I* want to and the indignation over having been excluded and general frustration with the man-child, I stomp my way upstairs and take my shower, preparing to run to Giant to get stuff for dinner.
At 3pm, as I’m combing my hair out, the phone rings. It’s Dad. And he’s cheerful. And he wants to know what time we’re coming over tonight. It seems that he has not yet received any of my messages or emails; it's just the first time it has occurred to him to make this call. In spite of all the threats I've been making about telling him what to do with his Christmas Eve, I instead very tightly manage to tell him that we weren’t sure we were invited tonight and that Husband’s at work right now. Dad moans that he’s so sorry that we ever felt that way, that of course we’re invited, and that we should just come over whenever we can. I relay the message to Husband and we bandy about the prospect of showing up way late just to spite him, but we agree that, since Sister’s Fiancé is cooking, it’s not fair to spoil the meal that Fiancé worked hard to prepare (while also really meeting us for the first time) when we’re actually only mad at Dad. About this time, Dad calls back – what time does Husband get home, and can we make it by, say, 5:30? So much for "whenever we can."
We went, and the evening was actually rather pleasant. Dinner was delicious, everyone was civilized, and it was, frankly, the nicest Christmas Eve I've had in a number of years now. The moments of most discomfort occurred over Dad and AuntZ squabbling across the entire house (seriously, I could hear them on the second floor), and Dad imploring us to come a day early next year, complaining that he “doesn’t feel like he really *knows* us.”
A side note here – when my parents were still married, my father’s parents would plague my mother with this exact line every single time she came over. Never mind that, had they asked her a question, she would have answered. Never mind that we lived across the county, not across the country. So I found it inexplicably hilarious that Dad is now pulling the same line on me that used to drive Mom insane. Dad, maybe if you would email, or call, or actually see us instead of treating us like casual acquaintances (you know the type – you run into them and there is an exchange of “we should do lunch sometime,” but neither of you really mean it), you might “know us” better. Furthermore, I am staring 30 in the face. If you don’t know me by now, one extra night before a holiday (during which my Husband will almost certainly suffer an asthma attack due to the dust and dog dander, and will otherwise be generally congested and miserable the entire time) will not go a long way towards rectifying the situation.
But let us move on. When we returned from Richmond and finally had a moment to ourselves, I found a mass email from Dad in my inbox, generally saying Happy New Year and listing items that were found and probably belong to someone in the family. He also emailed me directly, apologizing again for the Fail and saying that we should get together in January for pizza at Fireworks. I made a point of writing a very nice thank you note to him, trying to show that there were no hard feelings over the Christmas Eve That Almost Wasn’t and agreeing that getting together for pizza would be a fine thing.
And nothing.
I know this is late, but I needed some distance from the last part. Also, this holiday required more running around than normal, and was followed up so closely by big events in friends' lives and actual real live work that this is the first time I've been able to sit down and put something together.
Overall, this holiday followed suit with the preceding 11 months and 24 days. It was a dud. The gifts were lovely; don't think me that ungrateful. But all furniture remained intact, all food was thoroughly cooked, demonstrable alcoholism was kept to a minimum, and family feuds merely sparked but did not rage.
Yet through all this, a hero emerged, bearing the mantle of Instigator, and shouldering the heavy burden of discomfiting the lot of us at every turn. The hero of whom I write is, as you may expect, my father.
By now, my faithful Rosie-fans are familiar with the semi-standard Holiday Pilgrimage. Christmas Eve with Dad&Co, Christmas Day with InLaws, Day After with Mom&Co. Usually, I am in contact with Dad at some point in early to mid-December, finalizing plans, determining expected dress code, and finding out what we can bring. However, 2008 threw us a loop.
Let me backup. This has to start back in October for the true effect to be made clear.
In mid-October, Dad wrote, asking if we could get together for dinner “so I have a chance to refresh my memory of what you two look like.” (Passiveaggressivesayswhat?) So I wrote him back, proposing dates on which we were free within the week and actual restaurants depending on whether he was coming from home or the office, to prove that we were serious about getting together (it has come up before). And I heard nothing. And nothing. The dates passed. Still nothing. I realized in time that nothing was coming, but knowing that we had made the last volley, I decided that it was his turn to reply and left it at that.
Now it’s November. Still nothing. He probably forgot and is too busy flying around to all his Very Important clients. Now it’s Thanksgiving. Still nothing. Not even a Happy Thanksgiving call, email, or text message. I know a card is beyond him.
Now it’s December. I get off my high horse and reach out by way of a Christmas card (the only one he received, as I understand).
And nothing.
And nothing.
And now it’s December 23. For several days, I’ve been saying that if he doesn’t call, we’re just not going. And I stomp around in a stew of self-righteousness (and I still know I was right in that determination, for what it’s worth) insisting loudly to no one that he’s cutting it awfully close. But Husband apparently inherited his mother’s need to bend over backwards in pursuit of family harmony and encouraged me to be the Mature One and call him. After more stomping around and railing at no one, I break down and do so. It’s 6pm on December 23, so I call his cell phone and his house phone and leave messages on both. Sister, Niece, and Sister’s Fiancé were all supposed to be there, so maybe they’re out seeing the sites of DC or at a nice dinner somewhere. They’ll call back and we’ll have a forced laugh.
And now it’s December 24, the day on which we are supposed to go to Dad’s. But I haven’t heard a peep out of him since mid-October. There certainly has been no invitation to Christmas Eve, no discussion of appropriate garb, and no suggestions of something I can bring to help out. I call again at 10 am – cell phone and house phone, but I know he has no cell reception to speak of and a questionable house line, so I also email both his home and work email addresses because even if his phone lines aren’t working, I know his email does.
And now it’s noon on December 24. And nothing. Now I’m not just bemused. I’m pissed off. Granted, my self-righteousness has been in overdrive, waxing poetic at the possibility of Best Christmas Ever (namely one in which we don’t go over to Dad’s on Christmas Eve and instead get to relax at home with the glow of the tree and a glass of good wine) and threatening to just not go and not try again since the man is an adult and needs to understand that inaction has its consequences as well. But my stubborn sense of What Is Right is simultaneously all up in a flutter over either being snubbed or outright forgotten. So I make one last round of calls to his cell phone, his house phone, and this time also to his work phone. No answer on any of the above. On each voicemail, I try to keep my voice light, but I do inform him that if we do not hear back by 2pm, we’re going to assume we are not invited this year and that we will make alternate plans. I email him this same information, again to both addresses. I also call Sister’s cell phone and text her for good measure, figuring that I’ve covered all of my bases this time and that there is nothing more I can do.
And now it’s 2:30 pm on December 24. Torn between giddiness over having Christmas Eve the way *I* want to and the indignation over having been excluded and general frustration with the man-child, I stomp my way upstairs and take my shower, preparing to run to Giant to get stuff for dinner.
At 3pm, as I’m combing my hair out, the phone rings. It’s Dad. And he’s cheerful. And he wants to know what time we’re coming over tonight. It seems that he has not yet received any of my messages or emails; it's just the first time it has occurred to him to make this call. In spite of all the threats I've been making about telling him what to do with his Christmas Eve, I instead very tightly manage to tell him that we weren’t sure we were invited tonight and that Husband’s at work right now. Dad moans that he’s so sorry that we ever felt that way, that of course we’re invited, and that we should just come over whenever we can. I relay the message to Husband and we bandy about the prospect of showing up way late just to spite him, but we agree that, since Sister’s Fiancé is cooking, it’s not fair to spoil the meal that Fiancé worked hard to prepare (while also really meeting us for the first time) when we’re actually only mad at Dad. About this time, Dad calls back – what time does Husband get home, and can we make it by, say, 5:30? So much for "whenever we can."
We went, and the evening was actually rather pleasant. Dinner was delicious, everyone was civilized, and it was, frankly, the nicest Christmas Eve I've had in a number of years now. The moments of most discomfort occurred over Dad and AuntZ squabbling across the entire house (seriously, I could hear them on the second floor), and Dad imploring us to come a day early next year, complaining that he “doesn’t feel like he really *knows* us.”
A side note here – when my parents were still married, my father’s parents would plague my mother with this exact line every single time she came over. Never mind that, had they asked her a question, she would have answered. Never mind that we lived across the county, not across the country. So I found it inexplicably hilarious that Dad is now pulling the same line on me that used to drive Mom insane. Dad, maybe if you would email, or call, or actually see us instead of treating us like casual acquaintances (you know the type – you run into them and there is an exchange of “we should do lunch sometime,” but neither of you really mean it), you might “know us” better. Furthermore, I am staring 30 in the face. If you don’t know me by now, one extra night before a holiday (during which my Husband will almost certainly suffer an asthma attack due to the dust and dog dander, and will otherwise be generally congested and miserable the entire time) will not go a long way towards rectifying the situation.
But let us move on. When we returned from Richmond and finally had a moment to ourselves, I found a mass email from Dad in my inbox, generally saying Happy New Year and listing items that were found and probably belong to someone in the family. He also emailed me directly, apologizing again for the Fail and saying that we should get together in January for pizza at Fireworks. I made a point of writing a very nice thank you note to him, trying to show that there were no hard feelings over the Christmas Eve That Almost Wasn’t and agreeing that getting together for pizza would be a fine thing.
And nothing.
And nothing.
Until January 8. I received an email from Dad. Subject line: “Was that you?” I’ll include the entirety of the email here for your edutainment:
Hi Rosie,
There was a voice mail waiting for me. It contained what sounded like a "Rosie sigh".
That’s it. No prelude, no taper, no “Love, Dad” (just an office email signature), and certainly no explanation as to exactly what a Rosie Sigh is. It had a statement of fact, a statement of opinion, but no question or whathaveyou that would initiate action on my part. Did he just want to inform me? Or did he think his subject line was enough? Did the guy completely miss the section in 4th grade during which we learn how to frame a letter? Nevertheless, I wrote back when I received it (a couple of hours later), explaining that I haven’t called since Christmas Eve and that then I left a real voicemail, so it probably wasn’t me; hope that helps; ~Rosie.
His response, quoted in its entirety, beginning to end: Hmmm! In any case - thanks.
And that is the last I heard from him.
Until January 8. I received an email from Dad. Subject line: “Was that you?” I’ll include the entirety of the email here for your edutainment:
Hi Rosie,
There was a voice mail waiting for me. It contained what sounded like a "Rosie sigh".
That’s it. No prelude, no taper, no “Love, Dad” (just an office email signature), and certainly no explanation as to exactly what a Rosie Sigh is. It had a statement of fact, a statement of opinion, but no question or whathaveyou that would initiate action on my part. Did he just want to inform me? Or did he think his subject line was enough? Did the guy completely miss the section in 4th grade during which we learn how to frame a letter? Nevertheless, I wrote back when I received it (a couple of hours later), explaining that I haven’t called since Christmas Eve and that then I left a real voicemail, so it probably wasn’t me; hope that helps; ~Rosie.
His response, quoted in its entirety, beginning to end: Hmmm! In any case - thanks.
And that is the last I heard from him.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Holiday Sale
For what it's worth, I would like everyone to know that after three Christmas movies, four batches of cookies, a Tacky Lights tour, and a Cookie Party complete with roaring fire, I am feeling much more Holly Jolly and much less Bah Humbug.
Now, we all know about the Christmas Creep. No not your skeevy uncle after too much eggnog, but the insidious crawl of holiday-centric commercialism ever earlier in the year to the point that I saw red, green, and silver Hershey kisses available around Halloween. It's a familiar, if infuriating phenomenon, and I'm waiting for the good belly laugh when we celebrate Labor Day with 50% off all Santa merchandise.
But this is a new one for me.
I opened my Yahoo email account this morning to see an email from Ann Taylor Loft (love!) advertising a sale. It makes sense, as it's two days before Christmas, and the parking lot around Fair Oaks Mall was crammed yesterday with crawling cars filled with panicked people. I wasn't among their numbers, but I could see it from I-66. God bless online shopping. And I know the economy sucks and retailers have been busting their humps, doing just about anything to get people to at least look at their wares.
Anyhoo. I was all ready to delete yet another sale ad until my eyes caught the subject line.
(Note that it's currently December 23.)
"Ann Taylor Loft After Holiday Sale Starts Today!"
Amazing. I knew they were capable of great work-appropriate clothes. (I'm wearing a sweater of theirs right now.) I did not realize they were capable of bending the laws of space and time.
Good show, Ann Taylor Loft! I humble myself before your scientific prowess. Somebody get NASA on the phone!
Now, we all know about the Christmas Creep. No not your skeevy uncle after too much eggnog, but the insidious crawl of holiday-centric commercialism ever earlier in the year to the point that I saw red, green, and silver Hershey kisses available around Halloween. It's a familiar, if infuriating phenomenon, and I'm waiting for the good belly laugh when we celebrate Labor Day with 50% off all Santa merchandise.
But this is a new one for me.
I opened my Yahoo email account this morning to see an email from Ann Taylor Loft (love!) advertising a sale. It makes sense, as it's two days before Christmas, and the parking lot around Fair Oaks Mall was crammed yesterday with crawling cars filled with panicked people. I wasn't among their numbers, but I could see it from I-66. God bless online shopping. And I know the economy sucks and retailers have been busting their humps, doing just about anything to get people to at least look at their wares.
Anyhoo. I was all ready to delete yet another sale ad until my eyes caught the subject line.
(Note that it's currently December 23.)
"Ann Taylor Loft After Holiday Sale Starts Today!"
Amazing. I knew they were capable of great work-appropriate clothes. (I'm wearing a sweater of theirs right now.) I did not realize they were capable of bending the laws of space and time.
Good show, Ann Taylor Loft! I humble myself before your scientific prowess. Somebody get NASA on the phone!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Humbug
Is anyone else feeling distinctly underwhelmed by the holiday season this year?
In spite of the fact that Christmas has not been my favorite holiday for a number of years, I find that I am usually able to gear up for the season. I have Christmas music CDs that I am often itching to play by mid-November. I delight in selecting a wreath and decorating my house. I start shopping sometimes by Halloween. I get all excited about how many different kinds of cookies I can make and the special food items I can bring. I bombard the Post Office with cards. I seek out lighting displays. I love choosing pretty wrapping paper, and I have a library of holiday movies that I start watching on Dec 1.
But this year feels like I sat on a punctured whoopee cushion. Maybe it's that my hormones have been on strike (no, I have nothing to announce) and it's been an awfully rough December for me. Maybe it's my depression and generalized anxiety rearing their ugly
heads (great timing, guys). Maybe it's that Christmas is late in the week and, since I don't take off before the holiday, I feel pressed for time on my must-be-last-minute stuff (cookies can't exactly be done more than a few days in advance, and our family recipe for rolls is a Day-Of thing). Maybe it's been too gray this year. Maybe it's that so many homes in the area are vacant or foreclosed that the lighting displays are weak at best. Maybe it's all the bad news we've been hearing since September that sets such a gloomy air. Or, yes, maybe it's that my heart is two sizes too small. Whatever it is, nothing seems particularly festive and I have a hard time finding any semblance of spirit.
Husband had to convince me to decorate this year because I really wasn't feeling it. I whipped into Cox Farms alone after work two weeks ago and grabbed the first wreath I saw with a top-fixed bow rather than taking time to select the right size, shape, and arrangement. I'm sure it didn't help that I was in pantyhose and heels on a gravel lot. Instead of inciting joy and peacefulness, my CDs are an irritatant and I'm choosing Offspring and Fiona Apple over Tchaikovsky and Diana Krall. At the blowout office holiday party, I felt nervous and awkward and left early; and before you tell me that you wished you could have cut out early from yours, let me say that Company does up one hell of a party and I had planned on shutting the place down. I've so far watched exactly one holiday movie (Elf), and whereas I often bake at least five different kinds of cookies, this year I'm hard pressed to make the two requisite (sugar cookies and chocolate cherry thumbprints) and one maybe (caramel cookies). I didn't even feel the love when I made the fruitcake this year.
In spite of the fact that Christmas has not been my favorite holiday for a number of years, I find that I am usually able to gear up for the season. I have Christmas music CDs that I am often itching to play by mid-November. I delight in selecting a wreath and decorating my house. I start shopping sometimes by Halloween. I get all excited about how many different kinds of cookies I can make and the special food items I can bring. I bombard the Post Office with cards. I seek out lighting displays. I love choosing pretty wrapping paper, and I have a library of holiday movies that I start watching on Dec 1.
But this year feels like I sat on a punctured whoopee cushion. Maybe it's that my hormones have been on strike (no, I have nothing to announce) and it's been an awfully rough December for me. Maybe it's my depression and generalized anxiety rearing their ugly
heads (great timing, guys). Maybe it's that Christmas is late in the week and, since I don't take off before the holiday, I feel pressed for time on my must-be-last-minute stuff (cookies can't exactly be done more than a few days in advance, and our family recipe for rolls is a Day-Of thing). Maybe it's been too gray this year. Maybe it's that so many homes in the area are vacant or foreclosed that the lighting displays are weak at best. Maybe it's all the bad news we've been hearing since September that sets such a gloomy air. Or, yes, maybe it's that my heart is two sizes too small. Whatever it is, nothing seems particularly festive and I have a hard time finding any semblance of spirit.
Husband had to convince me to decorate this year because I really wasn't feeling it. I whipped into Cox Farms alone after work two weeks ago and grabbed the first wreath I saw with a top-fixed bow rather than taking time to select the right size, shape, and arrangement. I'm sure it didn't help that I was in pantyhose and heels on a gravel lot. Instead of inciting joy and peacefulness, my CDs are an irritatant and I'm choosing Offspring and Fiona Apple over Tchaikovsky and Diana Krall. At the blowout office holiday party, I felt nervous and awkward and left early; and before you tell me that you wished you could have cut out early from yours, let me say that Company does up one hell of a party and I had planned on shutting the place down. I've so far watched exactly one holiday movie (Elf), and whereas I often bake at least five different kinds of cookies, this year I'm hard pressed to make the two requisite (sugar cookies and chocolate cherry thumbprints) and one maybe (caramel cookies). I didn't even feel the love when I made the fruitcake this year.
(Yes I make - and eat! - and love! - fruitcake. Now stop laughing or I'll throw it at you and if you value your facial structure, trust me, you don't want that.)
None of this is like me. I had lunch with Friend Kristin today and, while that cheered me up a little, she agreed that this is very un-Rosie. In years past, I've at least been able to fake it. But this year... maybe I'm just done with 2008.
I know I'm just a big barrel of warm fuzzies right now, but this is my blog, dammit, and I get to write about how I feel, be it peppy, funny, sarcastic, or depressing. And you all have to read it because you can't help yourselves. Let it be known: Rosie is broken. Please to fix.
However, I will end on a high note, so that I don't have you all reaching for the revolvers. I promise I will arrive at all functions on time (except to those to which I already made it clear that I would be late) and with a smile, offering cookies and showing gratitude. I will be sunshine and lollipops, or gingerbread and candy canes. I promise to spend the free part of the weekend watching Baryshnikov, Rudolph, Charlie Brown, and Mr. Grinch until my eyes bleed. With luck, that will trip the switch and I will be my sugar plum self.
Besides, I am down 10 lbs since October and am working out more regularly, so more yet may come off. Yay!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Bailout
While I can respect the need to save the jobs of untold thousands of auto industry workers, this somehow rings just a little too true...
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Roommates
My salad days in my lovely empty office with a window and a door that closes are over. On Monday I was assigned an officemate. When her boss walked her around and introduced us, it took me by such surprise that it was all I could do to mumble out a passingly pleasant, “Hi”. I’ll admit I never manage to say or do the right thing, especially under pressure and on the spot, but I think I was well enough able to conceal my sinking disappointment that I now had to share my space.
Sharing space. I’ve never been especially good at it. Perhaps I can trace it back to my childhood, in which my sister and I were lucky enough to never have to share a room except on vacation. Add to that my generally introverted nature, at least until I become comfortable with another person, and you have someone who is fiercely protective of her metaphorical homestead, whatever that homestead may be.
I was an awful roommate, both in college and after. I’ll be the first to cop to it. Truth is truth. I didn’t let the dishes pile up for weeks or allow strange people to crash with us or use up all the hot water knowing that Roomie needed a shower too. My defects are all about how I deal with conflict. I let things build and fester like a nasty infection until I snap over something miniscule, or just make life unpleasant in general with my silent glaring and snarls. Adult of me, I know, but we all have our faults. Husband is the last roommate I’ve had, but we’ve only experienced minor problems with it because both of us are conflict-averse, and he knows how to recognize and shut me down when I start building up.
In my professional life, however, I have experienced no situation in which I had to share my space. I always had my own cubicle, or at least my own clear work area when I was in the Tech Writers pod at Company 2. Here, however, is a new scenario for me.
Roommate is a very nice woman, bright and lively, polite and quick to smile. I have no cause for complaint about her. Best of all, she is in fact a woman. I was having fits trying to figure out how to handle the Aunt Flo issue with a male officemate. I considered stashing a box of “supplies” in the ladies room, but figured that everyone would take advantage of those and they wouldn’t be there when I needed them. I considered going the makeup bag route, but depending upon how much time Roommate was there and how observant and/or dense he was, I anticipated questions about why it was only one week a month that I seemed to need to touch up my makeup a couple of times a day. Cosmetics are a bitch, Roomie.
So I’m fortunate on that score. But today we’re already running into growing pains. Because I have a conference call at 11 and she has an in-person meeting going on right now, and not only do I know I can’t concentrate on the call with the two of them talking, I also know I won’t be able to concentrate on my work with someone talking – either in a meeting or on the phone in general.
Maybe sound canceling headphones are the answer. Or maybe we’ll have to arrange to work from home on alternating days. Hrm... In the meantime, maybe I need to go to Coworker's actual office instead of being on the call today.
Sharing space. I’ve never been especially good at it. Perhaps I can trace it back to my childhood, in which my sister and I were lucky enough to never have to share a room except on vacation. Add to that my generally introverted nature, at least until I become comfortable with another person, and you have someone who is fiercely protective of her metaphorical homestead, whatever that homestead may be.
I was an awful roommate, both in college and after. I’ll be the first to cop to it. Truth is truth. I didn’t let the dishes pile up for weeks or allow strange people to crash with us or use up all the hot water knowing that Roomie needed a shower too. My defects are all about how I deal with conflict. I let things build and fester like a nasty infection until I snap over something miniscule, or just make life unpleasant in general with my silent glaring and snarls. Adult of me, I know, but we all have our faults. Husband is the last roommate I’ve had, but we’ve only experienced minor problems with it because both of us are conflict-averse, and he knows how to recognize and shut me down when I start building up.
In my professional life, however, I have experienced no situation in which I had to share my space. I always had my own cubicle, or at least my own clear work area when I was in the Tech Writers pod at Company 2. Here, however, is a new scenario for me.
Roommate is a very nice woman, bright and lively, polite and quick to smile. I have no cause for complaint about her. Best of all, she is in fact a woman. I was having fits trying to figure out how to handle the Aunt Flo issue with a male officemate. I considered stashing a box of “supplies” in the ladies room, but figured that everyone would take advantage of those and they wouldn’t be there when I needed them. I considered going the makeup bag route, but depending upon how much time Roommate was there and how observant and/or dense he was, I anticipated questions about why it was only one week a month that I seemed to need to touch up my makeup a couple of times a day. Cosmetics are a bitch, Roomie.
So I’m fortunate on that score. But today we’re already running into growing pains. Because I have a conference call at 11 and she has an in-person meeting going on right now, and not only do I know I can’t concentrate on the call with the two of them talking, I also know I won’t be able to concentrate on my work with someone talking – either in a meeting or on the phone in general.
Maybe sound canceling headphones are the answer. Or maybe we’ll have to arrange to work from home on alternating days. Hrm... In the meantime, maybe I need to go to Coworker's actual office instead of being on the call today.
Monday, December 1, 2008
NaNoWriMo 2008: Results
NaNoWriMo 2008 has drawn to a close and the verdict is:
Qualified Fail.
"Fail" because I missed the goal of 50,000 words in a month. I also missed my own personal goal of 10,000 words. In fact, I concluded the month with a grand total of 3,089 words. To my credit, a number of them were big, multi-syllabic words. But it's still a Fail.
"Qualified" because even 3,089 words tops my previous NaNoWriMo (2006) total of... 0 words. So yay me! Maybe I can crest 5,000 words in NaNoWriMo 2009. And even though I cranked out 3,089 words of uselessness (seriously, the whole thing worked much better in my outline than it did on paper), it is not a total loss. I think it can be retooled and redirected to another genre and turn out... maybe all right. I don't know if I'd ever submit it, but it's good to have something.
Word counts aside, one goal was certainly achieved. I reminded myself of the thrill I can feel when scribbling borderline nonsensical words on paper. It's nice to make the world melt away and to sense nothing outside the blissful confines of your own mind but the smell of cheap ink and the feel of good paper. In remembering that simple joy, I count this year as a Win.
(And now that it's over, I no longer have to feel guilty for reading when I should be writing!)
Qualified Fail.
"Fail" because I missed the goal of 50,000 words in a month. I also missed my own personal goal of 10,000 words. In fact, I concluded the month with a grand total of 3,089 words. To my credit, a number of them were big, multi-syllabic words. But it's still a Fail.
"Qualified" because even 3,089 words tops my previous NaNoWriMo (2006) total of... 0 words. So yay me! Maybe I can crest 5,000 words in NaNoWriMo 2009. And even though I cranked out 3,089 words of uselessness (seriously, the whole thing worked much better in my outline than it did on paper), it is not a total loss. I think it can be retooled and redirected to another genre and turn out... maybe all right. I don't know if I'd ever submit it, but it's good to have something.
Word counts aside, one goal was certainly achieved. I reminded myself of the thrill I can feel when scribbling borderline nonsensical words on paper. It's nice to make the world melt away and to sense nothing outside the blissful confines of your own mind but the smell of cheap ink and the feel of good paper. In remembering that simple joy, I count this year as a Win.
(And now that it's over, I no longer have to feel guilty for reading when I should be writing!)
Friday, November 21, 2008
The Death of Daytime
I found an article today from a former soap opera magazine writer (e.g., Soap Opera Weekly) talking about how we're watching the demise of daytime TV. The source of this hypothesis: the firing from Days of Our Lives (my own former "stories") of Deidre "Exotic Bird Hair" Hall and Drake "Smell the Fart" Hogestyn.Okay, Diedre's moniker is self-explanatory, but, for those of you who don't get the reference for Drake, here is the clarification: Jennifer Aniston's daddy, John Aniston, spent a goodly amount of his career playing Victor Kiriakis on Days, enduring many a ridiculous plotline and span of dialogue. In 1994, a little show called Friends came out on NBC (maybe you've heard of it?), the same channel that supports Days of Our Lives. Joey on Friends, as you may recall, was supposed to be a soap actor. So there are the various tie-ins, and why Days stars (Alison Sweeney, Kyle Lowder, Kristian Alfonso, among others) periodically showed up on Friends. In one season or another Joey took it upon himself to teach, or assistant teach, a community college (I guess) class on acting in soap operas. In response to - I believe - one student's question on what to do if you forget a line, Joey tells them to strike the "smell the fart" expression to buy them time. Then he demonstrates: he stops as if he's been paralyzed, raises one eyebrow skyward, then rotates his head vertically and away from the side with the raised eyebrow so his chin is stuck out in that direction, and inhales deeply. The desired effect is too look like you just, well, smelled a fart, though it's all suspenseful and dramatic to the audience. Those of us who are or were Days devotees, however, knew exactly and on the spot who taught Joey the trick: our main man, Drake Hogysten, who trademarked the look.
Now I haven't watched the show steadily since 2001, with a brief stint during 2005. I've caught an episode here and there, and there are a bunch of new characters, so I'm with the author: why not kill off one or five of them? Why are we digging more DiMeras out of the woodwork (even though we have trouble retaining evil mastermind Stefano!), but losing our anchors?
John and Marlena have been an institution on this show since the 80s. Allow us to hang onto one or two couples that manage to stay together through mistaken identities and demonic possession and adult children they never knew they had who turn out to not actually be theirs but her ex-husband's with another woman and hidden by Stefano DiMera on a secret island and never taught to speak or interact socially until they are dropped at age 18 essentially in his daughter's lap and she takes them under her wing and teaches them how to speak and to relate and to love!...where was I? Ah yes.
Let the younger characters bed-hop and make countless mistakes - that's their thing. Go ahead and create trouble for John and Marlena - conflict is, after all, the essence of drama - ... - and what is a soap opera without drama - ... - and functional couples aren't all that interesting to watch - ... - who was it that said that every happy family is the same but every dysfunctional family is unhappy in their own way? - but don't take them away.
I suppose, as I have abandoned the show to become part of the paid workforce, that I have no place to talk. I can't be angry about changes to a show I don't watch anymore, or speak out against plot twists that I can't follow.
But I can be a little bit sad.
And I am.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Congratulations, Leah & Phil!
Congratulations to Leah & Phil, who made it legal on Saturday, November 8!(See, it's funny because they're lawyers and they met in law school. I crack me up!)
Leah chose me as her Maid of Honor, but the honor was absolutely mine to stand beside my beautiful friend as she pledged her life to a man who I know cherishes her to her very core. As he should!
You couldn't have asked for a more perfect day. After threats all week of cold and rain for Saturday, the weather gods saw fit for the sun to shine bright and warm, which was quite the endorsement. The location was elegant, the cake was delicious, and the service was excellent (if a little enthusiastic about the NA cider). Leah was a vision, Phil missed the glass, the groomsmen hoisted both of them up for the Hora, and in true celebratory form, I danced the Dance of Joy until my feet nearly fell off. (It's okay! I can feel my toes again!)
My very best wishes go out to the happy couple! Phil, you are a lucky man to have found such a lady. I know you'll take good care of my friend.
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Trouble with Characters
So I'm off on my NaNoWriMo adventure. Full disclosure: I will be very, very surprised if I reach 50,000 words. Frankly, I'll count myself successful if I reach 10,000. But no matter. I didn't do this to actually write a novel. I did this to get my hands moving again, because talking endlessly about putting words on paper does not actually put the words on paper.
I've chosen a character and I'm working her out, and building side characters who are gaining shape and color (for the most part) slowly but surely. In the first paragraphs, I really liked this main character and was interested at how she was taking form. But in all honesty, by this point (1,489 words in), I'm far less interested in her than I am in a side character I built for her. How did that happen?? When I first concocted this craptacular story, this guy was essentially a ghostly thing, always pale and shapeless, merely holding a place and serving a purpose in the plot. But he will not be suppressed the way I wanted him to be. In mindlessly scrawling words in my notebook, he gave me his name, some nuance, and personality-shaping details even as a child. I can't get such a clear picture of even my main character, and that's a problem, because the story originally centered on her!
This is what Amy Tan talks about in The Opposite of Fate, what Stephen King talks about in On Writing, what Jude Devereaux talks about in interviews and blogs. This is the exciting and energizing thing about writing, to me anyway. It's just a story, but it's a living thing. No matter how concrete your outline or your mental storyboarding, sometimes your story will decide despite your best intentions to yank the reins to the right. And you can kick and you can yell and you can pull all you want, but the horse is going this way and you're stuck in the saddle.
So okay. Let's see where he takes me...
I've chosen a character and I'm working her out, and building side characters who are gaining shape and color (for the most part) slowly but surely. In the first paragraphs, I really liked this main character and was interested at how she was taking form. But in all honesty, by this point (1,489 words in), I'm far less interested in her than I am in a side character I built for her. How did that happen?? When I first concocted this craptacular story, this guy was essentially a ghostly thing, always pale and shapeless, merely holding a place and serving a purpose in the plot. But he will not be suppressed the way I wanted him to be. In mindlessly scrawling words in my notebook, he gave me his name, some nuance, and personality-shaping details even as a child. I can't get such a clear picture of even my main character, and that's a problem, because the story originally centered on her!
This is what Amy Tan talks about in The Opposite of Fate, what Stephen King talks about in On Writing, what Jude Devereaux talks about in interviews and blogs. This is the exciting and energizing thing about writing, to me anyway. It's just a story, but it's a living thing. No matter how concrete your outline or your mental storyboarding, sometimes your story will decide despite your best intentions to yank the reins to the right. And you can kick and you can yell and you can pull all you want, but the horse is going this way and you're stuck in the saddle.
So okay. Let's see where he takes me...
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