Wonderful Things

My philosophy as a writer is best summarized by Franz Liebkind in The Producers:

"You are the audience! I am the author! I outrank you!"

Sometimes my blog gets as many as three hits a day.

This is technically antithetical to what I'm learning in my UT advanced writing class, by the way. But I'm settling into the groove of it now.

A couple of wonderful things have happened in connection with this writing class. First off, well, it just feels good to be there. It's a casual class, couched as an opportunity to expand one's skills in a supportive setting, rather than a trap where points are docked for technical errors. The professor is nice. The other students are nice. It has a vibe, and the vibe is good. And hey, writing is fun - right?

So last week, as we went around the room and introduced ourselves, the professor (who's been at UT for many, many years) mentioned that he's a great fan of Shakespeare, and used to teach literature classes in that subject. I suddenly remembered the Shakespearean plays class I took at UT on my first go round, and realized that my professor does seem kind of familiar. And I asked: Did you teach an introductory Shakespeare class in, oh, I'm not sure, 1987?

He laughed, because that was a long time ago. He's taught who-knows-how-many classes since then, and considering I don't remember him clearly enough to be sure he was the instructor, there's hardly any reason he'd remember. But when I brought it up, there was a big "awwwwww!" from my classmates (who incidentally are, for the most part, younger than my two older kids. But who's counting?).

Well, it's not a big deal, I guess. But I did check my transcript at the first opportunity. You like to know these things, right? My transcript doesn't list the instructor name, but does have the course unique ID, so I called up the English department and asked them if there was any way they could look up who it was.

Second wonderful thing (if the first wonderful thing is that all my classmates said "awwwww," though that might be the third or fourth wonderful thing already depending on how you count stuff - or the 537th), whoever answered the phone at the English department did not so much as entertain the idea of considering my request to be frivolous. Did not even offer it a glass of ice water. No, he put me on hold for about seven minutes, during which time he probably had to descend into the secret UT tunnel system* and pull dusty, moth-eaten PAPER FILES out of ancient mildewed FILING CABINETS. And, third (or eighth or 956th) wonderful thing, when he returned, he seemed genuinely excited to tell me that it was, in fact, the same professor!

Possibly he was just really relieved to see the light of day again.

Wonderful thing number I've-lost-count-(who's-counting) greeted me, upon arrival to the next class meeting. My professor said he'd pulled his rosters from 1987 and found the class I was in. I almost cried!

"You know who else was in your class," he told us all, "Scott Blackwood, who's a very successful writer today, was enrolled in that session. We keep in touch still," he told us. "Really a big name now, he's made a big name for himself."

Well, I'm still fairly young.

These are many wonderful things. I do wish I could take part of my generalized anxious energy about school and transport it back in time and magically kablooie it into 18-year-old Beth, who got a B in Shakespearean plays, but didn't do as well in U.S. History or U.S. Government or anything else that would be considered boring, such as the entire core curriculum. At that point I thought that if you took four years of electives, you ended up with a bachelor's degree at the end; it turns out that there are very few majors for which that's true.

So far this semester I can't sleep on school nights because of nerves. Leaving work at 3 on Mondays and Wednesdays to bike to class, I feel almost physically ill with apprehension. This doesn't help me smell any better when I get there.

It'll settle down after a while. Life is full of wonderful things, possibly as many as three a day. But who's counting?

-----

*That everybody has always known about forever

Complaints, Navigational Aids, and How to be Happy

Things I love about my job, in no particular order:

I do things. You know, things. I mean, I get in at 8-ish and I've got a list, a long one. And I know I'll be lucky if I knock half the things off before I leave at 5-ish or 6-ish. Sometimes I stress about these things and the knock-off-ability of them. The things matter, and if I don't knock them off, who will?

Today I left the office and thought, completely without irony, "Oh shit! I forgot to send all the tweets!"

"All the tweets" are to announce a website redesign. We do a website providing an interactive map of currently reported highway conditions on state highways in the state where I live. It is imperfect, gradually becoming less and less so. It is an unspeakable improvement over what we used to have. I am deeply involved, both culpable and creditable for what is wrong and right with the current site. I have never been so proud of anything in my life, even my children, who are great and all but seriously, for roadway information they are not much good. They seem to have difficulty sometimes finding the way to the kitchen from the bathroom. Kids these days!

I get to read all the complaints filed by the general public against the organization to which I belong. Some are valid. Some are not. Some are so screamingly hilarious that I might need adult diapers (not right now, but I could see this becoming a problem in the next several years).

Some complain about our website, and those are the ones I get to answer. There aren't many. I am not here to solicit more, but I do always get a big kick out of answering emails that say things like "Your website sucks and nothing works and you should all be shot!" Often, these are time-stamped 2:37 A.M. and in one case, a call to the complainant to discuss his problems was met with a complete lack of recollection. ("Wait, I said what?!") We call these "three-scotchers."

Other times, they have pretty informative feedback we've been able to incorporate into later redesigns. Or they may just be blowing off steam and frustration, understandably enough, and respond kindly to a good-natured email with an offer for future help (people can really be pretty awesome, by the way).

I could base a whole blog, if I weren't particular about keeping my job, on the kind of complaints that come in. Did you know that people complain that rumble strips along the edges of highways cause stress fatigue on their hands when they drive atop them for extended distances? Well, they do.

Poor me, I have a fulfilling job I really love and make a decent living at. Can't openly blog about the ridiculous things that sometimes happen there anymore. Is there a tiny violin in the house?

I ought to file a complaint.

Will Wonders Never Cease

About two weeks ago, my state agency received an email through our website inquiring when the best time to see Texas wildflowers is.

Emails from the public are a mixed bag, of course. Human nature being what it is, people don't usually write to a faceless bureaucratic entity unless they're het up about something. A not-insignificant portion of my job involves answering hate mail.

I love it. Not the hate mail itself, but the whole process of coming to understand the other person's point of view; of moving through commingled frustration, annoyance, and compassion; of trying to figure out what can be done either to help the person, or at least to help him or her understand. Forging connections is amazing. The best thing in the world is when you write back to someone who's very angry - with or without good cause - and feel that you've made sense, that you've cleared things up, that the person received at least some sort of satisfaction from your answer. You've made a change in the world, and in someone else, and in yourself - just the littlest tiniest bit, but it's such a good thing.

Usually that's the end of it, but every so often someone writes back to me. Often they thank me. Many times they're surprised to have received a thoughtful response from a faceless, monolithic government entity at which they were, after all, only venting a little spleen. Sometimes they want to continue the discussion further. Obviously I can't answer everything - I mean, I personally sure as heck don't agree 100% with everything my employer does - but on balance, I love the process, and the contact and the interaction with these strangers seeking any acknowledgement whatsoever of their point of view, and get it. It's tremendously rewarding, really.

But this wildflower question just made me completely happy. Of course the inquirer wasn't upset; she wanted to know when the peak of wildflower season is, and where the best part of the state to visit is, and whether we're going to have a good wildflower season this year.

Well, on the last one, who knows. It's looking a heck of a lot better than last year. We had some good rain in the fall, and only one hard freeze so far this winter (till tomorrow and Saturday night, anyway), and it looks like we'll get some nice fields of bluebonnets, come late March to mid-April. Somewhere. You can generally count on east Texas, anyway.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I wrote back to this nice British nature photographer and said that, while it's too early to determine how colorful the show of wildflowers will be this year, there is a fair prospect of a good season; I sent a few links, and had a shipment of Texas travel literature sent off to her, along with last year's wildflower driving tour issue of the travel magazine, whose editor is a friend of mine. She wrote back and thanked me right away.

And today she wrote the friendliest note to say that she'd received all the literature in the mail, thanked me again for being helpful, and promised to send me photographs after her trip.

Do you remember before there was an internet? Can you imagine life without it? I do, and I can't. At this point I'm kind of wishing she'd look me up when she's in town. People are quite lovely, you know. Aren't I lucky to have a job where I get to be friends with so many of them?

Kissing Lessons

I'm really good at kissing. It seems simple enough; but there's a finesse to it, an art that a lot of guys just don't understand. Let your lips just brush your partner's at first; pull back slightly, whisper something sweet, laugh a little, lightly touch her face, her hair. Start off almost hesitantly - savor it. It's delicious. The anticipation of the kiss is the best part.

So what you don't do, I'm saying, is lean over and stick your tongue right down a girl's throat. Why?? do guys do this??? There's no clearer signal you can give that sex will be perfunctory and mechanical, and that the most lasting impression your partner will bring away is that your ceiling could probably stand to be painted.

I don't mean to complain, though. Last night's was my first kiss in nearly a year. It wasn't a particularly good kiss, but at least somebody wanted to kiss me. Plus it was on a boat under a starry sky on Lake Austin, which is kind of a plus. It's a start.

Lucky me, I have so many friends. You can identify them by their soggy shoulders. I've been so unhappy... Yesterday I officially made the decision to get better, although actually this past week was already a lot better than the weeks before it. Last night, Tony took me to a happy hour reunion of school buddies at Hula Hut, where we met the cute guy with the boat. It was a wonderful night for me, but I'm not sure Tony had quite such a good time: the cute guy's friend was fairly drunk and possessed of a full complement of not-entirely-intelligent opinions, upon which he expounded at great length while his friend was cuddled with me in the driver's seat, showing me how to steer. I wouldn't have gone on the boat with them without Tony. I owe him one - or more.

Robbie came down and took me bowling tonight. I probably bowled the best game I ever have, with a score of - sit down, now - over 100!!! 116, to be precise. I'll have to look into it, but I suspect that might be the highest score possible in bowling. Of course, I had to sacrifice a thumbnail. And the rental shoes didn't smell at all the way I would have liked them to.

We went to Zilker Botanical Gardens, practically overflowing with brides and photographers on this lovely sunny day, then an early dinner at Freddie's before bowling. (I like Freddie's a lot, but I don't recommend the chicken-fried steak - I finally had to spit out a wad into my napkin when it wouldn't go down after chewing on it for three minutes.)

Robbie is a better bowler than I am. Granted that being a worse one would be no small feat. One of his pins fell down and forward, into the gutter along the lane; it lay there for several frames. Finally Robbie rolled a gutter ball that hit the pin and actually kicked it up into the standing pins for the most amazing spare I've ever seen. I had to sit down for a little while. I thought about him - a serious bowler. I thought about how much he would laugh at that. I teared up.

We went to Dominican Joe, Robbie bought me a mocha, and we took our coffee to the park by Palmer and watched the water fountains spraying in their ballet of changing colors, as skaters, bicyclists, and lovers gamboled nearby under a huge earthshine-lit moon. What could be more beautiful? I'm still grieving for kisses that were never possible to begin with; why? With all the friends and love and blessings and beauty that surround me?

It does and will get better. Didn't I just say that anticipation was the best part?

Mammal, Mammal

Okay, I am now officially pissed off at all those emails that go around telling you how horrible and painful and nightmarish mammograms are. Do you know, I put my first one off for about four years, just because there were so many horror stories and I dreaded it so much? Did you know that, according to the technician, this is actually quite common and often causes cancer to be detected much later than it could have been? All because somebody had to write up a hilarious email telling you it's like getting your girls slammed in a car door or clinched in a vise.

I won't have my results back for about a week, but from a preliminary glance at the films, the technician didn't think it was at all likely there would be any questions. "Follow-ups are particularly common with first mammograms," she told me before we got started, "so don't be alarmed if you get a call back to come in and get checked out some more. It's just that since this is your first, we don't have anything to compare it to." But after we were done and she looked the pictures over, she didn't think there was anything that looked even remotely questionable.

IT DID NOT HURT, people. It was at worst mildly uncomfortable and a little awkward, standing there, leaning forward in my high heels (you bet your sweet ass I wore heels for my mammogram!) with a breast squished in between a couple of flat surfaces. But it didn't get all that squished - not anything like what I'd heard. There was pressure, no pain. Ever had thrush? Oh my God. Now THAT'S pain. This? Piece of effing CAKE, I'm telling you.

Honestly, I should have known, because - I don't mean to bash my fellow women here - there really is a cultural tradition of acting like the physical travails of being female are simply unbearable. I know that menstruation (barring medical problems) is no big deal; PMS is irritating, but entirely manageable; having a period is messy and may bring a little cramping now and again; pregnancy is generally easy (I highly recommend getting plenty of exercise and a weekly chair massage to keep it this way); childbirth is hard work and hurts, yeah, but not so's you'd let somebody stick a NEEDLE into your SPINAL COLUMN, WTF?! So I really should have known the hoop-la over mammograms is just so much more exaggeration.

It's now over. The other awful thing that was causing me to be in so much pain that I figured what the hell, might as well go get the dreaded mammogram while we're at it, is also over. I refuse to hurt anymore, I'm sick of it. I don't have to and you can't make me.

Mammal power!

The Wedding

That, my friends, was a wedding.

I have had so much fun over the past few days, and only wish it could have been longer; still there was enough sheer enjoyment packed into a roughly 72-hour period to last me a while. Visiting with my father and stepmother (only not enough), enjoying philosophical conversation with my aunt Kalista (only not enough), spending some time with my cousin Gretchen and her adorable little toddler boy and her mom, my aunt Adair (only not enough), hanging out with my very cool cousins Ivan and Irene (the bride) and meeting Irene's husband's wonderful family - only not enough!

Ivan and I marveled over last night's happenings this morning, as we strolled through downtown Chestertown, Maryland sipping coffee from a local coffeehouse. "I've never been to a wedding where the dance floor filled up so quickly before," said Ivan.

"I've never been to a wedding that got busted up by the cops before," I added.

Not that it actually got "busted up." One cop arrived. And what he thought he was doing, I'm not sure - the farm where the wedding was held wasn't in earshot of anyone else, and it was obviously an elegant affair - the tent, the linens and glassware on the tables, the bottles of wine - although it was pretty late, most of the remaining guests were now hanging out by the bonfire, except for two or three who were cartwheeling naked through the moonlit field.

I said it was a wedding.

If he'd been a British copper, he'd have shouldered his way in proper "what's-all-this-then" fashion; but only being a yokel from rural Maryland, he did the best he could: shone a flashlight into the perfectly well-lit tent, said rudely that any noise was too much noise at 1:30 in the morning, and then left. Whatever; the party had moved out into the field by then anyway, there was still plenty of wine, and we all thought it was screamingly hilarious. "Did you see what a stupid hat he had on?" asked Ivan.

The wedding itself was quite amazing. My cousin Irene is beautiful, gracious, funny, and altogether wonderful; and if you want to know what kind of person she is, she is the kind of person who can simultaneously finish her dissertation for her Ph.D. at Yale (last Wednesday!) and plan the kind of wedding that makes you proud to be a member of the human race. She's half-Vietnamese; her husband, from Johannesburg, is half-Zulu and half-Sutu; they live in Brooklyn now, and their friends, the wedding guests, are from everywhere. The union of the two families is like a symbol of world peace, understanding, and common humanity. I wish I had better words to describe it.

But it was unquestionably modern. "I am a gender activist," said one of Tumelo's aunts, giving a toast at the reception, "so we did not sing many of the traditional wedding songs." In the old tradition, the new bride, as the junior female member of her new husband's family, waits on everyone - rises early, sweeps the floor, chops wood to build a fire to make tea for her husband's parents, and in general gets stuck with all the dirty work until someone newer comes along. Tumelo's female relatives happen to find this attitude a little sexist. Everyone applauded.

I have to say, I drank a lot this weekend. When I arrived at the farm Friday night, after a 4+ hour layover in Newark, and an hour and a half drive from BWI, Irene offered me whiskey. Fortunately, she then offered wine instead. Saturday night I accepted some, but couldn't muster the courage to take more than a couple of sips of it; several friends were over, and when one of them broke out the wine, I cheerfully poured my whiskey into poor Ivan's glass and had that instead. Last night, at the wedding, I got drunk. On wine. It was an outdoor wedding, and I think some very small bugs might have gotten into my wine. What the hell, I drank them. Everything was wonderful!

Then, this morning, there was a brunch at a historic hotel in Chestertown, with its ripply old brick sidewalks, stately houses and storefronts, and heavy overhanging trees - so picturesque! And we discovered that it's true, a Bloody Mary really does help with a hangover. Who knew? (Aside from everyone but me, apparently.)

On the other hand, because Irene and Tumelo and their immediate families only eat fresh, organic, wholesome food, I ate better over this past weekend than I ever do, and I feel rather wonderful actually.

I left a little later than I meant to, but made it to the airport and through security just in time to rush aboard my flight and make it safely home, via Houston instead of Newark this time, which is better. Newark has extremely long lines on the taxiway just to take off. I disapprove.

We're doing it all again, because Irene and Tumelo are having a second ceremony in Johannesburg in 2010. Bring your dancing shoes!

Use It or Lose It

Walgreen's sells vibrators, so it doesn't matter if their selection of dog toys is fairly small.

Robbie and I had a proper nooner yesterday - I was forced, due to circumstances beyond my control, to take the day off work, so I picked him up for lunch at 11:15. We dropped his car off to be washed, waxed, and detailed; we ate steak; we did a spot of shopping at the abovementioned purveyor of questionable appliances; we hung out in the outdoor waiting pavilion at the car wash (which reminded me a bit of our dear old three-martini break spot); and eventually he returned to his office about two o'clock.

See? That's what I call a proper nooner. Well, except that his wiener wasn't involved.*

We're coming up on the end of the fiscal year, here. That's why I am now slated to visit four cities before the end of August. It's also why I had to take yesterday off. Do you know, my old cube neighbor Audrey never had this problem? She hated the job so much, and (quite frankly) lacked the capacity for finding joy in the company of cool people there, so she burned vacation and sick time faster than she earned it. It's kind of hard for me to imagine, because I find our employer's vacation leave policy to be particularly generous, although the concept of a limited amount of sick time, that you can actually run out of, is a little odd. Still I've accumulated more of both than I can even imagine being able to use. And I've only been there two and a half years!

Robbie and I had lunch at Montana Mike's. Have you ever played Paper Mario? The trainee waitress shadowing our waiter brings this game immediately to mind; but if you don't know what I'm talking about, never mind - there's not really any explaining it. "You can have a beer if you want to," said Robbie magnanimously, "but I can't."

Oh! the humanity! Not being able to have a drink during your two-and-three-quarter-hour lunch break! My heart bleeds. Somewhere, a very small violin is playing.

But I just had iced tea, because I was already planning to go to Diane's happy hour later, anyway. Diane has a great group of sweet, friendly and funny cohorts she goes out drinking with every Friday, and I always want to go, but I don't get off work until 5. They don't either, but they're all charter members of the KMA** club and take off whenever they damn well please. Friday is a blow-off day. So whatever!

Happy hour was at Donn's Depot. Either the wine is extremely cheap there, or else I owe Diane money. My favorite thing about that bar is the ladies' room, because it's an old caboose - rather plushly furnished, with little closet-like rooms for each commode, rather than stalls. And instead of the usual ladies'-room sofa that never gets used, because who the hell relaxes in the effing bathroom?! - there's the little sitting area you have to climb a ladder to get to, the old lookout seat of the caboose. Don't think I haven't thought about it. There are random women's thoughts scrawled on the pink-and-white-striped wallpaper in the stalls, but they aren't all that profound. I didn't bring a pen.

I have four more off-hours to burn off next week - probably Monday afternoon, I'm thinking - and then, after the travels are over, it's back to normal. Until the next hurricane.

I love my job, almost as much as shopping at Walgreen's! Still, thank God for the occasional nooner.

--------------------------
*This pun will never, ever get old
**Thursday I was tasked with putting together an acronym glossary for the supervisory manual I've been working on. I think that's a relevant entry, don't you?

Paying the Piper (Through the Nose)

"If my love for you were nickels and dimes," a guy I dated in college once told me, "you would be able to buy a mound of cocaine the size of Greenland."

To this day, it's possibly the best thing a guy has ever said to me, and its impact is in no way lessened by the fact that a month or two later he dumped me for another girl in our co-op. Still living with an ex is fairly unpleasant. Living with an ex and his new squeeze is highly contraindicated.

Geographically speaking, Greenland is really not all that big.

Last week, coming out of a two-and-a-half hour staff meeting, I realized that I absolutely love my new job. Obviously I've been aware that it was better than the one I came from, which still blows the socks off Corpus marketing hell, I'll tell you what. But it wasn't until this staff meeting, which ran over its allotted time solely because all of us were having so much fun talking and laughing and working, too, genuinely exchanging ideas and being productive - that I came to realize I'm simply in love. How did I get so lucky?

The number of times, by the way, that the subject of how to request time off, and the fact that everyone persists in doing it exactly wrong, has come up in staff meetings during the five months that I've been there, is zero. Nor is there guilt, blame, or finger-pointing; and I don't think the panicmonger (God rest her, um, work ethic) ever held a single meeting that didn't loose every single one of those particular workplace demons.

Not that I'm merely basking in an absence of negativity, because I actually quite like and respect my bosses, the feeling appears to be mutual, and my coworkers are hardworking and competent, every single one of them. And most of the work is interesting and downright fun! It cuts down on blog fodder a bit, which is a pity. But I can hardly complain.

So the unpleasant task, the fly in this ointment, is Tropical Storm Dolly, gaining intensity as she spins west-northwestward across the Gulf of Mexico. She's only projected to be a Category 1 hurricane, possibly Cat 2. But she's only the first of who knows how many there will be this year; and the problem with landing this plum of a job just now is that over the next few years, I expect hurricane season will expand until it encompasses approximately February - December, and soon I will be doing nothing except answering the phone to the stranded, angry and frightened traveling public. And do you think they're going to be interested in where the wildflowers are? I'm betting they won't give a rat's ass.

I suppose if things get bad enough I can always move to Greenland.

The Enchanted Trail

It was yet another perfect day in the most perfect city on Earth, in this best of all possible worlds!

Well, let's not get carried away. And if you're a Californian who's considering making the move, I should clarify that "the most perfect city on Earth" is used, here, in an ironic sense. This town is a shithole. For real! Now go read TMZ.

Cheryl's Bitch and I met up on the hike-and-bike trail for a nice leisurely stroll in the sunshine. The weather couldn't have been more perfect (though I hear it's much nicer in California), and everybody and their dog were out enjoying the day.

I'm a cat person, of course. Cheryl's Bitch is more into turtles. But the hike-and-bike trail has taught me to be fond of dogs: they're so infectiously happy, running, playing, swimming, fetching, and sniffing the living bejeesus out of each other's butts. You can't help but smile to see them. At the water station under the MoPac bridge, a few of them came up to be petted, exuding eau de wet canine, panting eagerly, and slobbering in my lap.

Makes me feel a bit better about not having a boyfriend.

Austin's turtles come out in droves to enjoy the sunshine, too, piling up like flapjacks on the rocks and logs lining the shore, turning their heads lazily this way and that to observe the passerby. Cheryl's Bitch got so excited I thought he might dive into the water in pursuit, and I have to admit they are a lot cuter than I ever really noticed before. One caught my eye, his neck craned back to look at me, one leg stretched out behind him in the sun, toes extended, beaming blissfully.

I was overcome. "Ooh," I cooed, "isn't him a pretty boy! Yes him is! Yes him is!"

This felt surprisingly natural.

Along the portion of the trail running parallel to Cesar Chavez we could see the tents and booths set up for the Art City Austin festival. And on the bridge over Shoal Creek, the most amazing band was playing: something folksy, with an Eastern European feel to it (I thought), but I wouldn't be able to guess what it was, aside from beautiful.

Who were they, anybody know? They had their backs to me, so I couldn't make out any words, and can't find reference to them online. Were they Greek maybe? The music was incredible. I settled myself on the bank to hear them finish their set, while Cheryl's Bitch roamed to and fro, ogling turtles. A black swan with a vivid scarlet beak and orange-red eyes glided up, easily within arm's reach, peeping hopefully; I wasn't sure if she were quacking at me, or just had the hiccups. She clearly thought I might have something nice for her to eat. Alas for lack of foresight! You should never leave home without your pockets full of bread crumbs. Waterfowl always enjoy a snack, you know; and besides, you never know when you'll find yourself lost in an enchanted forest.

If the band's set hadn't ended, I'd be sitting there still. What could be more perfect? Aside of course from California. If only I were in California. This place blows.

Orientation

When you start a new job, learning how to do the actual job is the least of your worries. You also have to know where the bathroom is, how long a break you can take, where to grab a quick lunch, what to do if the fire alarm goes off (especially if the safety vest and clipboard hanging on the wall in your cubicle give a strong indication that you are the new emergency coordinator), and a myriad other secondary, yet vitally important details.

Also, you have to make friends.

I like my next-door cube neighbor a lot. She's got a pretty cool sense of humor, but she's also not somebody you want to tangle with; as you know, one of the downfalls of standard cubicle life is that I'm intimately privy to most of her phone conversations. Which are necessary, work-related, and no louder than they need to be - don't get me wrong - but I can't escape hearing them.

She'd hear me, too, when I record certain information for our agency's 1-800 number. I go into a conference room to do it. I'm shy.

Today she needed to set up a Google account for some purpose, but was very leery about doing so. The new division is almost infinitely less idiotic about internet use than my old one. It's still idiotic, which is a fine illustration of a point you may have already gotten. She called over a woman from our IT department to ask if it was okay.

"Oh, do whatever you need to do," says the IT chick. "They can ask me if they have questions, but it's fine. Just don't start emailing all your boyfriends from your gmail account!" She walked off.

I couldn't let it go. "You can use GroupWise for that," I said, but it turned out that the IT woman wasn't out of earshot, and she came back, laughing. "But that would mean your boyfriends would have to be in this agency!" she exclaimed. "Eeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!"

I like her, too.

So I'm learning to fit in; I'm making friends and finding my niche. Someone came and played with the magnetic letters today. With any luck, "XMAS RABIES SAXOPHONE" is just the beginning. The homesickness is fading fast.

I can't figure out where I'm supposed to wash out my coffee cup, though.

Didn't You Learn Anything from "A Bug's Life?"

You'd think, wouldn't you, that you'd be able to experience a perfect Austin afternoon without importing someone from Georgetown?

Well, you'd be wrong.

Robbie was kind enough to make the long, arduous journey south today, to drag me out of the house and rescue me from a sad and self-absorbed funk (PMS for short). We went to Dominican Joe for coffee.

Ah, Dominican Joe. Do you know, the place gets quite crowded on a bright sunny Sunday afternoon, and fills up with the sort of people who saunter lazily up and down South Congress - until so recently the undisputed dominion of drug addicts and $10 whores - the trendy, the happy, who wear sundresses and cowboy boots, and spend more money on a pair of artistically pre-tattered jeans than I did on my first car.

Robbie ordered a smoothie and I a frozen mocha frojoe, with whipped cream (why do anything by half?). We sat in the shade on the patio and talked about urban planning and deviant sex practices. But there wasn't a table available, and it did just cross my mind to suggest moving across the street to our work campus and our old break spot, two picnic tables under a pavilion. I was afraid that might be dorky.

"Hey, do you want to go to the break spot?" asked Robbie, who is one of my best friends ever for a reason.

So we did; we sat at the Official Three-Martini Break Spot for a good 45 minutes, sipping sublimely unhealthful nonalcoholic beverages, enjoying the magnificent weather and the inappropriate behavior of grackles in the spring sunshine. One of the tables sports a heavy chain and large padlock, but not the other - a fact I had never noticed, but Robbie said he'd always found curious. "What's this table chained to, anyway?" he asked.

Long story short, if you go to the corner of Congress and Riverside looking for a picnic table, you can pick up a free chain and padlock as well.

From there we moved to the new park complex across Riverside from Auditorium Shores, next to the Palmer Events Centeer and the newly-opened Long Center, where they built that spiral-pathed hill overlooking the skyline. Robbie and I have been there once before, under slightly sketchy circumstances. The whole area was under construction, and presumably meant to be shut off to the public. But we were on our lunch hour, and so apparently were the gaggle of construction workers bivouaced nearby; and the gate to the construction zone was slightly ajar. "There's not a sign saying we can't go in," Robbie had pointed out, reasonably enough. The workers, being off the clock, were hardly going to confront intruders on their own time. We had the run of the place.

Today it was different. The hill is seeded with grass and the occasional bluebonnet, and ringed with benches. Two ponds, one near the hill, and one in front of the Palmer Events Center, are well-stocked with laconic turtles, who sploop right into the water when people approach them with high-pitched voices (what's with this urge to use baby talk on reptiles?!), but have a hilarious amount of difficulty climbing back out again once the danger has passed. Fortunately turtles don't mind being laughed at. Or maybe they do, I don't know. What are they going to do - chase me down?

The view of the skyline from atop the man-made hill is fairly spectacular, though it'll be nicer once all the cranes are gone. And Tony will agree it's a great pity that all these beautiful downtown condos are destined to be filled with Californians, especially inasmuch as they have no idea how to drive. People! When you cut in front of someone, you wave! That's how you know you're in Texas, dammit.

And from the park, we meandered our way to El Arroyo to enjoy a frozen margarita in the midst of yet another construction zone. There's not much getting away from that.

It was Austin. It was perfect. And an outraged young mother demanded of her toddler, in angry tones, the timeless line I've used as the subject of this post, just as we were passing. What more could anyone ask for?

BFFs

My totally awesome friend Vicki called me today. I haven't seen her since before moving to Corpus in early 2004, and though we've been in sporadic touch, we haven't really kept up with each other over the past few years.

When I met Vicki, I was 22 and she was 39. She doesn't have kids, but has a particular warmth to her that I always found maternal. She's extremely smart, tremendously funny, good-humored, perceptive, and very, very kind. She was a mentor to me, as well as a great friend. She was a temp working in the document storage room at Sematech, and I was brought in on a six-week temp assignment to help out.

The weeks grew to months. Vicki got hired on as a permanent employee, and (after almost two years!) I did too. We had the big storage room all to ourselves, with only the most infrequent visits from management. Well, we knew our job well; it wasn't rocket science, but anyway Vicki has a very strong work ethic. We worked really well as a team, so everything got done. We always had KUT playing on the radio in our work room. It was a fun place to be; other people at the company often came to hang out and visit, including such folks as Debby, the sister of someone I would eventually marry; and Mary, the wife of Robert, who would someday be my lead worker (and who has come to be a good friend in his own right) at the organization where I work now.

Eric was 17 months old when I began working there and got to know Vicki, so she was a little thunderstruck today to hear that he's about to turn 18 (years). I got pregnant with Katie just after starting that job.

She reminded me today of Salvador. How could I forget Salvador?! Working among boxes and boxes of technical documents, and occasionally doing bulk mailouts, we sometimes had to transport multiple boxes to the mailroom. We had a dolly for the purpose. Well - what else would we name a dolly? He was called Salvador, of course. The sweet thing is, apparently he, complete with his nametag, is still in use.

We also had a publicity photo of the dearly-missed CEO, Bill Spencer, which I had cut out and placed on a brightly colored background. I had various different costumes and props for him for different times of year - like a paper doll, you know. He had a Santa hat, an Uncle Sam costume, a pot of gold, etc. For Easter I had a big decorated egg with holes cut out for his eyes. I had totally forgotten about that.

I worked in that area for a while after Vicki had moved on to another department. Requesting a document, she once made fun of a former coworker who had asked for a technical document, volunteered to come pick it up, then heard where in the building we were and asked to have it delivered instead. Vicki came to the room to pick up her document, threw herself onto the floor, and clawed her way along the carpet with her fingernails. "So far!" she gasped, "so very, very far!"

One of the marks of a true friend is that, even after not talking to them for years, you find that the flow and spark of conversation is just as free and spontaneous and fun as it was when you hung out together every day. It was like that with Vicki today: checking up, laughing, on one another's latest developments; me asking after her work and her husband (he's such a cool guy!); her asking after Daddy and Joyce; kids, friends, work, life. And we will get together very soon.

Happy Easter; here's to the dear and wonderful friends who bless us and make our lives so well worth living!

Overly Emotional

I don't really know how to write about yesterday (my last day at the old job). I guess I'll just write anyway. Why I have this feeling that everything I publish on here has to be a masterpiece anyway, I am not sure, because who am I kidding? Besides, nobody reads it but friends, family, a snopester here and there, and the occasional buttlicker - in other words, a very forgiving audience, and people who will take what they can get.

My immediate work group took me out to a wonderful going-away lunch at Magnolia Cafe - all my coworkers except the panicmonger supervisor, who can't function in the same building as meat (this would explain a few things), plus my boss' boss, plus Cheryl's Bitch with Pinche and Don Juan from his work group. It was so nice, and so kind and flattering to be thought so well of. My boss' boss has something of a reputation for turning a cold shoulder to people who leave her group, so I was really happy that she came to my lunch.

But there was sad news, too. Robbie could not make it to my going-away happy hour, which he had organized for me; but family friends whom he hadn't seen in years came unexpectedly to town. And, displaying appallingly poor timing, here in this universe which revolves entirely around me (or so I would appear to believe), the grandfather of another beloved 3MBG alum died late night before last, leaving his grandson too bereaved and exhausted to party. Do ya think?!? I was terribly disappointed, and ashamed of myself for being so.

It made me cry to leave behind such kind friends. I even hugged the panicmonger. Bubbly Bitching Nonsmoker, who sits in the cube opposite, hastened to inform me that I would not be doing this to her - so I'm sorry, Robbie; I did not get to "boop" her on the nose like I know you were wanting me to.

Still, she was awfully nice to me, wishing me lots of luck and congratulating me sincerely. "Break a leg, kid!" she called in parting.

Happy hour was great fun. Any snopesters reading? Well, Kev came out for it! He's in a similar situation, having just received an internal upwards transfer where he works. So I'll be at his happy hour next Friday! Other 3MBG alums were there, plus lots of other good friends. Unfortunately I sort of forgot to eat - in evolutionary terms, perhaps one of the stupidest things you can do, especially when drinking heavily. By midnight, even the graffiti in the restroom at the Horseshoe Lounge was not enough to perk me up, the party said goodnight in front of the bar, and I got dropped off at home.

So there were a lot of tears yesterday. Sad ones, bittersweet ones, and happy, happy, happy ones, because someone I love wrote poetry for me. I don't think anything will top that for a very, very, very long time - even though the feeling does not appear to be mutual (sigh).

It's okay. I don't really mind. I'll take what I can get.

Egg Salad: Ambrosia of the Gods

Are you an egg salad fan? Well, if not, you should be. Here's some information to get you going.

Egg salad is the only sandwich filling that may legitimately be served on white bread, for the existence of which there is no other excuse. But only if the sandwich is cut diagonally and held together with frilly toothpicks.

The best way to cut up eggs for egg salad is using a pastry cutter. You can also use two table knives, but a pastry cutter chops them up much more finely and evenly, much more quickly. You don't want big chunks of white in your egg salad. Yuck!

You can make egg salad with chopped celery, mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and paprika, but only if you're a frou-frou bitch. And you don't get to eat that on white bread. Real egg salad is made with mayonnaise, yellow mustard, sweet relish (NOT dill), and a little salt and pepper.

When making egg salad, you should allow about one egg per sandwich. Proper hardboiling technique is to put the eggs in a pan of cold water, bring it to a boil, then turn off the heat, cover, and allow to sit for ten minutes. If you plunge the eggs into ice water as soon as they're done, the shells will peel off a lot more easily.

Yes, making egg salad causes your whole house to smell like a big fart. But that's because things that give great happiness are obtained only at great cost.

The weather out is beautiful. Open a window.

The Thrill of the Chase

Isn't job hunting fun? As long as you don't have to, of course.

Wending my way along the hike-and-bike trail at lunch today, I remembered how I felt when I first walked there at midday, not quite two years ago, and how everything was new and full of promise and I wasn't worried or upset or unhappy about anything, just dizzy with elation to be out of Corpus and that miserable job. And next thing I knew, without any effort, my life was suddenly full of friends and fun, so it didn't matter that the job itself was fairly dull.

Same trail, same beautiful weather. But it's autumn now, not spring; and all my friends have moved on. I sat in Billy's spot by the water, next to the bat bridge, and watched a very tiny spider carefully negotiating the hairs on my arm for half an hour or so. I was thinking about the things that change on their own with time, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse, as opposed to the matters you take into your own hands and change for yourself.

So I updated my resume today. And I applied for a job! Outside the agency! Granted, it was a listing from Monster.com, so I'll probably get bait-and-switched into interviewing for a position as an entry-level porn viewing booth attendant. Well, I've had worse jobs. I'm not looking in Corpus, anyway.

Maybe next week I'll start looking in the real job postings!

Happiness

Cats could teach us a few things about how to be human.

I'm sitting on my front porch, Bingo and Slappy White next to me. Bingo's been sound asleep for a while: his eyes are closed tight shut, his head resting uncomfortably on a coil of the garden hose. Cats don't fret over details.

Slappy White is licking his nether regions.

They are perfectly content with life and all it has to offer. The sun is shining after days and days of rain. It's very warm, but not too uncomfortably so. There's enough to eat and nothing to worry about. Why shouldn't they be blissfully happy?

Of course, they're neutered.

Life seems a lot harder to me, most days, though I'm grateful for moments like this, when mosquitoes are the worst calamity fate could hand me. All of us have to discover our bliss one way or another. It just takes humans a really long time.

This song seems perfect right now, and I dedicate it to the priceless friends who are there for me in times of trouble - and in times of not-trouble, too. I love you.

Sunny Day

Robbie is working on a presentation for a conference we're holding in July. He was working on just one half of it, and my former cube neighbor A was working on the other half. But she quit suddenly a few weeks ago; and it turns out that she hadn't really done anything on her half anyway. So he now has to do the whole thing, and he's working like a trooper and doing an amazing job, and I'm not just saying that because he might read this and I owe him lunch.

Rather oddly, our supervisor appears to be blaming him for not being finished so close to the deadline (though his half, before A. quit, was finished ahead of schedule). She's also putting a lot of extra pressure on him and snapped at him recently for a single brief lapse in organization, which only occurred when the whole burden was initially dumped on him.

Competence will come back to bite you in the ass every time.

The second half of the presentation requires a full complement of illustrative photographs, and because we're under such a tight deadline, another coworker and I went out into the field to take them today. The weather conditions were, perhaps, not completely ideal for photography. It's been either heavily overcast or pouring. I found myself photographing asphalt under a dark and lowering sky much of the day. It's very much like watching grass grow, but still beats sitting around in the office.

What's funny is that the first half of the presentation, being done in plenty of time, has photographs taken under ideal weather conditions. All the pictures are clear and bright, sunny and cheerful. The second half of the presentation is going to look as if it was put together by Tolstoy.

Anguished Russian authors had vodka to assuage their Weltschmerz, or whatever the Russian equivalent is. I, on the other hand, have kind friends who find for me the things that I couldn't. I come out way ahead, especially seeing as how I wasn't all that anguished to begin with.



Thanks for once again making my day.

Stuff To Do On April Fools' Day

- Avoid all contact with anyone mischievous. I'll see you tomorrow, when it's safer.

- Send a birthday e-card to my cousin Irene!

- Finally get around to ordering a Flying Spaghetti Monster emblem for my car, thereby completing its utter coolness.

- Don't go to Spamarama. I'm totally going to Eeyore's Birthday Party this year, though.

- Wonder if it was a good idea to mulch the poison ivy plants in with the grass while mowing.

- Congratulate self for finally managing to purchase and install the correct pedals on my son's bike, after only two weeks of not having the use of my own, one trip to Bicycle Sport Shop and two trips to Wal-Mart.

- Enjoy a renewed sense of what an excellent bowler I'm not. (The ultimate question: What is an unusually high bowling score for Beth?)

- Sit outside in the sun, under a canopy of spring green leaves and an impossibly blue sky, and feel as happy as a fool.

Friends, Texans, Coworkers...

I sent this to 3-martini-break alumnus Justin and he promptly posted it on his blog, so I guess I might as well too, especially if it's just going to be sharing cyberspace with neck testicles anyway.

These are my peeps, as conceived by ClipArtist Extraordinaire Robbie (next to the Indy car). See how lucky I am to have such fun friends? They're actually a lot better-looking in real life, but you know, clip art.