It's Kinda Like a Snow Day

So I went to work last Monday as usual. It was just a regular Monday. I actually got a lot done and left on time. Since it was such a productive day, I brought home only a few things and locked up the remainder of my work – which is odd for me. I also left my favorite coffee cup and my iPod cord on my desk. (Aside: my iPod will be four years old this Christmas. I still love it, but wow does it look like a brick.)

On Tuesday I got up a usual, beat Dave into the bathroom, and was thinking I might actually get to work early. Just at that moment when it would no longer be possible for me to quickly leave the bathroom to answer the phone, the phone rang. It was 6:00 am on the button.

While it was not the middle of the night, a 6:00 am call still has that "who died?" kind of ring to it.

Dave nor I made it to the phone in time. The machine picked up and revealed the voice of my boss. My boss? Why would my boss call me at 6:00 am?

"Kate," he said, "there's been a fire at the library."

I stretched out my arm to open the door to better hear the message. Dave made it into the hallway and picked up the phone.

There was a small fire in the basement of the library where I work. It was late in the evening, no one was hurt. The fire was in the machine room, no books were burnt. However, the damage from fire, soot, and smoke necessitated closing the library for the day in order to investigate the fire, determine the damage to and safety of the building, etc. My boss seemed to think the building would also be closed on Wednesday. Sweet. Two snow days.

I didn't think much of it until I had to prepare to teach on Wednesday morning. Right. Monday was productive so I left things at work. Luckily, I back up everything on my work computer daily onto my trusty jump drive. So, while I don't have my binder or my textbooks, I do have the copies of the latest non-textbook readings and everything on the jump.

On Wednesday, I updated my clueless students and gave them the news I had – the library would be closed until next Monday at least. Therefore, my office hours were canceled, my phone is out of commission, we would have to communicate via email and set up meetings at another location.

My boss had told me that we could go over to the public safety office in order to be let into the office to grab any essentials. I went over to public safety – no dice. Turns out there is a lot more smoke damage to the building than they had realized. Turns out the whole place stinks. A lot. Oh, and there might be high levels of PCB or other scary toxins in the building. It's going to take a while to clean the whole building and we probably won't be back in our office until January.

I won't bore you with all the particulars, but now that I've had time to think about it, it really kind of sucks that I can't get back to my desk. Our office is getting settled into temporary digs in another building on campus. I think we actually have two phone lines now. I've already made a list of things that must happen before the end of the semester but that are now a bit screwed because I can't get into our office.

These last few weeks of the semester are going to be interesting.

And hey! It snowed last night, so now calling them snow days is a little easier to do.

One last comment -- the library administrative types have done a spectacular job maintaining communication with the campus community and providing library services to students and faculty at this crucial point in the semester.

Turn Turn Turn

Nature is balance. Everything has a season. Everything in it's time.

I am all about balance now.

I don't mean a balancing act – Lord knows I'm not very good at juggling it all, and the scars on my skull betray my lack of equilibrium.

What I mean is the balance of life – the beginnings and endings, the up and down, the hot and cold, darkness and light, joy and pain. You get the picture. I am all about balance.

I hate the "when God closes a door He opens a window" crap. That's crap. It's a lame attempt to make you feel better about the fact that God slammed the door in your face and the only thing you could think to do was crawl out the back window that is conveniently left open so that you won't have to have "the talk" with Him about how much He loves you, how He has plans for you…Why do people say that shit to you when you're feeling bad about something?

It's all crap. The fact that God won't let me walk through the door I've chosen and that He would rather that I crawl out a window and risk breaking my head doesn't make me feel any better.

I decided last week that it isn't doors and windows. It's a path – a long, winding path like a labyrinth or maze.

Sometimes the particular road you choose ends up a dead end – you don't end up where you wanted to be, but you learn something along the way and then you must go back to where you made the last choice. Or maybe it's that you learn something on the way back and that's why the maze analogy works. It's got to be something like that.

It's all forks and choices, rough path, smooth path, up hill, down hill, narrow path, wide path – you see? More balance.

I tend to get upset when things don't go according to my plan --- I guess we all do. (Let me believe we all do. I can be something of a control freak.) I'm not very good at believing that God has a plan for me that may not match my own plan or may not coincide with my timeline.

I'm not sure what is at the center of the labyrinth, the middle of the maze, but I am determined to stay on that path, to continue to make choices, and to lay my hands on the prize that is my goal.

A Better Blogger Than I

So, I'm trying to get back on the wagon. I'm trying to post to this blog more often, I'm trying to get my manuscript going again. My dear husband is a better blogger than I -- it's not just what he writes, or how often he posts. Rather, it is his blogging ethic, his regularity that I envy. And what he writes about and how often he posts.

The point is this -- my Dearest One suggested that I just get back on (with a little boost, of course) and just write. In fact, I was telling him about one of his posts and he said, "You should blog that!"

So here goes --

David blogged recently about chain stores, typical mall stores, in airports. Our recent trip to Philly proved inspiration enough on the blogging front. The Gap at an airport...hmmmm. Clothing stores are one thing...

So I was telling him about a short wait I had at SFO while I was coming down with a cold. I wandered down the concourse until I came across one of those tiny magazine stands that also offers small snacks, bottled water, and breath mints. I was hoping to find some hard candy, some throat lozenges, anything to calm my throat. I found a small pack of kleenex, a couple of bad magazines I would never buy in the city I live in, and hard candy infused with vitamin C -- bonus!

And then I saw it. Beside the hard candy infused with vitamin C, the expensive mini-envelopes of pain killers, kleenex, hand lotion, and band aids was a home pregnancy test.

What the?

Who buys a home pregnancy test at the airport? Who decides while waiting at the airport that they should do a home pregnancy test? Do people realize that if you're waiting for the flight home after a wild and crazy weekend and you think, "oh, crap, I wonder if I'm pregnant" that the home pregnancy does you no good for two whole weeks after your fun?

Odd.

What company planning the 20 square feet of merchandise space decides, "We don't have enough room forTime and Readers' Digest, or more than two kinds of Tic Tacs, but, hey, what about some pregnancy tests?"

What Can I Say?

I have become overwhelmed by life -- I am way to involved at church, I am teaching again (finally!), work is busy busy. My plans for the summer went the way of this blog -- I had great intentions and was sure I had tons of time, but, alas, I was wrong.

I have missed the third annivesary of this blog --- sometime back in August, not something I deserved to celebrate since I have been doing so much neglecting.

I have celebrated another birthday and am witnessing another season change.

It's time to get back on track and maybe even a little ahead.

I'm not dead, I just got a little overwhelmed there for a bit.

Sunday Night Baseball

I love Sunday night baseball. I love watching a good game -- for the love of baseball and to distract myself from the impending doom of returning to work. Sunday night baseball is particularly good when my team is playing. It is even better when my team is playing the Cubs. At home.

I'm enjoying it right now -- in chilly chilly air conditioning with a view of the sizzling city (it's 9:00 pm and the air temperature is 96, the heat index is 101).

However, I have to say this -- I hate J*e freaking M*rgan. He's slowly killing me. I can't listen any more. My brain cells are being strangled. You would think that a major sports network airing national tv primetime games would hire announcers that could announce the game while explaining the game to viewers who might not be baseball enthusiasts.

Instead, they are treated with baseball wisdom from a former player such as "A curve ball that doesn't break is harder to hit than a fast ball that doesn't break."

I kid you not. I did not make that up. I can't even laugh at it. It's not stupid in a Yogi Berra sort of way. It's just plain sad.

I Am Somebody

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No, It's Not a Cow

I made reference in my post about the duck to needing evidence to back me up when I say I saw a duck. And this reminded me of an incident that occurred when I was a hard-working teenager with a summer job at Six Flags over Mid-America. Unfortunately for me, I have no evidence that what I saw was actually real.

I was sixteen. I had gotten a job at Six Flags outside of St. Louis. To this day, I do not understand why my parents let me do that. I did not have use of a car, and Six Flags is easily a 25-minute drive from where we lived.

But I'm off track here -- I was sixteen and working my first real summer job. Like many teenagers working at amusement parks, I had dreams of working on one of the big rides. Mind you, I didn't like to ride the rides, but I thought operating one and telling people to "please keep your hands inside the car" would be a blast.

I got a job with food service. Yeah. Instead of corralling people through a maze of hot metal railings as they baked in the sun waiting to enjoy fifty-two seconds of torture, I was heating up baked beans in vats you could cook people in and deep-frying chicken in the back of amusement park restaurants only to then haul them down to the "catering area" where the park served the employees of corporations who put out the big bucks to entertain employees and their families with boiled hot dogs and full pans of yellow potato salad.

Working catering was interesting. I definitely have to list it as life experience -- both the job and the people I met. I met my good friend Kevin there. As he pointed out last week on the phone (after a return trip to Six Flags with his girlfriend Kay after many many years of absence), it's strange that the two of us who have such similar backgrounds, and grew up in the same suburb, and went to similar schools, would have to meet at an amusement park 30 minutes outside of St. Louis that employed thousands of teenagers -- and that we met working the catering gig with two other "permanent" catering employees and a manager just a few years our senior.

Kevin and I became fast friends after I taught him that when foiling the side of a chafing dish to protect the sterno flames from the wind, one should not foil all four sides of a chafing dish thus suffocating the sternos. He gave me a ride home that first day -- thus freeing my father from many hours in the car dropping me off at and picking me up from work.

Catering could be really challenging. We had no real facilities at the catering area -- a shed with some running water. We had to cook all the food at restaurants throughout the park and then transport the food to the catering area in "caves" and then move the full pans of steaming food to the buffet tables that we had also set up. Everything had to be washed off site as well. That summer I earned "catering hands" allowing me to pick up said full pans of steaming food with my bare hands and power-walk the 20 feet to a chafing dish with no spillage. The thick skin and calluses from developing catering hands helped to minimize the dish-pan hands I should have had from the many hours of dishes I did that summer. I also learned to expertly tear duct tape with my hands.

Due to the nature of catering gigs, we didn't work regular schedules that summer. Rather, we worked a few hours before a meal, through a meal, and then for several hours after the meal to clean up. Sometimes we worked both a lunch and a dinner in one day serving hundreds of people. A few times we actually catered a breakfast -- I know, gross -- which meant even longer days.

We were earning minimum wage -- or something just over it if we had earned bronze, silver, or gold medal stickers that granted us 5- or 10-cent raises. We were paid overtime, however. To be honest, I don't remember how much money it really was, but I felt like it was a lot. I even got a card at the local grocery store so I could cash my mega paychecks.

We worked very hard and we worked a lot. Depending on how catering gigs were scheduled, we could be working pretty insane weeks. Being a teenager, I also tried to squeeze in a social life. So, I was operating on very little sleep a lot of the time.

Yes, this is all leading up to something.

When he was able to drive, Kevin and I would go to work together. We'd go down to our respective locker rooms and change into our bright red and blue catering uniforms and then meet to walk through security together.

The security booth for employees to enter the park was near a warehouse that held food service inventory (and behind one of the popular water rides -- one of the few kinds of rides I would ever attempt). The men and young men -- yes all of them were male -- who worked at the food warehouse were an odd bunch (again, for another post). I had had just a few encounters with them previous to the particular day that I am slowly but surely leading up to.

This particular day was toward the end of the summer. I remember that because Six Flags used to have "Harvest Days" or some other autumn theme as the summer wound to a close. So Kevin and I were both exhausted having worked way too many hours. It was super St. Louis hot. We were walking through security. When I held up my id to show the security guard who couldn't care less, I spotted the young guys from the food warehouse. They were in front of the warehouse with the huge firefighter-like hoses that are used to wash down the park pavement after the park closes each night.

They were using the big hoses to wash off a cow. A real cow. A perfect cow with black and white spots on it. A cow that could be a cover model for milk cartons or butter packaging. The guys were laughing and enjoying themselves. The cow seemed happy to be getting cool in the summer heat.

I thought it was strange, but I did not say anything about it. Kevin didn't mention it either. We both walked into the park in silence and trudged our way over to the catering area.

Later that day when we took our lunch break, I thought I'd mention the cow. I know the park decorated for Harvest Days, but getting real cows was pretty impressive. So I mentioned the cow to Kevin. Kevin said,

"What are you talking about?"

"The cow the guys at the warehouse were hosing down this morning."

"Katie, what are you talking about? There was no cow."

"Quit messing with me, Kevin. I'm talking about the black and white cow that the warehouse guys were washing."

"There was no cow. Why would there be a real cow? The warehouse guys weren't even out this morning."

The more we debated it, the more I realized that there was no freaking way I saw a real cow being hosed down by the food warehouse goofs at Six Flags. I remember it so clearly. I have still have a vivid image in my memory of walking past that damned cow! As this was in the days before cell phones with cameras (hell, cell phones at all), I have no evidence of this cow's existence.

I am sad to admit that my one and only real-life hallucination occurred when the only thing I was under the influence of was lack of sleep and the hot hot sun.

And so, when I saw a duck in our neighborhood on two consecutive days recently, I took a picture for proof.

Going to the Bank

Since I started working again, I've had to go to the bank a lot.

Not that I'm complaining.

I have been planning to set up my paychecks to be direct-deposited. I am waiting for David and me to pick a new bank before I do this. I know that as soon as I go through the paperwork to set up direct deposit at school, David and I will figure out how we want to set up our accounts to handle our new dual-income household and decide to change banks.

So I go to the bank at least twice a month.

The other day I went to the bank at around lunchtime. Apparently I have avoided going to the bank at lunchtime before now. I had always wondered why they had the velvet rope thingys at the bank I go to. I have never waited in line with more than two other people. This time, there were no fewer than 12 people in line.

So I waited. I was stuck behind a middle-aged woman who looked nervous and like she wanted to make a break for it, and an elderly woman in an automated wheelchair behind me who moved her chair in spurts and managed to clip my ankle every single time.

This is not an entry to complain about being stuck between two women in line at the bank. Rather, I have another issue to complain about -- what in the world are people doing at the bank?

I know my issue -- I can't get around to joining the rest of the modern world and get my paychecks direct deposited (and I don't like the idea of sticking my paycheck in an ATM, thank you).

But what are these other people doing there? And why do they have passbooks?

I was surprised at how long most of the interactions took. One woman was trying to understand why the bank teller wouldn't deposit her checks. The teller was attempting to calmly explain that what the woman had were check stubs and not actual checks. Another woman made a cash withdrawal and then asked to deposit this cash in her other account -- but the problem was she had only one account at this bank.

Remember when banks started charging fees for using tellers? Remember how upset people got? I thought it was about banks thinking about the automation of most bank transactions via ATMs and online and the such and determining since they can charge at the ATM, they'll charge at the bank too.

However, I see now that banks want to charge fees for using their tellers because the only customers the tellers deal with face-to-face now are old ladies trying to deposit check stubs.

Oh, and me.

Yes, It's A Duck

So a storm blew in yesterday afternoon. It was one of those quick storms that surprises you with its arrival, and then blows away shortly after you have closed all the windows.

It was a beautiful storm. I got everything about closed up, and the rain came down in sheets. The rain was preceded by tremendous wind. Really, really big wind. It blew around the rugs on the porch (which takes a lot), ripped branches from trees (and deposited them on the porch), it was super dark, and the temperature plummeted.

It appears the storm also brought the neighborhood a new member -- the picture above was taken from our porch. Yes, it's a duck. I noticed the duck yesterday afternoon after the storm had cleared and people began to return to the Maifest going on down the street. I heard a family talk about a duck in a puddle. I thought I would check it out -- what could this family be mistaking for a duck? There is no water around here. Sure, we live in the city by the lake, but the lake is a short drive away.

I was somewhat confident that the family wasn't looking at a duck due to the distance to the lake and a similar experience with a father and daughter hanging out at Lincoln Square a few years ago -- the little girl looked to be about four and was decked out in dress-up clothes, a boa, and plastic pink high heels. Dad looked exhausted and had given up chasing her around. She squealed with delight and ran in circles swatting at all of the pigeons screaming, "Daddy, Daddy, look! Look at the chickens!"

Dave calls that a "spend the college fund" moment.

So -- the duck. It's a duck! I watched the family watch the duck in amazement while it casually bathed itself in a big puddle. Then this afternoon (after coming back from the Maifest), I went out on the porch to water the flowers in my flowerboxes, and there was the duck!

I thought I would take a picture just to make sure no one uses this one against me....right, a duck, sure.

For those who are curious to know, the can in the lower left corner is indeed a Milwaukee's Best Light can.

Shopping

So I've admitted here before that I am not a shoe person, that I am not a big shopper, that I'm not like a lot of women I encounter who enjoy shopping, who live for shoes, who can spend hours browsing racks of clothing. In fact, one of my first posts on this blog was a complaint about shopping (read it here).

The reality is, however, that one must shop to acquire items such as shoes. It's not like I can go to work without shoes on. Well, I haven't tried it yet. I'm not sure that anyone would notice -- but I'm not really willing to try it out either. This afternoon, therefore, I find myself shoe shopping.

I went to one of those "shoe warehouses" with my coupon in hand. I made two observations while looking for shoes: (1) women who are shopping for shoes alone are on their cell phones, and (2) I don't like most shoes. Who are these women talking to? What are they talking about? I don't get it. Do they each have accomplices in dark vans in the parking lot with uplinks to satellites and GPS for finding the perfect pair?

Clearly the women on phones had some advantage over me -- or maybe I was just distracted.

I was partly disappointed in my shoe shopping trip after a successful Sunday trip to Target. Yes, I said Target. On a Sunday.

I don't typically shop at Target on the weekend. I'm more of a weekday strategic-strike kind of Target shopper. But Dave and I had to go. After a morning of Mass and brunch, we knew what we had to do next. We had necessities that could not wait for a weekday trip. Oh, and we really needed a new surge protector.

We circled the lot looking for parking. Well, Dave was looking for parking. I like to park, not look for parking. Walking is good for you! Dave has to circle until he finds "the spot." Remember the scene in Clerks when the clerk rants about all the ladies who come in and dig through the fridge trying to find the milk that has an expiration date on it that is sometime in the next millennium? I love that bit. Dave's that way about parking spots.

Once we got into the store we each assumed our usual roles: Dave grabbed a cart and headed to the electronics section, I grabbed a basket and headed to the cotton ball, razors, and closet supplies area. We successfully rendezvoused in time for me to dump my overloaded basket into Dave's cart containing one new surge protector.

We made it through the check out gauntlet. Actually, Dave made it through on his own. I was busy putting back some shoelaces that he had deemed too short for his shoes. We met on the other side and were quickly homeward bound -- after a quick pit-stop. I had clearly drunk too much coffee.

Once at home, we efficiently emptied the shopping bags and got to the task at hand: easily and safely opening the surge protector that was permanently enclosed in that awful plastic shell packaging that is lethally sharp once you are able to penetrate it enough to rip it open.

Dave is much better at opening these kinds of things than I am. While he freed the surge protector, I crawled under our computer desk to attempt to untangle miles of electrical and USB cords and pull out the now-insufficient surge protector.

The "old" surge protector does not have enough outlets to handle our computer and peripheral electrical needs. Actually, it technically has enough outlets, they are just not configured in such a way as to handle the weirdly-shaped and otherwise large plugs on some of our equipment. This has resulted in our need to decide if we want the scanner or the printer plugged in -- which has resulted in needing to know which plug belongs to the scanner and which belongs to the printer.

With our "new" surge protector we can have everything plugged in and take advantage of the opportunity to label all the cords. I prepared tags for the cords, Dave worked as my assistant, and we set to work on the transplant. After working on untangling, sorting, labeling, and binding many many cords, we got the new surge protector set up and safely tucked back in the corner. Every plug had an outlet, every cord had a label, and all cords had their slack bound and secured away from the feet of any who sit at the desk.

I managed to bang my head on the desk only a couple of times before I was able to extricate myself from underneath it. Whew! Another big project completed. As we walked away from the desk Dave commented that we could now throw away the packaging. And then he saw it.

"Oh," he said, "they have a warranty form in here. We should fill it out. OH!!!" he said, "and they provide a warranty for any equipment plugged into the surge protector too!"

I am sure you can guess, Dear Reader, that our project was not yet completed. Dave sat down and began to fill out of the form. As is often the case with forms, we needed numbers -- and lots of them. Dave asked me to get some number from the surge protector. I crawled under the desk and looked at the surge protector now secured in it's spot like Gulliver tied down by the Lilliputians. I struggled with it. I banged my head on the desk. I got out from under the desk to turn on the desk lamp. Yes, I'm brilliant. The desk lamp did nothing to illuminate the darkness underneath the desk.

Okay. Plan B. I need a flashlight. You'd think we'd have a flashlight. Part of the reason we were so excited about a surge protector and a warranty on a surge protector is the fact that the electricity in our apartment is less than optimal. It is vintage.

Electricians and firefighters alike would blanch at the site of our electrical "system." Our beautiful, classic, 1920s Chicago apartment came with the electricity to match. I knew it was less than great when we moved in. I walked into the perfectly empty front room (living room) and admired the fireplace and built-in shelves. I could practically see my reflection in the perfectly polished wood floors. And then I noticed that something was plugged into the outlet at the center of the front wall. Huh????

There was nothing in the room. I approached the plug and followed the cord that came from it -- into a wire cover that was affixed above the beautiful baseboards and painted over with many layers of paint. This outlet is now referred to as the "Mother Outlet" as I am pretty confident that it is the one true outlet that is the source of all other outlets in the apartment that are in fact makeshift outlets created from nothing more than extension cords. Fuses blow frequently in this place.

So, with an electrical system such as this, you'd think we'd have a flashlight on hand for emergencies. Finding a flashlight to be able to read the bottom of the warrantied surge protector was important -- this warranty is our ticket to replacement equipment when the electricity final sizzles out when the kids upstairs plug in another stereo or amplifier or electric saw (I'm not kidding here -- but that's another posting).

The best I could find was one of those tiny flashlights that you affix to your keychain that serves better as a tool for not losing your keys (like the hubcap on gas station bathroom keys) than it does as a source of light. I read off every alpha-numeric series I could find on the surge protector to Dave as he filled in the form.

Whew. Done. Wait -- we need all the numbers from everything that is plugged into the surge protector?

I will not bore you, Reader, with the details of that odyssey.

In the end, the form was completed. It languishes now on the dining room table.

Oh, and I still need shoes for work.

Anthropomorphizing Again

I'm doing it again. I'm giving personalities and other human qualities to non-living stuff. It's all because I'm cheating on my faithful clogs. I recently bought a new pair of clogs to replace my old ones. I had a hard time developing the nerve to actually make the purchase.

I was heading down to Urbana with David a while back for a law school alumni thingy. While David did law school stuff, I got the chance to catch up with friends. I also got the chance to visit one of my all-time favorite shoe stores. This particular shoe store is unmatched (in my opinion) in the range of good-for-your-feet shoe brands that it offers. I believe the store was opened by retired foot doctors. They will make special modifications for you, you can buy two shoes that are two different sizes, etc. As you can imagine, they sell Birkenstock, Born, Clarks, Ecco, Dansko, Josef Seibel -- the usual suspects.

Now, let me interrupt myself here to say that I am far from the stereotypical female with Imelda aspirations. I am not a fan of stilettos nor shoes that reveal toe cleavage nor anything "cute" nor shoes referred to only by a designer's name. I'm a practical kind of woman. A woman with ugly wide feet who just wants shoes that are comfortable, don't look too orthopedic, and that come in colors like black, brown, and the occasional red. I like having a few basic pairs of shoes that can be worn with multiple outfits.

While I was in grad school I bought a pair of Dansko clogs from the foot doctor store. I bought these in black oiled leather. I struggled with a rationalization for buying them. They cost a lot more than what I typically spent on shoes. I loved them so much, though. I figured they would be my "casual" shoes since I knew they looked good with jeans. I took the plunge. I realized, of course, after just a few weeks of wear that they are the best shoes ever and they really do go with everything. I wore them constantly.

About three years ago, the stitching that holds the back portion to the front on one clog had completely unraveled. I took my clogs back to the cool shoe store for repair. While there I fell in love with a pair of Dansko shoes. They have a button on them. They are super comfortable like my clogs. The rationalization to purchase this pair was that the clogs had been loved for long enough that they didn't look very nice with my not-casual attire.

I bought the button shoes the day that I picked up my clogs. I opened the box with my clogs only to find that they were like new! It was like they had spent a weekend at spa and drank water with lemon slices while relaxing in a mud wrap. I could not wait to put them on.

Fast forward to this past January. The clogs were struggling. I knew we were headed down to Champaign and had gotten a postcard advertising a shoe sale at my favorite store. I find it much easier now to rationalize the expense of the clogs -- I definitely get my money's worth out of them during approximately 8 years of use -- but I found myself hesitating to replace my first clogs. They have been such loyal friends. They have served me so well. We have been everywhere together.

I bought new clogs exactly like the old ones. I've kept the old ones for mucking around (like I have lots of opportunity for that in the big city). I can't part with them just yet. I know that I have real mental problems when I find myself avoiding placing the two pairs of clogs next to each other in the closet. I feel a slight twinge of guilt when I put on the new clogs and admire their fresh appearance. Am I cheating on my old friends?

Yes. It appears I have too much free time. Yes. I have assigned human emotions to inanimate objects. I can't even tell you how bad I feel when I park the new Focus next to my dear, old Wagenschen.

I really need to find something to occupy my brain's freetime. There must be something besides imagining that my shoes feel sad that I could be using my brain for.

Campus Life

I love being back on a college campus. Granted, this campus is very different from other campuses that I have experienced -- but I still love being on this campus. I have settled into a regular routine, as I am wont to do, and days pass more quickly than I expect them to.

My day starts after the office opens, and ends before it closes. I feel like I got the magic shift when I worked in food service that avoids both the opening and closing chores. I come in with coffee, eat a breakfast-y snack, check email, and work. I continue to work. I eat some lunch. I work some more. Mind you, work here means plan workshops, do research, surf ejournals and ebooks for impossibly large pdf files to download to my computer or (gasp!) print out for later reading. I get to read stuff! I get to plan workshops and make outlines and prepare power point slides. And they pay me. I don't really leave my desk -- which is weird. I am used to forced interruptions of my work in order to -- of all things -- teach. But I am no longer a teacher.

It's kind of ironic that part of the reason why I started climbing the ivory tower is that I had no desire to enter the kind of workforce where I wore professional clothing and traveled to a modern building with windows that don't open and climate control and sat in an office or cubicle surrounded by crappy squeeze toys and gadgets emblazoned with corporate monikers and slogans and and and

Guess what.

I need to dress somewhat professionally -- Lord knows I don't get mistaken for a student anymore, but I still encounter people who seem surprised by the amount of education I have (apparently I didn't squander all of my youth on education). I work in a building that was most likely built after I was born -- and the windows don't open. I work in a cubicle. For these and other reasons, I have made a pact with myself to ban any and all stress balls, beanie babies, and other corporate-clad crap from my work space.

I have found that I need interruptions. I know I will soon get them in spades with workshops, consultations, and other meetings. I'm not used to this at-my-desk-for-hours thing, and neither are my ADD symptoms. Luckily, I have found the local spot for coffee and have worked it into my routine for a regular afternoon interruption and caffeine infusion.

The cafe is actually a little coffee nook named for a philosopher. On a recent trip I encountered a student employee who was enjoying very loud music at the cafe. Very loud. Make your eyes water loud. Once I had dried my eyes and shouted my latte order I realized what he was listening to -- a garage-band recording of the Rolling Stones' Sympathy for the Devil. I got the sense that the barista was a band member. The band chose to cover the classic by altering it a bit. They replaced the hooting hoo hoo's with grunting uh uh's. I can't say that I approve.

When the barista (baristo according to Dave's application of masculine endings in Romance languages, as in, ballerino) returned with my latte, I attempted to reveal that I am cool even if I'm not a student anymore. I did not tell the tale of Altamont, but rather stated simply,

"You know, there's a myth about this song that every time you play it, something bad is going to happen."

The young baristo replied,

"Well, did you know it's about the devil?"

I love campus life.

Ode To Public Trans And Paychecks

Okay, not really an ode. There is no way I could pull off the rhyme or meter of an ode -- especially since I don't know the requirements. Think of this as a stream-of-consciousness essay with the emotions of an ode.

This slacker has a job. Perhaps slacker is a strong term. Lord knows I've managed to find things to keep me busy up to this point, but now I have a place to go to in order to be busy and will soon receive a paycheck for said busy-ness.

No details here -- just an announcement that I will be receiving a regular paycheck for the first time in a long time. Oh, and my office is inside a library -- how freaking cool is that?

My place of employment is not far from where we live -- another bonus -- and the weather of January has already provided me the opportunity to explore public transportation as a means for getting to work. I walked and took a bus to work, and then walked a shorter distance, took a bus with many, many public high school students, and then took the el to get home. Except for a few bumps (six inches of snow; a bus stop with no bus stop sign; many, many high school students; a fare card that ran out on me just as I got on the bus with many, many high school students; etc.), the experience was pretty good. In fact, I may employ the bus and el route even when inclement weather does not require me to do so. Hell, I might figure out how to ride my bike here when it is warm?! Who would have thought that a job where I sit at a desk would actually facilitate me becoming more physically active?

Speaking of inclement weather, I love the Midwest! Since my employment we have seen six inches of snow, much blowing and cold, even more rain (luckily we avoided the ice that was forecasted), 60-degree weather with thunderstorms (?!), and today the temperature is plummeting to the single digits and we have snow again. A sixty-degree turn around in twenty-four hours. I am so digging this weather. Though I work in a semi-cubicle, I have a view of a window that has no view (parking garage), but it still affords me the chance to see what is going on outside.

This working thing is working out.