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.

December

As you may have already gleaned from some of my entries, I love fall and winter. Really. I've always thought that I have a disorder exactly opposite of those people who get depressed during winter and have to sit in front of sun lamps. Summer usually bums me out -- hot and humid weather, a wardrobe that reminds me on a daily basis that I am not thrilled with my body, hours and hours of sunlight that make me think I should be working, etc. The major exceptions to these complaints are baseball and really good thunderstorms.

Fall and winter have always satisfied my nesting instinct, my love for all things cozy and some sort of hot drink to cradle in my always-frigid hands (Dave helpfully rubs them for me and offers the sage advice to quit smoking). I love sweaters and thick socks and comfy throws on the couch. I like baking cookies for the sole purpose of countering the draft coming through the kitchen door -- with the fringe benefits of the smell and, of course, the cookies. I like filling out Christmas cards and decorating for the holidays. I love a good snowstorm -- especially when it begins when we're fully stocked with food and toilet paper and the potato-leek soup is already simmering.

All of this is to say -- this year I'm not feeling it. I have not baked a cookie. I have not dug out all of my cozy sweaters. We have not bought a tree. December has descended upon us and we are both struggling to control it.

We did decorate -- and the apartment looks great. I bought scented candles and we have the big star in the window. I love that. We did a big cleaning when we decorated and did it all in one day (yes, we -- Dave did lots to help). This has proven smart as we would not have decorations up if we had left them to do piecemeal. We are both busy (yes, me -- I've even got a job interview on the phone tomorrow but I'm not going to talk about it here nor is anyone going to discuss it less we jinx the first chance of a shot at a job I've had in over two years). I've also got a meeting tonight (Ofest '05!) and a meeting (parish council) and choir rehearsal (WGN-TV is coming to preview us before we shoot some little piece for some religious music program they have) tomorrow night. Sprinkle in a few social obligations and visiting friends and family from out of town, and the December calendar is full. We're just a little overwhelmed lately and Christmas is not going to patiently wait for us to come up for air.

I'm actually looking forward to the days after Christmas at my parents' -- the afterglow, if you will. The debriefing from nieces and nephews about Santa's performance this year, cookies for breakfast (I'll make them at some point!), colorful flames in the fireplace from wrapping paper kindling, hours-long games on the dining room table, the perpetual pot of coffee or mugs of Mom's hot chocolate to fuel the day, and, notably, no shopping to do, no errands to run, no holiday drivers and lack of parking to deal with, no hours of interstate driving with amateurs to suffer, no Salvation Army bell ringers to bear, no appropriate outfits to coordinate for social occasions, no meetings-we-have-to-get-in-before-the-holidays to attend, only family, food, and thick socks and a cozy sweater -- that part of Christmas that is after Christmas that I love.

Best Day Ever

Right before our Thanksgiving getaway, I had to run to Walgreens. You know how it is -- tiny shampoos, tiny toothpaste, travel candy, etc. Then I headed to Wendy's to grab us an early dinner as we had successfully emptied the apartment of perishable food before our Thanksgiving jaunt. The helpful drive-thru window attendant apologized that the fries would not be ready for another two minutes. No problem. I love hot fries. So I pulled forward and put the Focus in park.

This particular Wendy's is on Lawrence Avenue which can be a very busy thoroughfare. As is common for me, the mandated time-out waiting for fries allowed me the opportunity to observe a few things that I would have otherwise missed in my attempts to make a quick left onto Lawrence without dying in order to make it home with fries above room temperature.

The first thing I noticed was a man in a beat-up old Honda something-or-other. He was parked at the curb on the side of Lawrence that I was on -- headed east. He looked nervous. He kept checking his mirrors. Then I heard the transmission crunch as he put it in first, pulled the wheel all the way left, and hit the gas. He made a u-turn across four lanes of traffic just like that. When he made it to the other side of the street, the transmission crunched again as he put it in reverse and proceeded to alternate between first and reverse in order to park the car on that side of the street -- exactly opposite of where he was parked before he risked his life to get the new spot. Once he was happy with the car's placement and parallelness, he got out and walked into the building that was right in front of the car. Odd.

Soon after the super-parker had disappeared into his building, I saw a family walking towards me. They were clearly coming back from the Sears that is a little east of the Wendy's. It was mom, three boys, and two girls. I would bet that the oldest was 12. Each child and mom had a bag from Sears. It was clear that each bag contained something that each had picked. The youngest, and last in line, was a girl. She decided to do away with her Sears bag and instead proudly carried her purchase unconcealed. In her arms she held a baby doll that was still securely fashioned to the box in a reclining pose. I know how tough those plastic ties can be. The doll looks like you could just reach out and lift her up from her nap -- when the reality is that she is permanently affixed to the box by her ankles, wrists, and neck. I loved that the little girl was so happy. She was beaming. She didn't need the doll to be free of the box to hold her baby. She had removed her mittens to wriggle her hands behind her new charge and the plastic ties that bound her in order to clasp her baby to her chest ignoring the box completely.

The youngest girl and her doll were last in the mother-and-ducklings line. Just as she had passed from my view as they crossed in front of the Wendy's, she reappeared with a smile and happiness upon her face even greater than what I had just witnessed. Her eyes and mouth were open wide. She was almost levitating with joy. Her brothers were working quickly to move past her. It was one of those "but, wait! there's more!" moments. Mom had just announced that they and their new purchases were going to eat at Wendy's!

I remember that kind of joy. My dad used to take each of us kids out to breakfast at McDonalds for our birthdays and I thought it was the best thing ever. We got to eat inside! We didn't have to take it home! I could get my own orange juice and drink it through a straw! I didn't have to share any of it with a sister or brother!

My fries arrived and I was struck that I thought of this trip to Wendy's as a nuisance, an easy way out of a no-food-in-the-house situation. A less-than-desirable quickie meal that required me to sit and wait in the fast-food drive thru. But for that little girl, a trip to Wendy's was the icing on the cake of the best day ever.

Saturday

Dave took the picture above on the digital camera that he gave me for my birthday. We're both interested in photography. My approach has been to read and practice (and as such, the digital camera is a great tool for me with instant gratification and lower costs on all of my "experiments").

Both the picture above and two of the best pictures ever take of me (one immediately following the other) were shot by Dave as an afterthought with no preparation following shots of another subject -- which appears to be Dave's approach.

I love this picture. It perfectly represents that Saturday. It was November 6 and it was the first Saturday in recent memory that belonged wholly to the two of us. We started with going out to breakfast. The weather was perfectly autumn. Later in the day we decided (I suggested) we walk down to a new-ish cafe in the neighborhood for an afternoon fix. Dave brought along the camera. On our way home he decided he wanted to take a picture of an old water pumping station. I stood across the street while he lined up his shots. Dave came back across the street and set down his coffee on the construction horse to review the shots he had just taken and show them to me.

But when he tilted the camera down to switch it to the display mode, he saw this shot in the window and fired it off. Just like that. I am in love with this pic -- the colors, the textures, the prominence of o holy coffee, and even the unexpected presence of my odd foot. It is the perfect composition of our Saturday. Dave immediately named it "Saturday with Katie."

I'm working on building a website for me and Dave -- we've talked about having one since we put one together for our wedding. We each had individual sites for a short time many moons ago. I'm hoping that this latest site will be a venue for us to post pics and the stories that go along with them -- and I'm hoping that will allow me to quit posting here about goofy pics that mess up the blog layout.

Autumn

It's funny how I each time I think about blogging, I think "wow, where has the time gone?" Clearly, I am inept at keeping track of time, knowing what day it is, how old I am, or now what time it is -- fall back and spring forward always screw me up a little.

When I was in grade school we had to do service hours at a local nursing home. In the lounge area of each floor, one would find various and assorted old people, and a display on the wall with a list of prompts printed in easy-to-read super large font for visitors to query their elders:

Today is ... Sunday.
The month is ... October.
The date is ... the 31st.
The year is ... 2004.
The weather is ... partly sunny.
The president is ... George W. Bush.

and so on.

Even when I was young and aware enough to be able to answer each of the prompts easily (as well as announce my age -- including the months), I thought those were a weird way to measure the degree of one's dementia.

And today I agree with my younger self all the more. What day is it? How many weeks ago did I blog last? Why is the weather so cool all of a sudden? What do you mean we need to drop off the rent check?

I'm lucky if I can answer two of the six dementia-test questions without too much hesitation -- and that's looking out the window for one, and guessing that "Bush" has a high probability for being another correct answer.

And so, once again, I lament -- where has the time gone?

The picture above was taken the Monday after Oktoberfest. I was driving back home on Lake Shore Drive after taking Dave to work. I had the old Praktika camera in the trunk -- a great, old, everything-is-manual, East German camera -- which happened to be loaded with film.

The lake was churning, the sky was steel gray, the wind was blowing, the waves were crashing, and the sea gulls were huddled along the shore.

It was the first truly chilly day of the season. The kind of morning that sneaks up on you and makes you wish you could slip into soft jeans and a cozy sweatshirt while still under the intoxicating warmth of the comforter.

I took many pictures of the sky, and the water, and the waves crashing against the rocks. I got out the long lens to take shots of the gulls without scaring them.

And then I ran back to the car when the wind made my ears burn and the chill reminded me of the amount of coffee I had already consumed.

I meant to post it a long time ago. I meant to post about autumn being my favorite season -- and not just because of my birthday and anniversary.

Alas, I got distracted by other things. Other things that I should also blog about.

Ofest

The Fourth Annual Oktoberfest is upon us. It seems to be my full-time job lately. [Click here if you want the details.]

We have just over a week and one day to make it all happen. To top things off, I'm sick. I can't explain that. I thought I was supposed to get sick after Ofest -- just like getting sick after finals. As the Germans say, na ja, what are ya gonna do?

I wish I had a witty story or an observation of human folly to post -- but really all I've got is Ofest.

I'm dreaming about it now. Thankfully, I'm not having dreams about the fest or when the merchandise will arrive, or how the tent is going to be erected on our brand new parking lot, or if we'll have enough tables, or ... No. Rather, I'm having my usual dreams about nothing -- but everyone is wearing lederhosen and alpine hats.

Hmmmmmm. I don't care to know what Freud would think about that!

Green City

I used to think that Chicago was a big city like you imagine when you picture Gotham City. I was afraid it was going to be all concrete and asphalt and steel and glass.

Long before I came here, David would reassure me that there were neighborhoods, and trees, and parks. But I knew what that looked like -- that was where I grew up. I couldn't imagine that a city as huge as Chicago would have green space and lush trees.

Wow was I wrong.

I took the picture above during the spring of 2000. David let me start playing with an old East German camera. Nothing automatic, nothing pretty, pure function.

I bought a couple of books at a used book store on photography and tried to self-teach f-stops and proper camera holds and the such.

This was one of my first shots ever. I was trying to figure out how you do that thing to make the foreground out of focus and the background in focus and vice versa. I'm not sure which I was going for here -- and I'm not sure if it worked, but I've always liked this shot.

I centered things nicely (at least in comparison to other shots on the roll), and I love that there are two people at the far end, and dark branches that frame the top. And I like it because it is so green -- the picture is full of green! And it's on a side neighborhood street in the big city of Chicago.

Where Has My Time Gone?

Oh, Lord do I have a lot to do! Why do I have so much to do? How did being unemployed take away all of my freetime?

NPR recently did a series of stories on leisure. One of the installments I caught was on housework and about time-saving devices (like washing machines) and how they have changed -- in particular -- the role of women in the household, and how they haven't. One particular line from Susan Strasser caught me. She said, essentially, "we have found that time-saving devices have not necessarily contributed to increased leisure time." I don't know why, but that idea really struck me. I hadn't seen that reality so clearly before.

So, I'm busy with my usual volunteer duties and I've added some occasional hourly work (paid?!) to the mix. This year's Oktoberfest is taking up the most time and effort right now. I'll include more details later -- our website should launch soon. Ofest will be on Friday, September 24 and Saturday, September 25 this year -- and oh wow do we have a lot to do!

Black and Blue

So some of you may know that I have klutz tendencies. I remember my mother telling me once about her and my father being concerned about my muscular development as a child. I apparently fell often. They decided to take me to the doctor -- surely there must be something wrong with a little girl who is constantly falling, knocking into things, and has needed stitches enough times to be recognized by name upon entering the emergency room at Cardinal Glennon's Children's Hospital. Apparently, after several informal tests my pediatrician comforted my parents with the news that I had a serious condition of being a klutz.

Fast forward thirty-some-odd years to a couple of weeks ago. I was working on one of our several "project piles" set off on the side table in the dining room. I can't remember what I was looking for -- but it was something that I wanted to find pronto. Upon not finding it, I became frustrated and turned to storm across the dining room to the office to hunt there. Unfortunately, my planned route did not take into account the dining room table that is in the middle of our dining room. My path was immediately and abruptly blocked by said dining room table which made contact with my left thigh. Or my left thigh made contact with it. Regardless, the table was pushed a good two inches off center (which is really impressive when you know that I actually had to push it up hill as our dining room floor is a bit sloped).

I knew immediately that I had done something awful. I knew immediately that it was really going to be bad since my visceral reaction did not include swearing or rubbing the injured thigh. I remember hearing David from the other room -- "You okay?"

I fought the urge to cry. I cursed the dining room table (clearly, it was the table's fault) and tried to figure out how long I could go without looking at my thigh. I was sure I would not be able to handle seeing the bone sticking out of the flesh. Well, that's what it felt like. I'm fairly convinced that had I hit the table with the same force with a bone other than my femur, I would have shattered it. When Dave finally got the chance to see the damage, all he could muster was "Ohhhhhh, Katie, that must hurt!"

It was red and purple within a few minutes, black and blue with red squiggly lines in the middle within a few days. I realized in the days following the incident that I often touch that part of my leg -- something I had never realized before touching it resulted in such searing pain. The bruise has now passed through its rainbow of colors. I still have a gray shadow of a bruise at the exact height of our dining room table just in case I forget too soon.

Another St. Louisan

I attended a choir party the other night. I won't bore you with all the reasons or details. However, at one point I was briefly introduced to a new choir member. Later, she looked across the deck at my shoes and exclaimed, "I love your shoes."

Now, I was wearing one of my all time favorite pairs of shoes -- my red shoes. Well, my first pair of red shoes (I now have a couple). The pair of shoes that I had convinced myself I could not afford, did not deserve, and would not be practical -- as they are red. I do not fit the woman-with-shoe-fetish stereotype, but I was able to come up with a rationalization for buying and wearing these red shoes: I had just completed my master's thesis and it was about time I actually started wearing things that exhibited the personal style that I had always imagined for myself but hid behind and under more practical pieces.

So I've had these red shoes for years and they have been worn and loved and inspired subsequent wardrobe pieces. I occasionally receive compliments on these shoes. This compliment was a little different -- the woman who paid me the compliment came closer to admire the shoes allowing me to see her choice in footwear: my shoe splurge of last fall while down in Urbana at my favorite good-for-your-feet shoe store! Yes, she was wearing these great Dansko's with a button! (I love Dansko everything.)

Okay, but here's the weird part beyond the fact that we appear to be shoe sisters: she grew up in, yes -- wait for it, Webster Groves! I won't bore you with a list of the families that we both know or the fact that she went to my grade school . . . wow, which just now reminds me that the guy from the Oktoberfest committee who is the nephew of my grade school soccer coach also went to my grade school, though long after me. The woman at the choir party also seemed young -- I wonder if they know each other or that they are both at St. Al's.

Funny small world.

Rooster

This is a test to see if I can post photos to my blog. I'd like to post the occasional photo that I've taken -- you know that whole "a picture is worth a thousand words" thing.

This is a picture I took a few years ago at Barb and Ed's farm.