A Latte Afternoon

I love coffee. Have I mentioned before that I love coffee? I love coffee. I love coffee from a bowl -- a coffee-appropriate bowl. If you try to drink coffee from a regular cereal bowl you will likely lose your fingerprints. I drink my espresso drinks from the latte-appropriate bowls that my sister Lucy gave me for Christmas a few years ago -- see the pic. I have a set of six perfect thick bowls each in its own perfect hue.

I'm pretty sure my first bowl of coffee experience was in Europe fifteen years ago when I was a globetrotting (well, more accurately, continenttrotting) college student. Years later I enjoyed the first of an unfortunate few café au laits from Café Fanny in Berkeley, California. Just looking at the pictures on their website makes me want to lick the screen.

There is just something so right about drinking warm coffee and milk from a bowl. It's natural, maybe primal. I could never bring myself to drink the discolored, leftover cereal milk (David just doesn't understand), and yet I'll drink any kind of caffeine concoction out of a bowl.

In grad school I had some problems with caffeine. The nurse practitioner that I was seeing at the "health" center for some mild chest pain I had been experiencing casually asked me if I drank pop. She snuck the question in somewhere between "when was your last period" and "do you use recreational drugs." Pop? Not so much. Before I nearly eradicated it from my life, David and I had switched to "super unleaded" Coke -- diet, caffeine-free. After a couple of years of that I started to wonder why the hell I was bothering. No, the pop follow-up question is what stopped me in my tracks,

"Do you drink coffee?"

"Yes."

"How many cups a day?"

"Well, let's see, how many cups are there in a triple latte?"

"How many triple lattes?"

"Well, how many triple lattes do you think you can get out of a half-gallon of milk?"

You see, my Dearest One had become my supreme enabler at that point in my coffee life. David bought me an espresso maker for Christmas. I could make lattes (never really could work up enough foam for cappuccinos) until I ran out of milk. It turns out that stress and lots and lots of lattes don't really mix well -- at least for me. I had to make a choice: chest pain or caffeine. Oh, and I had to go for blood pressure checks twice a day for three days which really did not deplete my stress at all.

I actually tried to go cold turkey. It lasted only a few days. I had headaches and the shakes and probably looked like a strung-out junkie. Which is what I was. However, once I got with the program, my chest pain eased up as my caffeine intake went down.

I quieted my nerve endings by moving to a moderated schedule of "normal" caffeine dosages. It took some work, but I slowly learned to say the words "Decaf, please. No, no really! I'm not kidding" when I frequented my favorite cafes. Blasphemy!

I have learned that I enjoy the smell of coffee, the color of coffee, the flavor of coffee, and the feel of some suitable container of coffee in my hand almost as much as I love the caffeine. And so, I have been controlling my caffeine intake for many years now.

Dave has moved from being an enabler to being the controller of the caffeine. We buy beans in bulk and keep them in the freezer -- a big bag of decaf and a big bag of caf. He then mixes the beans in various ratios and puts the mix in a small tin near the coffee maker. I don't know how much caffeine I've ingested each morning until I get to work.

Come to think of it, in a lot of ways, Dave is my dealer.

The start of this all, then, was the picture above. The other day, I enjoyed an afternoon fix on our tiny porch surrounded by my boxes of flowers. Caffeine, the outdoors, and wireless internet -- this junkie's favorite fix.

The Light of a Thousand Suns

David moved into our apartment four years ago last month. He scouted it, he previewed it, he told me not to make a decision from the outside alone (the icky screens on the porch have since been removed). I remained downstate for a few more months having finally defended and deposited what my mother called "that paper you have to write" (read, dissertation) and then wrapped up a visiting lecturer position. I moved in full-time, officially, name on the mailbox and everything in August.

We figured it out our first night while trying to get comfortable on the mattress on the floor. (The mattress that remained on the floor until August when I moved in full-time even though the plan was to buy a platform bed pronto because surely we wouldn't be able to sleep on the floor for long!) There is a streetlamp outside our bedroom window that illuminates the alley. Directly outside our window. David put up with it every night. I put up with it on the weekends.

I am all for public safety and the enlightenment of dark spaces, but holy crap. This streetlamp could light a stadium. This streetlamp competes with the huge Burger King sign at the opposite end of the alley. Though it is directly outside our bedroom window, it sufficiently lights the dining room and living room as well. You could sit on our bed and read a book at midnight. (The bed? A trip to IKEA on hot day in August; awkward, slow drive home with the trunk lid flapping up and down; assembly of bed on hottest freaking day of the year by two people who both need to be in charge and aren't good at sharing one allen wrench. I may have stated already that the best marriage preparation is putting together a bed with your Intended on a sweltering day with insufficient tools and directions that have no words but attempt to guide the builders with smiley faces and sad faces.) Yes, this streetlamp has a light of a thousand suns.

My wonderful fiancé took action before we had suffered too long. (I'm sorry. Did I mention that our apartment does not have air conditioning? Okay, so you can stop wondering why we didn't pull the shades and/or install some sort of aluminum foil sun guard.) David called the city's new information number and voila, someone showed up and removed the domed lens from the light surprisingly dimming the street lamp to maybe a half sun. The naked bulb still lit the alley to a safe level and we could sleep in peace.

That lasted for four years.

On some mornings I like to lie across the bed -- near the foot -- while David gets dressed for work (mine is life of late mornings to work in the summer). We chat. I stealthily hide his socks from him. He follows the same exact get-dressed protocol every morning. This particular recent morning was different. I heard something outside the window. It wasn't the usual garbage trucks. It wasn't the usual pain-in-the-butt-condo neighbors slamming their gate and then their dumpster lid. No, this sound was different. It was close. I glanced out the window and saw a man wearing a yellow hard hat glancing back at me.

I casually slid myself across the bed, behind David, and safely off the bed to the floor. "David, there is a man outside our window."

David laughed -- perhaps because he had clothes on. I was trying to calculate how much Mr. Hardhat could have seen. I don't sleep in the nude, but I'm not exactly public-appropriate either.

He was gone as quickly as he appeared. He left a calling card. In a few brief moments he managed to re-install the lens on the street lamp. We were amazed. That night we were sitting on the couch and noticed a warm, orange glow coming from the alley. We noticed it through the living room porch door. We noticed how it sliced through the bedroom to sufficiently light the hallway and the bathroom. We thought we could handle it. We were sure our memories had become exaggerated over time.

We were naïve. We were plain wrong.

The second night was particularly bad. I was sure that the light was intensified by reflecting off the white paint on the bedroom door. It was warm. Maybe I could throw our dark comforter over the door and dampen the light…

My dear husband moved into action after the second night. He called the city's informational number again. Within 48 hours of the phone call, the lens was removed and a sleek, flat panel was installed. The bulb was no longer naked, and we are no longer sleeping with stadium lighting.

I'm Glad I Shaved My Legs Today

It started out a crappy week: back to work after a little break, more work at work than I had figured, an impromptu departmental meeting related to things I'd rather not think about, a big screw up with an important package I was waiting for, and a hair appointment that was not recorded correctly by the salon.

I was supposed to get my hair cut (and colored, but don't tell anyone) yesterday afternoon. I made the appointment Tuesday morning. The young woman at the salon and I both expressed shock that this Thursday was already June 1! When I did not get the usual incomprehensible reminder voicemail on Wednesday, I wondered. So I called yesterday before I left for the appointment -- you know, just in case. Sure enough, no appointments. My appointments had been set for Thursday, June 8. My hair should look something like this by then.

One of the good things that happened this week is that I made an appointment for a facial at my favorite salon. It's been maybe six years since I've had the pleasure. Though I talk a big game with fancy hair cuts and getting my groceries delivered, I don't frequently get facials. Since I have not yet outgrown my acne, and since I found a nice lady at the salon, and since I have convinced myself that I deserve it, I made an appointment for this morning.

I started the day by attending mass. I know, I know. I'm a little surprised myself. It's a long story that goes back to my days in high school. June is devoted to the Sacred Heart of Jesus (the devotion of the nuns who taught me in high school). The Sacred Heart revealed 12 promises to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque (see #12). The twelfth promise is related to the practice of attending mass on the first Friday of each month. It's all actually pretty interesting. I've always liked old traditions in the church. The Sacred Heart did well by me way back in high school, I figured it couldn't hurt to rekindle my friendship with the ol' guy.

Mass this morning was also attended by our parish grade school -- their last mass of the year. I can't tell you the flashbacks that resulted! Wow. The uniforms, being seated by class, being monitored by strategically-placed teachers -- and the principal! The other usual suspects at an early morning weekday mass were present as well: the young man who can't figure out if he wants to enter the seminary, some ladies from the local shelter, some men who could benefit from a local shelter, a few elderly couples who attend mass daily, and, um, me.

I had forgotten how refreshing a simple, to-the-point mass can be. I had forgotten how miserable it was as a grade schooler. Today's gospel was the one when Christ asks Peter three times if he loves Him (three – it's a magic number). Instead of preparing a homily geared toward the ears, hearts, and minds of first through eighth graders, the priest gave a homily quite over the heads of the students (and probably a few others in attendance) about eros, filios, and agape. Actually, he concentrated on filios and agape and tried to "translate" Jesus' three questions into the Greek to make his point. Yowza.

Okay. I'm way off point here. What does morning mass have to do with shaving my legs? David keeps telling me that I would post more often if I would write short blurbs about my day. I am realizing that I don't ever write short blurbs.

So I attended mass in an attempt to rekindle an old devotional practice, reminisced about being stuck in a hot church before a long day of grade school in a hot building, and then headed to Julius Meinl for baked eggs and a mélange.

The Meinl visit was an opportunity for a nice (but far from quiet) breakfast and to kill time before my facial appointment. Ah, there we go, clean-shaven legs. I leave the café and decide to drop off the Metro at a tire place that we frequent for a long-needed tire rotation and oil change. I pull in, notice all the employees standing around the empty, open garage doors, think "Super! It'll be finished when my face is!" and park the car. I walk to the door -- it's locked. I walk to the idle employees and ask "Are you guys open?" Nope. They're not. In fact, they will never be open again. My usual basic maintenance place has fallen victim to the Brown Line expansion (as has my old, favorite hot dog place). With the tire place closed, only one corner at that three-street intersection is the way it was when David first got his place there.

That sucked. I was hoping to not only get work done on the car, but dropping the car off would also remedy the whole crappy parking situation in the old neighborhood. I worked it out.

I stopped in at our friend Vanessa's café and got a hazelnut coffee for the brief walk over to the salon. Nice. Hazelnut coffee and an impending facial on a beautiful Friday morning.

Have you ever had a facial? Bliss. Well, except for the zit-popping part. After putting on a weird, terrycloth wrap -- no other way to explain it, I was comfortably wrapped in two layers of sheets like a cocoon. Oh! and she put a bolster pillow under my knees. It would have killed David. He would have run screaming from the place. The lights were dimmed, I picked a scent, was treated to some aromatherapy, and the facial commenced. Almost sounds like a date, right?

So we get to the point when she paints layers of good-feeling stuff on my face while the steam is billowing over my humongous pores. She unwrapped the sheets from one of my legs, covered it with a hot wet towel, and rubbed and rubbed, and put lotion on and rubbed. Insert all happy ending jokes here. It wasn't like that. But it was so super nice. Leg and foot rubs are the best thing ever. And leg and foot rubs during an aroma-facial? Please.

I am so glad that I thought to shave my legs this morning.

I Am Woman

I recently came across, bought, and read a book before it actually appeared in the New York Times Book Review. I don't actually read the Sunday Book Review, but David does and he mentioned the book to me on the Sunday that I was finishing it. So that's how I know I found the book before the New York Times did.

I found the book in a small ad in another magazine – could it have been the Smithsonian my new favorite magazine? I don't remember. The book had me written all over it: it was Caitlin Flanagan's To Hell With All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife.

I ordered it from our local bookstore – The Book Cellar – supporter of local businesses that I am. Well, I ordered it from them after I searched the shelves trying to find a book about housewifery that was not by Maureen Dowd and I'm pretty sure it had a bad word in the title. A helpful employee did a search for me, figured out what I was looking for, told me it wasn't released yet, and then promptly offered to order it for me. Since the Book Cellar saved my butt during the Amazon-Harry Potter debacle, I thought I'd throw them the business.

I'm already making what should be short entry long but not in the way I wanted, so I am not going to enter into the now growing debate about whether Flanagan is feminist, anti-feminist, Schlafly wannabe, etc. See here, here, here, -- you get the drift -- if you'd like to read all about it.

I found Flanagan's book to be sometimes entertaining, sometimes informative, mostly one-sided and reflective rather than well-reasoned or argued. In fact, I'm not really sure what her argument is. The book reads like a collection of essays, does not present a thesis or argument that I can nail down, and often betrays the author's own indecisiveness. I'm still confused by the "feminism"-is-a-bad-word movement, and I'm not sure of Flanagan's age or generation, but my reading of this book makes me think that Flanagan doesn't know if she is a feminist or not because she, like many others, doesn't know what the word means.

Which brings me to my mother and the picture at the top of this entry.

My mother was the first feminist I ever knew -- though come to think of it, I don't know that she would embrace the label either. My mother always taught me that I could be whatever I wanted to be (her examples always included "Catholic-" in front of them), such as a "Catholic lawyer." My mother coached me to not be dependent on a man. My mother also taught me how to make German potato salad, gave me countless opportunities to hone my vacuuming skills, and rarely let me leave the house with an un-ironed blouse on or imperfect skirt pleats. Once I got older I was also tutored on not leaving the house without a little lipstick on "so that you have some color."

My mother supported me in all my pursuits and pointed to other strong, independent women: Ann Richards, notably during her Democratic National Convention Keynote Address in 1988; Mrs. Schwartz, a down-the-street neighbor who was one of the first women to graduate from Washington University's School of Law (and made killer snickerdoodles); Mrs. Cushing, who lived next door to Mrs. Schwartz and who nursed both her husband and her sister through their terminal illnesses and was also an impressionist painter with art hanging in the St. Louis Art Museum (and who gave out full-sized candy bars on Halloween); Sacajawea, the Shoshone woman who made it possible for Lewis and Clark to get where they were going and get help from native peoples without getting killed by them (and was a woman I was fascinated by thus resulting in me portraying her for Halloween and for a school history project for which my mother made my costume and my father helped to fashion a baby board for my papoose -- I still have my string of blue beads made out of blue buttons); and the women in our family who ran local Democratic parties, coped with major illnesses, supported husbands through new business ventures, followed husbands during their war service, supported families back in the old country, and raised their families. There were many others, but I think you get the picture.

My mother also told me in high school when I was upset that boys did not seem interested in me that I should sometimes not talk a whole lot or be smarter than boys because "boys don't like girls to be smarter than they are." She also told me that I had to decide between a career and motherhood -- that I could not devote myself to both at the same time. In my mother's defense, I should note that she currently denies both statements.

Long before my days of teenage hormonal rages and general angst about my future as a Catholic lawyer, my mother had me use a canvas totebag in which to carry my library books on the walk back to the library. I was very young. It was likely the mid-1970s. I remember using it a couple times and librarians and other women commenting on it. I came across the totebag again the last time I was in St. Louis. It was hanging on the door right next to Torso Jesus. I was born liberated.

All of this is to say that I can relate to being confused about a woman's place in the home, in the workplace, in society. Everything my mother taught me is true. And yet, it can't possibly all be true -- at least not at the same time.

I like working in the academy, and I (somewhat secretly) covet most Martha magazines, a few knitting projects, baking cookies, and the cleaning tips in Real Simple. Is it possible to be a woman pursuing an academic career who also dreams of closet organizers and the next great product from Swiffer? Can I reconcile my occasional daydreams of being a stay-at-home mom and my pursuit of becoming a published author? Is it okay that I have my groceries brought to my door and have twice now had non-English speakers at a local laundromat wash mine and my husband's dirty underwear when my mother did all of those things herself?

I am a feminist and I was born liberated and I do want it all. I'll admit that I collect cookie recipes and I have tried more than once to learn how to properly fold fitted sheets and I take pride in my doctoral degree. In my 30s I have grown to learn that I am a multifaceted person with diverse plans and dreams. I get the "loving and loathing" part in Flanagan's title, but unlike Flanagan, I accept both sides and know now that they make me the liberated woman I am today.

Easter

Holy Week is always a busy time for me. I usually manage to overload my school/work schedule the week that I have to sing for each night of the Triduum and on Easter Sunday.

This Holy Week was a particularly good one for the choir. We are smaller this year (20 singers), but wow what a sound! Add some brass, timpani, the organ at full power, and a five-pound binder full of music, and you've got a kick-ass Holy Week.

To celebrate this important holiday I thought I would finally post a picture I have been meaning to write about for some time. The picture above was taken in my parents' home a few months ago. That crucifix has been hanging in that spot for longer than I can remember (the angel is a somewhat newer addition). You may notice that Jesus has lost his limbs. It is indeed a miraculous crucifixion.

The crucifix is hung on the wall in a hallway directly across from the door that leads to the third floor where all of us girls had rooms. I don't remember the actual incidents that led to Jesus' multiple amputations, but I am sure they were related to teenage hormones or individuals rushing to get out of the house. Poor Jesus was knocked from his perch enough times that He has suffered the complete loss of all of his limbs and the nails that once secured them.

But what do you do with a broken crucifix? My mother lovingly replaces, re-hangs, and re-straightens Torso Christ in His location in the center of all the bedrooms.

However, I am afraid that this particular crucifix no longer gives me pause or inspires self-reflection on Christ's sacrifice.

I just have to laugh every time I see it.

I'm a Geek

Last weekend I had the opportunity to return to my most favorite library. David, being an active and loyal alum, was down on campus for a day of panels and mock interviews with current law students. This left me with a day to do as I pleased in the twin cities that I lived in for nine years. This means, of course, that I went to the library.

It is the greatest library ever. Unfortunately, since I am no longer a student or faculty member, I no longer have access to the stacks. Ah the stacks. Pure bliss. Levels and levels of treasures, movable shelves, ancient study carrels… I really miss that place. I'll have to post about that later.

Since I was not able to hang out in the stacks and since I was not prepared to do any big searches and since I did not have enough change to photocopy articles out of recent journals on the open shelves in the Education and Modern Languages & Linguistics libraries (Libraries within libraries! It's like Disneyworld for geeks.), I decided instead to go to the café within the library (This place is better than a mall!) and grade student papers.

The café is one of multiple branches of the café that I frequented when I was a grad student. It wasn't great, but it was convenient. Toward the end of my time in school, the café opened a branch in the small space between the underground Undergraduate Library (there's a great story about that -- you'll have to take the campus tour or click here) and the underground tunnel of vending-machine goodness that connects it to the Graduate Library.

I made my way downstairs, ordered a decaf latte, and scouted out a table. It was a Saturday afternoon, so most seats were open. The first evidence that I was back on campus was one of the young women working at the café, well, standing at the café next to the woman who was working and bitching about her boyfriend. She was wearing pajama bottoms (obvious pajama bottoms -- not the ones that I wore to class with my oversized school sweatshirt), a tank top a la Drew Barrymore at this year's Golden Globes, and flip flops. Health codes be damned.

Once I got my drink, I made my way over to the corner to get a prime people-watching seat. I spent the next two hours getting an undergrad fix. To wit:

• Two young women speaking very rapid Indian English, who were way concerned about school. It was 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon, they're at the library freaking out to each other about school. I wasn't that bad.
  
• A young woman who was a tad hung over trying to recover from last night's Chinese New Year party. She was on her cell phone with a friend trying to figure out what she was going to cook for the Chinese New Year party that night.
  
• Two Dutch (?) young men talking talking talking very animatedly to each other. I found it annoying because I could pick out a word or two (maybe it was some wacky German?), but I had no idea what they were talking about -- except that it was clearly about hooking up with some women. Some things are universal.
  
• A young, tall, super-white young man -- probably rural kid -- with a backpack heavy with books. He was very put together in an outfit his mom probably bought for him and coordinated with some sort of Garanimal system now that he is out on his own (crap, they still exist!). He had on a baseball cap and glasses that he got when he was a freshman in high school. He sat down at the table across from me and got out a bag of carrots. He pulled a book out of his backpack, took off his hat and his glasses. Then he left for a moment to go around the corner to get a bag of potato chips and a can of pop from the gallery of vending machines in the tunnel between the libraries. (See what happens without parental supervision? This kid was going nuts!) To his credit, he ate the carrots along with his contraband. He opened his book of choice and held it two inches from his face while he indulged allowing me to see the cover. I too had my glasses off, but still thought I could see Captain America. I nonchalantly replaced my glasses. Yep, he was reading a Captain America comic. I thought it was sweet. Then I noticed the library label on it. He was reading a Captain America comic book that he had checked out from the library.

I freakin' love libraries. Which reminds me. A faculty member at one of my recent workshops made fun of me for stating (allegedly) "I just love annotated bibliographies." What can I say? I'm a geek.

I am too important to shop…

…or, so it would seem. When did I become this oh-so-important woman with a life that does not allow for mundane tasks such as grocery shopping? My "other" car (yes, my dear Wagenschen) is almost 10 years old, I wore a skirt to work today that I have owned since 1997, and yet I have my groceries delivered to my door, nay, to my very refrigerator door.

I don't know how I became this woman. It was a gradual process, I guess, but one that frightens me nonetheless. What's next? Someone to cook my meals and pick up my dry cleaning? (Okay, maybe I should not have typed that out loud.)

Perhaps some background is in order. I live a simple life. I work a part-time academic job and teach a college course. I work hard, but I don't typically have to work insane hours. I teach early in the morning on Fridays and then (often) have the rest of the day to myself. Being showered, dressed, and conscious (and having accomplished something before 9:00 am) by 9:00 am with the rest of the day in front of me allows me to do things like run errands – you know, like grocery shop.

Okay, okay, or I could catch up on the reading I didn't do for the week, respond to student work, take care of bills, actually wash a dish or two, take some time to knit for more than a few minutes, work on improving my sudoku skills, label and catalog our digital pics, update our website, put some thought into jazzing up my lecture notes for the next week, read more than two sections of the Sunday New York Times, catch up in my correspondence – like with my family, or even (dare I say it) work on getting a part of my dissertation published.

Whew. I typed that paragraph without even looking once at any of my to do lists. Thinking about my lists reminded me that I could add watering the plants, vacuuming the living room, and going to the UPS store to my "wide open" Fridays.

We got our first grocery delivery back in November. We had discussed it a couple of times over several nights of delivered pizza and more than one morning of coffee with rationed portions of milk. The turning point was the junk mail that arrived with a significant discount on our first order. Sold.

We thought we'd give them a shot. A trial period, if you will. Because they're probably too expensive to do on a regular basis. And they probably don't pick nice produce and fresh meats. And the service probably sucks. And the price is probably too high to be worth it.

Predictably enough, we loved it. The delivery came on time, the fresh items were wonderful, the convenience was worth the price. Even the delivery guy looked like the polished, perfect delivery guys in the promotional materials. He was also extremely polite and very helpful.

He made it easier for me to get over my guilt much faster than I thought I would.

And so I am that much closer to becoming the kind of woman I loathed (see the old post here about working in a cubicle et al.). If I start getting regular manicures and worry about having the right handbag (or start using the word handbag), somebody shoot me.

Happy New Year!

And so we start again. I'm a fan of new beginnings. I think I've stated here before that that is part of the reason why I so love the academic calendar. I've also stated here before that I hate resolutions (click here for my rant which looks like it is about giving things up for Lent, but ends up really being about New Year's resolutions).

So I will not be making any resolutions again this year. However, I do have a few plans. And, naturally, I might have to modify some of my behavior in order to accomplish said plans. But I have not made any resolutions.

January is always nice because it is the start of a new year and the start of a new semester. My syllabus is ready, my course site is ready, I'm sure I'll get myself ready by Sunday night. I have to admit that I'm excited to start again. I always enjoy the second shot at a new course I'm teaching. I wish I had had more time to regroup and make some more changes, but the state-funded institution that I work for went back to work on Monday, January 2.

Gotta love that.
Here's to a new year, a new semester, and new plans.

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.