Getting Out
The phrase just entered my mind the other day and the next thing you know it came out my mouth. "I'm getting out of IT". There was an immediate positive effect, just like when you make the first call to the therapist and feel better before your first appointment. It is suddenly much clearer that I've been oppressed by this line of work. When I started, 18 years ago, the world hadn't fully embraced technology. The ubiquity of PCs was still ahead. Networks were in there infancy. There was a sense of awe when a person converted part of her work to a computer.
Until a few days ago, my work mindset has been static and I've been trying to make it operate in a very different world. But these days computers are glorified staplers. There's no real buzz left anymore. People just want the damn thing to work like it did yesterday so they can get things done and go home. PC techies are now like Xerox repairmen or plumbers.
...
Another post-paradigm-shift phenomenon: coincidental encounters that resonate your new outlook. A day after my mindshift, I was talking to one of my clients in his office when, in the middle of my sentence, her blurted 'How old are you?'. I think I had just complained over the state of Windows PCs. After I responded, Michael told be about an acquantance who, after two successful business ventures, was writing about about a common need for meaning among men 45-55 years old. This conversation may result in a reading group. Just the kind of new experience I need because my new mantra goes something like this
Do things you wouldn't normally do
Read things you wouldn't normally read
Meet people you wouldn't normally meet.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Uncle Bill
My Uncle Bill was my mother's older brother. He passed away last Monday at 87 years old. Since my mother left this earth 23 years ago at 61, I'm not sure what conclusions to draw regarding the gene pool. Even their parents, Roy and Ilene Burke, had vastly different longevities.
Uncle Bill was a straight shooter, a stalwart of consistency, a church-going man, a veteran, a retiree with a pension and 37 years under his belt. He was on the planning board in Farmington, Michigan for as long as they've anyone remembers planning. They don't make guys like this anymore.
My uncle was 6 -foot-2 and blessed with a radio voice which was in constant use. He came to Michigan when his father, a tunnel engineer, got a job with a new project near Detroit. Bill married Rita Marnon in 1943. They had four kids over the next 14 years. When he died, he was still living in that house where the family grew up.
When I got the news I knew I wanted to drive to Detroit rather than fly. I don't get a lot of quiet time these days and I thought this event required a good deal reflection. This was not a logical decision - if I flew the door-to-door time would be 6 hours. It takes 14 hours to drive the 800 miles from my house. But my instincts were right. I particularly enjoyed the drive out which I split over 2 days. I listened to a lot of music, worked on a few mental projects, and reveled in the exoctica of Buffalo, Cleveland, and Toledo. Not much to look at out there. Among the few memorable moments was the billboard with America's favorite slut offering this.
I'm glad I went despite being struck on the head with spiritual angst. The people around me seem so confident about their beliefs. Bill was a giving and loving man who served his church for many years. He is now taking his rightful place in heaven. That's it. There is no doubt about it. I can't possibly accept this view but I'm jealous of those who can.
My Uncle Bill was my mother's older brother. He passed away last Monday at 87 years old. Since my mother left this earth 23 years ago at 61, I'm not sure what conclusions to draw regarding the gene pool. Even their parents, Roy and Ilene Burke, had vastly different longevities.
Uncle Bill was a straight shooter, a stalwart of consistency, a church-going man, a veteran, a retiree with a pension and 37 years under his belt. He was on the planning board in Farmington, Michigan for as long as they've anyone remembers planning. They don't make guys like this anymore.
My uncle was 6 -foot-2 and blessed with a radio voice which was in constant use. He came to Michigan when his father, a tunnel engineer, got a job with a new project near Detroit. Bill married Rita Marnon in 1943. They had four kids over the next 14 years. When he died, he was still living in that house where the family grew up.
When I got the news I knew I wanted to drive to Detroit rather than fly. I don't get a lot of quiet time these days and I thought this event required a good deal reflection. This was not a logical decision - if I flew the door-to-door time would be 6 hours. It takes 14 hours to drive the 800 miles from my house. But my instincts were right. I particularly enjoyed the drive out which I split over 2 days. I listened to a lot of music, worked on a few mental projects, and reveled in the exoctica of Buffalo, Cleveland, and Toledo. Not much to look at out there. Among the few memorable moments was the billboard with America's favorite slut offering this.
I'm glad I went despite being struck on the head with spiritual angst. The people around me seem so confident about their beliefs. Bill was a giving and loving man who served his church for many years. He is now taking his rightful place in heaven. That's it. There is no doubt about it. I can't possibly accept this view but I'm jealous of those who can.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Princess Grand
With the help of the iconic Deathwish Movers, I have moved this overweight Lindeman upright piano from the back room in Fitchburg to the second floor in Arlington (through the window with a crane), then over to the the big living room in Waltham and finally to the Sudbury house. If you add it up, the moving costs are easily double the original cost of the piano. This has been a great piano with it's big bright sound and incredible resistance to going out of tune. It was a player piano in its former life but somewhere along the way I had to have the player guts removed in order to fix a stuck key. That operation dropped 25 of it's 750 pounds, and increased the volume to the point where I never take my foot of the soft pedal.
.
Alas, I am moving one more time and I think it is time to part company with this old lady and get something a bit grander. I put the ad on craigslist asking for $700, hoping to get my original $500 back.
I've been scouting the countryside for a grand for awhile. Uncle Frank generously offered to give me his 5' 5" Ivers & Pond but the news was not good from the technician who appraised it: current value: $500, cost to fully restore: $18,000. I had to tell Uncle Frank that this piano was like my kids - it will cost a fortune to bring it up to full potential.
I occasionally will stroll through a piano store that has used instruments in hopes of a find but you're talking about $10-$15K for a Mason & Hamblin or Chickering and 30 G's for a Steinway. I know don't have to pay this much because there are people with decent pianos that are just taking up space (the pianos, not the people). If I lock coordinates with a person who just wants it out of his house I'm all set.
And I found him. Tom lives in a sad cape. He's 80 if he's a day. As I rolled up to the house his son was trying to brighten the place up and moving what looked like 50 years worth of stuff out of the house. Tom had an appointment at an assisted living facility later in the week. Thought he'd be out of the house by September. We walked down the basement steps and turned. There in the dark, back corner was the Ivers & Pond Princess Grand. I was hard to access the case with so little light available. The sound was, at best, boxy. The bass strings were completely shot. I brought my father-in-law along for moral guidance. Joe banged out some Gershwin and Fight of the Bumblebee. The action was good. There's hope for this thing.
I went outside and called my piano tuner who was in a canoe at the time. He agree to take a look at it that afternoon. Kirk had a discouraging tome when he called that night. "Jeez there a lot of pianos out there. You could find one that doesn't need all this work". But he also told me the pinblock is in good shape. It has good bones.
That was four days ago. I'm tempted but indecisive at the moment. I'm taking an aside to just think about pianos for a minute. They are connected to families and houses and characters. Though they are substantial occupants in a home, they can sit unnoticed for years watching kids grow up, fathers get old, mothers go away. Occasionally, they will tempt a girl with it's possibilities and relationship will blossom. And so I'm not just upgrading pianos. I'm letting one go and getting to know another. If I buy this one, she'll be a lot older than me, but I like that idea.
With the help of the iconic Deathwish Movers, I have moved this overweight Lindeman upright piano from the back room in Fitchburg to the second floor in Arlington (through the window with a crane), then over to the the big living room in Waltham and finally to the Sudbury house. If you add it up, the moving costs are easily double the original cost of the piano. This has been a great piano with it's big bright sound and incredible resistance to going out of tune. It was a player piano in its former life but somewhere along the way I had to have the player guts removed in order to fix a stuck key. That operation dropped 25 of it's 750 pounds, and increased the volume to the point where I never take my foot of the soft pedal.
.
Alas, I am moving one more time and I think it is time to part company with this old lady and get something a bit grander. I put the ad on craigslist asking for $700, hoping to get my original $500 back.
I've been scouting the countryside for a grand for awhile. Uncle Frank generously offered to give me his 5' 5" Ivers & Pond but the news was not good from the technician who appraised it: current value: $500, cost to fully restore: $18,000. I had to tell Uncle Frank that this piano was like my kids - it will cost a fortune to bring it up to full potential.
I occasionally will stroll through a piano store that has used instruments in hopes of a find but you're talking about $10-$15K for a Mason & Hamblin or Chickering and 30 G's for a Steinway. I know don't have to pay this much because there are people with decent pianos that are just taking up space (the pianos, not the people). If I lock coordinates with a person who just wants it out of his house I'm all set.
And I found him. Tom lives in a sad cape. He's 80 if he's a day. As I rolled up to the house his son was trying to brighten the place up and moving what looked like 50 years worth of stuff out of the house. Tom had an appointment at an assisted living facility later in the week. Thought he'd be out of the house by September. We walked down the basement steps and turned. There in the dark, back corner was the Ivers & Pond Princess Grand. I was hard to access the case with so little light available. The sound was, at best, boxy. The bass strings were completely shot. I brought my father-in-law along for moral guidance. Joe banged out some Gershwin and Fight of the Bumblebee. The action was good. There's hope for this thing.
I went outside and called my piano tuner who was in a canoe at the time. He agree to take a look at it that afternoon. Kirk had a discouraging tome when he called that night. "Jeez there a lot of pianos out there. You could find one that doesn't need all this work". But he also told me the pinblock is in good shape. It has good bones.
That was four days ago. I'm tempted but indecisive at the moment. I'm taking an aside to just think about pianos for a minute. They are connected to families and houses and characters. Though they are substantial occupants in a home, they can sit unnoticed for years watching kids grow up, fathers get old, mothers go away. Occasionally, they will tempt a girl with it's possibilities and relationship will blossom. And so I'm not just upgrading pianos. I'm letting one go and getting to know another. If I buy this one, she'll be a lot older than me, but I like that idea.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Time and Time Again
After a careful reading of the May 28 piece in George's blog I'd like to put my own spin on this time thing.
The paradox at hand pits the growing evidence that time must not exist against the apparent sequence of time. My answer is it depends on where you put your stick in the ground. In other words: whats your frame of reference?
Ever since the my heady days of psychedlic contemplation I've had a strong sense that, from a more distant vantage point (closer to God or the Pleides or schizophrenia) time has no meaning. The moment is all there is. But it is difficult and perhaps undesirable to carry this frame of reference around with us becuase we have two properties of our operating system that bring us back to a time-based view. One: we have memory. Two: our penchant for hope and dread and planning requires that we gander into the future. One interesting twist on this is that I suspect we could not have a sense of future without a sense of past. I don't have any supporting evidence but I suspect without memory we would live in the moment.
So my theory is that time is a convenience necessary for memory to function. Without memory, there is no time. In a twist on the proverbial tree falling in the forest, time does not exist without a memory to capture it.
The time paradox is a subset of a larger conundrum that is The Big Picture. Reality is what it is. There may be some absolute view or perhaps it never escapes relativism. Along comes a life form with consciousness. It could not possibly survive by adopting the rules of the Universe (if you carried around a sense of timelessness, would you pay your electric bill?). So, as part of it's survival strategy, it's necessary to carve out a contrived reality that includes time, a sense of goodness, among other things. But part of our nature is to expand our consciousness (red states notwithstanding) and so we attempt to jump outside our framework for a better view. The result is inevitably paradox.
After a careful reading of the May 28 piece in George's blog I'd like to put my own spin on this time thing.
The paradox at hand pits the growing evidence that time must not exist against the apparent sequence of time. My answer is it depends on where you put your stick in the ground. In other words: whats your frame of reference?
Ever since the my heady days of psychedlic contemplation I've had a strong sense that, from a more distant vantage point (closer to God or the Pleides or schizophrenia) time has no meaning. The moment is all there is. But it is difficult and perhaps undesirable to carry this frame of reference around with us becuase we have two properties of our operating system that bring us back to a time-based view. One: we have memory. Two: our penchant for hope and dread and planning requires that we gander into the future. One interesting twist on this is that I suspect we could not have a sense of future without a sense of past. I don't have any supporting evidence but I suspect without memory we would live in the moment.
So my theory is that time is a convenience necessary for memory to function. Without memory, there is no time. In a twist on the proverbial tree falling in the forest, time does not exist without a memory to capture it.
The time paradox is a subset of a larger conundrum that is The Big Picture. Reality is what it is. There may be some absolute view or perhaps it never escapes relativism. Along comes a life form with consciousness. It could not possibly survive by adopting the rules of the Universe (if you carried around a sense of timelessness, would you pay your electric bill?). So, as part of it's survival strategy, it's necessary to carve out a contrived reality that includes time, a sense of goodness, among other things. But part of our nature is to expand our consciousness (red states notwithstanding) and so we attempt to jump outside our framework for a better view. The result is inevitably paradox.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Discovery
This period of discovery is brought to you by Convergent Circumstances. I intentionally broke my routine by signing up for a 2-day course in intermediate PHP/MySQL in Manhattan. While I am generally interested in the subject, taking the course was entirely optional - somehow I think my life could have inched along without the information. But it was a treat. Not just the course but the accompanying benefits - talking to fellow trainees, being in New York, seeing my friends, taking the train, getting away. All of these stride-breaking elements are just what I needed. I returned to Boston a bit refreshed and pumped up about things that had bounced off my head.
My return coincided with a move to a new office and a slump in business. It is an unnerving combination. I've spent the last few days chasing ideas which lead to other ideas worth chasing. My brain works something like this.
I met a very interesting guy in New York whose is a serious Linux buff. He pointed me to a couple of distributions I hadn't heard of. I have since downloaded and installed Ubuntu on an old server which works fine. Once I solve the video resolution problem I need to figure out how to turn services on and off. Of course Linux always leads to the now what problem but there are a couple of technologies I picked up on that might fit well: Putty, SSH2 and RSS. I've already begun chasing RSS feeds and I'm trying to learn about RSS aggregators. Turns out that podcasting is based on RSS so I had to run down that path for a few hours. That leads to an interesting twist on Terry's Workplace Radio idea.
All of this gets mixed in with more stellar pursuits. I have a note to look up more on Meister Eckhard after my discussion with Carol the other night. I am still in the beginning stages of a new existential quest, a yen for zen. My last Amazon order includes 3 books: Hackers & Painters, Lighting the Way (Dalai Lama) and Stop-Time (Frank Conroy).
Let's hope these worlds don't collide. In the back of mind is the worry that this slippery slope is one banana peel away from a conviction that God is speaking to me through Perl scripts.
This period of discovery is brought to you by Convergent Circumstances. I intentionally broke my routine by signing up for a 2-day course in intermediate PHP/MySQL in Manhattan. While I am generally interested in the subject, taking the course was entirely optional - somehow I think my life could have inched along without the information. But it was a treat. Not just the course but the accompanying benefits - talking to fellow trainees, being in New York, seeing my friends, taking the train, getting away. All of these stride-breaking elements are just what I needed. I returned to Boston a bit refreshed and pumped up about things that had bounced off my head.
My return coincided with a move to a new office and a slump in business. It is an unnerving combination. I've spent the last few days chasing ideas which lead to other ideas worth chasing. My brain works something like this.
I met a very interesting guy in New York whose is a serious Linux buff. He pointed me to a couple of distributions I hadn't heard of. I have since downloaded and installed Ubuntu on an old server which works fine. Once I solve the video resolution problem I need to figure out how to turn services on and off. Of course Linux always leads to the now what problem but there are a couple of technologies I picked up on that might fit well: Putty, SSH2 and RSS. I've already begun chasing RSS feeds and I'm trying to learn about RSS aggregators. Turns out that podcasting is based on RSS so I had to run down that path for a few hours. That leads to an interesting twist on Terry's Workplace Radio idea.
All of this gets mixed in with more stellar pursuits. I have a note to look up more on Meister Eckhard after my discussion with Carol the other night. I am still in the beginning stages of a new existential quest, a yen for zen. My last Amazon order includes 3 books: Hackers & Painters, Lighting the Way (Dalai Lama) and Stop-Time (Frank Conroy).
Let's hope these worlds don't collide. In the back of mind is the worry that this slippery slope is one banana peel away from a conviction that God is speaking to me through Perl scripts.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Opening
I can count the number of artist's openings I've been to on one hand.
On one finger, actually.
I secretly long to a part of this world of tortured ids and creative angst but here I'm compelled to stay below the surface lest I become a fish flopping wildly over by the featured installation until guests stare between their jet stick hair and oblong black glasses wondering what all the racket is about and who is that?
Rolling along the wall, I take considered looks at each piece on display. The first 20 seconds is always honest. After that I'm just pretending the work deserves more attention. Frankly I find it all drier than the Chardonnay hanging from my fingers. Despite this, I'm jealous of the passion she must have to create the work. Why does that theme always recur? Artists, salesmen, and Catholics. If I could only be demented enough to be so enthralled and sure of my own way.
I catch a glimpse of a fellow imposter. The husband of the gallery's manager, I'm guessing. Contact is made and we establish our common bond as outsiders. Inevitably, he asks "So what do you do for a living?"
"I repeatedly strike a yellow button on the wall with my beak until food pellets come out the chute, " I reply. "And you?"
" Same"
The CD changes from jazz standards to something impossibly hip. This increases the distance between my center and the rest of the room. A stealth glance at my watch tells me 9:30. I could leave now but I know where that road will take me. To questions I can't answer and rooms that plead escape.
I can count the number of artist's openings I've been to on one hand.
On one finger, actually.
I secretly long to a part of this world of tortured ids and creative angst but here I'm compelled to stay below the surface lest I become a fish flopping wildly over by the featured installation until guests stare between their jet stick hair and oblong black glasses wondering what all the racket is about and who is that?
Rolling along the wall, I take considered looks at each piece on display. The first 20 seconds is always honest. After that I'm just pretending the work deserves more attention. Frankly I find it all drier than the Chardonnay hanging from my fingers. Despite this, I'm jealous of the passion she must have to create the work. Why does that theme always recur? Artists, salesmen, and Catholics. If I could only be demented enough to be so enthralled and sure of my own way.
I catch a glimpse of a fellow imposter. The husband of the gallery's manager, I'm guessing. Contact is made and we establish our common bond as outsiders. Inevitably, he asks "So what do you do for a living?"
"I repeatedly strike a yellow button on the wall with my beak until food pellets come out the chute, " I reply. "And you?"
" Same"
The CD changes from jazz standards to something impossibly hip. This increases the distance between my center and the rest of the room. A stealth glance at my watch tells me 9:30. I could leave now but I know where that road will take me. To questions I can't answer and rooms that plead escape.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
South to North
In 1915 my father's mother died while walking down the stairs. He was 3 years old and they lived in Birmingham, Alabama. I never got many details about the odyssey that followed, just a few milestones.
My dad, Frank, was pretty much raised by his sister who was 10 years his senior. When his father eventually remarried, he gained a couple of stepbrothers to raise hell with and a stepmother he hated. The big change was the move to Chicago at age 14. He apparently didn't care for the Windy City and ran away from home on at least two occassions.
He must have found a way to accept his new home over time, because I remember hearing stories about him singing 3 part harmony on the street corners with his friends, and getting into trouble with his stepbrothers. He bought his first car new in Chicago, a 1931 Ford Fayeton for $750.
So My Dad was raised in 2 worlds - South and North - and I think it muddled his identity. He had no trace of a Southern accent but when he called his sister in Hattiesburg, Mississippi you'd think he'd never left the Gulf Coast. " Well. how y'all doin' down there!"
My favorite example of his cultural confusion happened about 1961. I was 10 and the news was full troubles in the South. That was long before any inroads had been made into racial equality. I asked my Dad at dinner one night "Daddy, you're from the South but you don't hate Negroes do you?"
His careful answer pleased my mother very much. Something like "No, son, I believe all men are created equal and that everybody deserves to be treated the same". My mother beamed during the brief silence that followed.
Then he said, "Of course I wouldn't eat with one!"
The scene closes with my mother screaming "Frank!"
In 1915 my father's mother died while walking down the stairs. He was 3 years old and they lived in Birmingham, Alabama. I never got many details about the odyssey that followed, just a few milestones.
My dad, Frank, was pretty much raised by his sister who was 10 years his senior. When his father eventually remarried, he gained a couple of stepbrothers to raise hell with and a stepmother he hated. The big change was the move to Chicago at age 14. He apparently didn't care for the Windy City and ran away from home on at least two occassions.
He must have found a way to accept his new home over time, because I remember hearing stories about him singing 3 part harmony on the street corners with his friends, and getting into trouble with his stepbrothers. He bought his first car new in Chicago, a 1931 Ford Fayeton for $750.
So My Dad was raised in 2 worlds - South and North - and I think it muddled his identity. He had no trace of a Southern accent but when he called his sister in Hattiesburg, Mississippi you'd think he'd never left the Gulf Coast. " Well. how y'all doin' down there!"
My favorite example of his cultural confusion happened about 1961. I was 10 and the news was full troubles in the South. That was long before any inroads had been made into racial equality. I asked my Dad at dinner one night "Daddy, you're from the South but you don't hate Negroes do you?"
His careful answer pleased my mother very much. Something like "No, son, I believe all men are created equal and that everybody deserves to be treated the same". My mother beamed during the brief silence that followed.
Then he said, "Of course I wouldn't eat with one!"
The scene closes with my mother screaming "Frank!"
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Arcade
I took my son to the video arcade today while his sister had a play date. He raced cars and motorcycles through virtual landscapes, kickboxed with scary man beasts, and assaulted evil doers with a variety of weaponry. It's true that boys are made from snips and snails and puppy dog's tails but you don't really know your son until you see him brandish a semi-automatic weapon and take-out terrorists positioned on the Tower Bridge in London. It is both comforting and disturbing to see Jack's considerable sharp shooting skills. I supposed that if I'm ever in a standoff with an ATF task force it will good to have Jack on my team.
Meanwhile Aly was playing with her friend Allie who lives in one of the many mini-Tara's on the other side of town. Allie's Dad is in the baseball hall of fame but, of course, I never heard of him. He has apparently opted to be a free agent and divorced Allie's mom, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde. Going over there to pickup my daughter is another one of those worlds collide experiences. WE get a lot of those. Things often happen that struck Terry and me funny that just stay in our private world. Like the time I was in the local pool with the kids. Aly asked a girl if the woman behind her was her Mom and girl replied "No that's my au pair". I don't know but hearing that through Aly's ears (who was just beginning to learn English then) and seeing the look on her face struck me as funny.
Then there was the event in Jack's kindergarten last year to celebrate the hatching of chicks the kids had been monitoring. They put on a little party called Chick Fest and invited all the parents. And there was Terry trying to bond with the other Sudbury moms with lines like "I wasn't sure how to dress for the Chick Fest. Thought I should wear a black bra and tight pants". No reaction.
It can be lonely here.
I took my son to the video arcade today while his sister had a play date. He raced cars and motorcycles through virtual landscapes, kickboxed with scary man beasts, and assaulted evil doers with a variety of weaponry. It's true that boys are made from snips and snails and puppy dog's tails but you don't really know your son until you see him brandish a semi-automatic weapon and take-out terrorists positioned on the Tower Bridge in London. It is both comforting and disturbing to see Jack's considerable sharp shooting skills. I supposed that if I'm ever in a standoff with an ATF task force it will good to have Jack on my team.
Meanwhile Aly was playing with her friend Allie who lives in one of the many mini-Tara's on the other side of town. Allie's Dad is in the baseball hall of fame but, of course, I never heard of him. He has apparently opted to be a free agent and divorced Allie's mom, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde. Going over there to pickup my daughter is another one of those worlds collide experiences. WE get a lot of those. Things often happen that struck Terry and me funny that just stay in our private world. Like the time I was in the local pool with the kids. Aly asked a girl if the woman behind her was her Mom and girl replied "No that's my au pair". I don't know but hearing that through Aly's ears (who was just beginning to learn English then) and seeing the look on her face struck me as funny.
Then there was the event in Jack's kindergarten last year to celebrate the hatching of chicks the kids had been monitoring. They put on a little party called Chick Fest and invited all the parents. And there was Terry trying to bond with the other Sudbury moms with lines like "I wasn't sure how to dress for the Chick Fest. Thought I should wear a black bra and tight pants". No reaction.
It can be lonely here.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Sack o' baggage
You run into this type once in a while - people who look perfectly normal on the outside but are bursting on the inside with a need to unload the story of their life. If you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time you'll suffer the consequences of an emotional water main break.
I was working on a lawyers PC yesterday. She was out sick but her secretary, Diane, decided I needed company. I'm not sure how I tripped the switch but for twenty minutes I oscillated between her speed-reading through the Cliffs' Notes of her life and my own internal movie.
I'll be starting at the new job in the courthouse if they ever getting done with the background check. I mean what's taking so long. I'll bet they have me confused with that other Diane M. White who did some jail time. White's my married name from my first husband who was killed... (by his own hand, no doubt). It better not be because of my job at Nixon Peabody. That woman was a bitch. No I mean it, she had big time psychological problems (birds of a feather...) People couldn't believe what I had to put up with. Well I finally had to tell them 'you either fire me or lay me off but I refuse to resign'. (I have to get some work done. Will she ever stop spilling her guts) Anyway I wish they'd hurry up because I'm going to Europe for five weeks. My daughter and her husband live in Switzerland. He works for Nestles. I know that last job contributed to all my stomach problems. They finally figured out it was diverticulitis and they removed a foot of my intestine (she really did spill her guts) My maiden name is Gemelli.....
You run into this type once in a while - people who look perfectly normal on the outside but are bursting on the inside with a need to unload the story of their life. If you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time you'll suffer the consequences of an emotional water main break.
I was working on a lawyers PC yesterday. She was out sick but her secretary, Diane, decided I needed company. I'm not sure how I tripped the switch but for twenty minutes I oscillated between her speed-reading through the Cliffs' Notes of her life and my own internal movie.
I'll be starting at the new job in the courthouse if they ever getting done with the background check. I mean what's taking so long. I'll bet they have me confused with that other Diane M. White who did some jail time. White's my married name from my first husband who was killed... (by his own hand, no doubt). It better not be because of my job at Nixon Peabody. That woman was a bitch. No I mean it, she had big time psychological problems (birds of a feather...) People couldn't believe what I had to put up with. Well I finally had to tell them 'you either fire me or lay me off but I refuse to resign'. (I have to get some work done. Will she ever stop spilling her guts) Anyway I wish they'd hurry up because I'm going to Europe for five weeks. My daughter and her husband live in Switzerland. He works for Nestles. I know that last job contributed to all my stomach problems. They finally figured out it was diverticulitis and they removed a foot of my intestine (she really did spill her guts) My maiden name is Gemelli.....
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Sunday Paper
I love the idea of the Sunday paper, so much so that I'm willing to risk my neighbors catching a glimpse of baggy PJs and scary pillow hair so I can retrieve it from the driveway while the coffee brews. There's comfort in sitting in bed with this fistful of stuff at the ready. But maybe it's time to see it for what it is: a mass marketing RPG fired at your house in an ecologically disasterous housing.
You developed invisible habits from reading the paper for so many years. The eyes slalom through advertisments, sidstepping mindless drivel, the fingers yank through pages of nothingness until you settling on the occasional piece of interest. But if you look at the paper with a beginner's mind it is mind-boggling how vacuous 90% of it is. There are, of course the bone-headed ads ( today Radio Shack implores you to Protect your Valentine from ugly overages). The propoganda leaflets that fly out of the comics section represent 45 places to buy a plasma TV. But even more insidious are the fluff news stories.
I'm starting to catalog the topics that make up today's mainstream news. Without trying too hard, here's a list of topics I don't need constant updates on:
If I could have a copy of the paper tailored for my needs, here's what would lie therein:
I love the idea of the Sunday paper, so much so that I'm willing to risk my neighbors catching a glimpse of baggy PJs and scary pillow hair so I can retrieve it from the driveway while the coffee brews. There's comfort in sitting in bed with this fistful of stuff at the ready. But maybe it's time to see it for what it is: a mass marketing RPG fired at your house in an ecologically disasterous housing.
You developed invisible habits from reading the paper for so many years. The eyes slalom through advertisments, sidstepping mindless drivel, the fingers yank through pages of nothingness until you settling on the occasional piece of interest. But if you look at the paper with a beginner's mind it is mind-boggling how vacuous 90% of it is. There are, of course the bone-headed ads ( today Radio Shack implores you to Protect your Valentine from ugly overages). The propoganda leaflets that fly out of the comics section represent 45 places to buy a plasma TV. But even more insidious are the fluff news stories.
I'm starting to catalog the topics that make up today's mainstream news. Without trying too hard, here's a list of topics I don't need constant updates on:
- The Michael Jackson trial
- The Israeli-Palestinian conflict
- Charles and Cammilla
- The Pope's health
- Anything relates to the Catholic Church
- Romney, Kerry, Dean, or anything else about the 2008 election
- Stories about TV shows
- The business side of sports
- The Grammys
If I could have a copy of the paper tailored for my needs, here's what would lie therein:
- Opus
- The Ideas section
- The magazine section (only for the crossword)
- Obituaries.
- All the stories after page 10
Saturday, February 05, 2005
I am Dad Unit...and so it has come to pass. By all observations I am starring in the role of Dad but for the life of me I don't how I got here. Much of what I know as real I wasn't prepared for.
- How much they love life. Was I ever that happy?
- How they have nailed English. I hope it is never perfected. I will miss Aly saying things like "I think so I'm gone be havin' a playdate."
- How freely they give their love. In the middle of a computer game Jack will grab my arm tight and say " I love my Daddy"
- How much energy is barely contained in a six year old boy. If you could only put that in a gas tank
- How hard it is to be with them....and without them
We have turned such a corner. I no longer makes jokes like the only thing better than a three day weekend is a two day weekend. It is so much easier now and, with language fully engaged, more rewarding. Lately Terry and I have both independently been thinking of their birth mother. I desperately want her to know that her children and happy, healthy, and growing. But there's no way to deliver that news and even if there was how could it not also be cruel. We will always feel her pain in someway. When I look at Jack and Aly sleeping I often think How bad things must have been for her to do what she did.
God bless, Natalia
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)