The C had a rough day at school the other day and, when we were reviewing his day, started hitting himself. That drives me nuts, and I usually beg him to stop or admonish him. It's his way of punishing himself, and it is disturbing to watch and more disturbing to know your kid is hurting himself.
So I figured I'd try my parent's tactic: to talk to him at my level and let him know how I deal with pooey days. Because guess what? Mommy has rough days too. We talked about how if I'm overwhelmed I go into Tolga the Data God's office and whine and plead (true), and the C points out that I'm saying that just to make him feel better. I'll take him in soon to clear that up.
Then I talked about what I do to make myself feel better after a rough day: I... clean.
It was like someone opened a big, gaping window into my subconscious and out came all the smoke and other awful smells: holy crap, I'm an OCD cleanfreak because I'm unhappy with myself. Well, no, not quite that drastic. But I clean because it is something I can control: project isn't going to ship because skiplevel changes everything, ON SHIP DAY? Time to wax the floors; at least that will be awesome.
I'm coming to find out that as a parent you find out at least as much about yourself as you do about this junior human you're in charge of. I've also discovered I'm really, truly, not that good with change.
Unless it's change I know is coming.
You see, if I know a project is going to be riddled with change and uncertainty, I am Totally Copacetic. I will contingency plan and be smug when plan number 457 comes true (out of plans 1-13,492). This explains why the first few (15 or so) X changed tactics or things got shirty with him I freaked out: this was supposed to be a stable, non-changing thing (once divorced). Now that I know it won't be, the latest cryptic email or snyde comment bothers me only slightly less than the newest chin hair to be tweezed.
Did I mention my skiplevel changed the project on ship day? That was this Monday.
It shipped with all the changes Wednesday. And my boss thinks I'm awesome.
Las Vegas gives you the opportunity to view your fellow man/woman at their presumable best and their presumable worst. Dine out in a fancy restaurant (as we did at Fleur de Lys) and you see him/her at their best: dressed nicely, observing manners, eating leisurely, etc. We spent 3 hours in that restaurant and at no time did it get boring or too leisurely; I recommend getting the PrixFixe and the Chef's wine pairings (yum!). Only downer, and this was very very very slight, is that, being the only group of single women at a table and being oogled by the only group of single men 3 tables away. Oogling is nice, but it shouldn't be a constant oogle. More like an occasional oogle. Say, one per dish.
You also get to see your fellow man/woman at their presumable worst: the chainsmoking granny in a wheelchair WITH her oxygen tank, the guy who literally walked up and grabbed me (Him: "Hey, there you are!" Me (pushing him off): "Oh my God..."), the tourists who literally stop mid-walkway and block access to stores, food, drinks, etc. for the rest of us who have done Vegas and are able to glide by moving statues in Caesar's Palace without gawking.
I had one of the best trips to Vegas I've ever had. There was no drama, which is unusual from my Vegas history. There was no pennypinching, and no massive exravagance (the only purchase I made at the forum shops was from BCBG and was $118... before 50% off). (It is also crazy hot). About the time I got tired of shopping and walking (the former is not usually my thing) my compatriots were too; I spent about 3-4 hours in those shops and not once was I bored. If I were to acquire a shoe habit (Nomi brought 7 pairs. 7. pairs.) I could do it there, though: for some reason at one point leopard print peep-toe pumps with a 4" heel seemed extremely reasonable.
I didn't gamble at all; I'm not sure how I feel about that. Part of me misses the blackjack table. Part of me is patting myself on the back that that means I have something to show for my expenditures (oh, MAC, I love you...).
But all of me is going back to Vegas... in 2010... when they open the new Star Trek Experience. Warp speed to next year!
THEHotel. Oh, THEHotel. It is beautiful. There are dimly lit corridors stuffed with marble and sumptuous carpets and elegant flower arrangements and terribly disturbing art. The toiletries are many and varied, attend me: hair cleanser (not shampoo), hair masque (not conditioner), body masque (not lotion), 3 kinds of soap, a sewing kit, shoe polish kit, the ubuquitous and yet never actually used shower cap, and a real glass holder with real cotton balls. The shower is separate from the tub (which could fit two very understanding people) (so could the shower) and there are two potties in our suite! When you have 3 girls to one room, that is just right.
Incidentally, I am eating the most expensive Starbucks breakfast I have ever had. That would be a $4 grande nonfat latte and a $3.50 croissant; while on my $20/day wifi. It's a good thing I turned in early last night (11ish) and didn't hit the tables with the girls :p.
Actually, what has happened is far more disturbing: as I landed in LAS I got an email from work: six months ago our computers got infected with a virus that saved, among other things, passwords and keystrokes. It then sent them out somewhere. E.g, if you had ever gone to your bank account via a work machine, you should probably change all of your passwords. Again: I got this when I landed. In baggage claim. In Las Vegas.
After checking in I got online and changed all of my passwords and all of my pins. However, with my new pins being sent to me -- at least for my main account -- I am stuck without the ability to get cash. That is to say, I can get cash, if I get it off of my card as if it were a credit card, and then I would pay $20 for the honor. I can't bring myself to outright pay the $20 for the privilege of losing another $100 at the table (at least the table part would be entertaining). I may work a barter system with the girls.
We did however sample the local bars here in the hotel (including MIX, at the top, which has an amazing view) and did a little light shoe-shopping. This morning I went for a run, and today promises real shopping, as some of us (cough) underpacked on the dressy clothes. We also have appointments for someone to professionally apply colorings to our face (e.g., we're getting MAC'd) and then a French dinner at Fleur de Lis followed by "O", which two of us have never seen.
Then I will get exactly four hours of sleep before hightailing it to the airport (whee...).
This is, in short, a very different Vegas experience from my past trips: no one is getting drunk and disorderly, or missing at the end of the night; there is a higher share of shopping and a lower share of eating; I don't see rides in our future.
Unless I can get them on the NewYorkNewYork...
Greetings from the Southwest Airlines terminal at the Seattle Tacoma International Airport.
I arrived ludicrously early to the airport this morning – as in, two and a half hours early. Bag check and security was negotiated within 20 minutes, and so I headed to Anthony’s for a drink. (I don’t like to fly).
Alas, the rumors of free WiFi via Google were grossly overstated: instead of starting on the 9th, it is now delayed and starting on Monday the 18th. This being the 13th, it does nothing for me, and I do not wish to spend $8 for AT&T Wireless for 2 hours. I’ve spent the last hour or so trying to scrape some free Ethernets from the nearby “hoity toity” clubs (British Air, Delta) to no avail until now.
Why would I pay for in-flight WiFi and not for terminal WiFi? Well, yours truly is on a stop flight (non plane-changing) from Seattle to Las Vegas by way of… wait for it… Salt Lake City. I will be on a plane exactly twice as long as I need to be to save spending twice as much on a ticket. Ergo, my $8 for a realistic 2hrs of WiFi in the terminal would stretch longer on nearly four hours of flight. (Oh, wait, it looks like I’ve just acquired a signal from British Air… with 40 minutes before boarding, awesome!)
Not that I expect to penny-pinch this trip, on the contrary: I’m trying to save on little things because I know in my heart of hearts I will be very bad this weekend. There has been discussion of custom face makeup application and fancy dress and fancier restaurants; of coercing concierges for favors. But the house taxes are paid and the savings account is getting better, I think I will be ok. Thanks to a work hookup, we are staying at THEHotel at Mandalay Bay (as much as my spell check does not like the way that is spelled, that is how it is spelled). I have brought my running gear, which should hopefully offset all of the gastric and alcoholic excess. Or, it will sit untouched in my bag while I, and my two cohorts, galavant.
Pursuant to this trip I spent yesterday in a frenzy of tying up work loose ends, obsessive cleaning, hair-cutting-and-coloring (I didn’t do it myself, which is why it turned out well), and general whack-a-mole-ing. I was, in effect, earning my time to Quark’s Bar.
Which is not to be: while trying to find a link for the infamous “Warp Core Breach” I have discovered that the Star Trek Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton is no more! Curses! It is set to reopen at the Neonopolis Mall… in 2010.
I am at a loss for words. That was one of my favorite things about Vegas, it was literally a required stop from the time it opened. The last time I went I dragged some six members of a bridal party to go feel Ferengi ears. Yes, I am a geek; but dammit, man! Dry ice in a fishbowl with 7 shots of Rum is nothing to sneer at!
Oh, sure, I can acquire foot-long margaritas and make do. I suppose there is some new/shiny/better gimmicky thing in Vegas – for that is what Vegas does best – but I really think it’s unfair they didn’t consult me. That they are coming up with a new/shiny/better one Next Year is beside the point, I haven’t booked that trip yet.
Take off is in 50 minutes. Next post courtesy of SWA WiFi… maybe…
Disclaimer: I do not have Windows 7. The statistical likelihood that I will have it in the next year or so is equivalent to me being descended from Anastasia. You know, the one who died in vain according to Mick Jagger. I'm moneygrubbing and my laptop is 4 years old and I won't replace it for another year or two.
That said, I have long been a fan of the Get A Mac ads, because they were funny and punchy. They would playfully exhibit the differences (both in purpose and daily use) of each OS and it was at a level that was "all in good fun". The latest "Get A Mac" ad, though, is weak.
And here's why:
Every single previous ad brought out a specific feature, issue, or benefit that Mac had over Windows. Maybe it was removing the myth that only Windows OS could do business. Maybe it was exploring Mac's graphics/arts-friendly side. Maybe it was antivirus issues. But each and every ad had a point.
Until now.
This ad ("Broken Promises") is so generic it threatens the whole genre; there isn't a specific target except that each Windows release has promised to improve on its predecessor. Well, I would think that Mac's OS' have offered the same (after all, if there isn't improvement, then what is the point?). It's a below-the-belt punch, and it shows that Apple is truly threatened, or at least perceptually threatened, by Windows 7.
This bothers me on a couple of levels: one, I do have some significant friends and family who busted their @ss on Windows 7, and rightfully so: I hear it's a sweet ride. Two, I'm all for competition and playful (or barbed) banter: but it needs to have substance. The latest Get A Mac ad is the equivalent to Churchill retorting "I know you are but what am I" to any of his foils.
The irony being that it sends me down the path of looking to a Win-specific platform next year, and not switching to Mac.
Today was Mike's funeral. I went to the pre-cemetary memorial service, in a church. I like churches, for the most part, they have art and architecture and in their best light are a gathering place of people. Today the people were in shades of grey and black, somber for the most part. Some attendees treated it like a reunion, there were fleeting jovial moments tempered by the memory of what brought everyone together. Pictures of Mike in various stages of his recent life surrounded the entryway to the interior of the church: Mike and his helicopter, Mike in his uniform, Mike working on the helicopter, Mike and his wife Anita and their son Riley.
Riley is C's age. He meandered around but was never far from his mother. The gravity of the occasion may have tempered a typical "boy" reaction but at the same time he wasn't particularly teary. The occasional grin and introduction to some family friend or relative you could tell he hadn't seen in years peppered his pre-funereal experience.
I spent the ceremony crying quietly. Ween didn't cry all that much but, as she told me, she did her crying the last few days. I think she's numb, and I think she's probably got some more cry in her. Me, I hadn't cried yet. I cried and cried and cried, as his friends talked about their "Monty" (our "Mike") and brought up all of the traits we remembered him having way back when: the quick reply, the sense of honor, the expectations he had of himself and others that could not be compromised. All I could think about was here is his wife and child, who would not have him in person ever again. They would have pictures, they would have memories, they would have tokens of "honey" and "daddy".
A funeral is for those left behind; Mike is either in a blackened oblivion or in a happy afterlife (and never do I get closer to wishing I had the capacity for religion as when I want there to be an afterlife for those departed). His wife is left behind and his son is left behind and now the question is how their life will change, irretrievably and irrevocably.
It makes me look at all of my daily problems and classify them as petty and stupid.
I came home and decided I would not go to book club. I cleaned a bit, which I find a sense of comfort in, and I sewed a bit (a Luke Skywalker costume I'm making for the C).
I'm enjoying, and appreciating, the quiet.
Is what Tuesday night has to offer on the tele, it appears.
"The Girls Next Door" which, with Holly Madison and Bridget was a fun escape into mindless consumerism and a hint of "what it would be like to be that well off and that built", and with the new girlfriends is just... meh. Artificial drama.
There is "Chopped" which features severe pressure exerted on chefs (a pressured job already). Artificial drama.
There is nothing but artificial drama everywhere. The only non-artificial drama is that supplied by CNN, and I don't want any more of that.
I miss Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers, where the biggest issue was if he'd figured out she liked him by the end of the movie. I miss Holiday Inn where two readily intelligent, sweet men were after the same readily intelligent, sweet gal, and this was somehow a win-win prospect.
Can't we have some intelligent, fluffy escapism?
My. Oh, my. We only have two months left of this year! You know what that means: time to evaluate how I've done on the list. (One cannot forget about one's lists... they keep one humble... and apparently referring to oneself in the third person). You can read the very subjective progress report if you're in to that sort of thing below, but the practical upshot here is that if I keep my list reasonable it turns out I can actually, you know, do things.
I still have a bunch of things I want to do, and most won't get done before the end of year. Stidbomb has threatened to teach me how to drive a stick and to ski (two things I've been saying for about five years now I would learn how to do) and I have some knittery and quiltery to do. Maybe that's why I sit here, despite the "mostly done" status, and feel like I haven't got anything done, except lots of dishes, which always makes me happy.
And I suppose I can make next years list...
The List:
- Get the C his IEP, or 504 help. Get a written, cohesive plan on his education and school break activities. Done in March. It only took hiring an attorney.
- Get a Finance Person, and offset my long-term fiscal goal worrying to them. Done in January. She took away things like new flooring; boo!
- Write thank you notes. Kinda...
- Minimize my travel, but maximize the experience. In 2008 I took -- wait for it -- 11 trips. Some as local as Portland, Whidbey, or Astoria. Some as far as Manhattan, Dallas, and Las Vegas. In 2009 I am going to Savannah and one or two other places. Fewer vacations, more staycations. Ok so I went to Hawaii and am going to Vegas and am already eyeballing next year.... but this year wasn't the 11-trip fiesta last year was. I think.
- Fewer projects -- or at least more practically and economically executable ones. w00t! I consider this accomplished... no more projects really planned for this year, and next year's are simple.
- Get a promotion, or get a timeline on one. I want to be a Director, and I think I'd be a damn good one. I like managing good people and encouraging them, I like being the "go to" person. Sorta. More about that in March.
- Have at least one "just me" night every month. Yep!
- Have one "date night" out every month, at a different restaurant each time. Yep!
- Run at least 3 half marathons. Sigh... only two...but I also did a triathlon, does that count?
- Lose 15 pounds. I have lost some weight with the running, and I need to lose more to get my BMI to "normal". 15 pounds lighter is lighter than I ever have been, at this height, so the odds are stacked against me. That said, I've lost 10 pounds since I've started running. Yeah? Not so much. I've lost about five more (net -- at one point I got down 10)
- Reduce my alcohol intake. With the exception of Christmas, Halloween, and my birthday, no more than 1 glass of wine, 1 beer, or 1 shot per day. This sounds easy, right? News flash: I had started creeping up to nearly a bottle of wine a night again. The last time I did this I was in a job I hated and it had serious health consequences. I like my job fine; I just started looking to wine to do something more than taste good. The slippery slope exists and I'd rather not slide down it. Fortunately, this one helps with the one previous. Hm. Sorta: not doing the bottle of wine a night but not doing just 1 glass either. Moderation in moderation!
- As a bonus corrollary to number 11: only the good stuff :) Define "good stuff"...
- No more than one purchased coffee per two weeks. I've got to the point where I like the coffee I make at home :) Pretty darn close on this... there have been a couple of lapses.
- Revise my budget to be more specific: it doesn't, for example, include running entry fees, running shoes, etc. Expenses like that have been under "spending money" but it should get tracked separately. I heart you, Yodlee.
- Barring last minute invitations to parties (That thereby necessitate otherwise), only one trip to the grocery store per week. Again, pretty darn close... I heart you, Trader Joe's.
I first met Mike Montgomery at Evergreen Junior High in 1986. I had just moved from California, and knew nobody. He was friends-of-friends with a guy I thought was cute.
He was the guy in the hall, not too popular but not unpopular, a pleasant persona in the otherwise angst-filled hormone-plugged roller coaster that is junior high. That status remained until high school: I left to go to Australia, and when I came back, he was my best friend's boyfriend.
He didn't like me by then, because I had (very, very, very) briefly dated and discarded one of his friends. I can't blame him. But he was a good guy, and he was good to my friend; their breakup mercifully was normal and sane and had nothing to do with me. He always wanted to go into the Army, and he did. Eventually he met and married a lovely gal, and had a son. He was stationed in Savannah. He was sent to Afghanistan seven times.
I say "was", and not "has been", because Mike is dead. Mike Montgomery is dead, and I didn't date him and I didn't really know him that well and there are a double-dozen other people on this planet who have a right to be tripped out and wrecked by this (and are). I found out over instant message from a friend in Florida. And life suddenly got weird.
Weird because Mike, a regular guy I knew, part of the nostalgic past, is dead. He's dead. I haven't had to deal with death of someone I knew before. Oh, I've had grandparents who died, but they were OLD, and it was EXPECTED. My grandfather outlived two doctors who told him he'd die in six months (Each time). But Mike? Mike was 36. He will always be 36. He will not see his son graduate from college, he will not see him get married, he will not worry about his 401k or his IRA, he will not gnash his teeth at the next football game or bemoan his requirement to pay taxes. He will not obsess over milk prices (although I don't think he was the sort to do so) and he will not ever, ever again hit the snooze button. His helicopter crashed in Afghanistan and six other people I never heard of, and Mike, died.
Seven times! He had been sent there seven times. Seven. Each deployment is a year or more. We've been at "war" with Afghanistan (whose oil does not exist, and who only seems to have the most tenuous grasp of government after six concerted years of "reparations" on our part) since 2001, right? So, we're talking 8 or 9 years (let's be generous and say 9) of war? So Mike has been in hell all but two of those years.
Dammit! HAD BEEN. HAD BEEN, because he's DEAD, because he got sent to a flippin' wartorn wasteland for dubious purpose. He signed up for the military when the purpose was to DEFEND our country, not to go off and secure oil or repair a country broken beyond it long before we got there. I'm not saying two wrongs make a right; not at all. But Mike is dead, he is DEAD, and will not ever be alive again, because he got sent there so many times. What are the odds, really, that a helicopter pilot sent into that area SEVEN TIMES would ever return? What was it, some sadistic oddsmaker in the D.O.D. saying "well, we can send 'em seven times, but we gotta watch out once it gets to eight".
I hope it was brief. I hope he didn't hurt. I hope his wife and son will get the love and support they will need to pick up and repair their very very broken lives. I hope his mother is able to find some comfort, but I don't see how.
I am sorry you are dead Mike. I am sorry your family is hurting. And I will do whatever I can to get us to stop sending people over there, because this is just not fair.
I see I have forgot to blog about the Seattle Weaver's Guild Sale.
The SWG Sale happens this time each year-- in honor of my birthday, I presume -- and is more of a "fabric arts" sale than weaver's sale. True, you can find much in the way of woven fabrics, from ragrugs to wall art to wraps to scarves. Some weavers weave first and dye next, some follow the opposite pattern. Some, you simply can't tell what they did.
Other items include knittery, crochetery, spinning-work, handmade buttons, and other knickknacks.
This is a very bland description, though, of the actual experience. Here is the detailed synopsis:
You walk into the basement of St. Mark's Cathedral in Cap Hill. You've already had to park your car with tetris-like precision, because this year, the Weaver's Guild advertised on Facebook, Twitter, and the Stranger. As you enter the basement you see four elegant elderly ladies behind what I call "church" tables -- you know, those fold-out long banquet tables -- and the tables are littered with random paper paraphernelia. It turns out this paper is to, among other things, inform you about what the Weaver's Guild does and alternately to figure out who you are and how they can get ahold of you. The four ladies watch you expectantly, attentively, and a trifle patronizingly as you inscribe your email address into their form.
There is no charge to go to the Sale, which is interesting, because it is an event.
You shift right from the table to enter the semi-circular layout that is the sale. You are immediately in the "high end" section: wall art, artsy woven shawls and pashminas, items that run from a couple of hundred bucks well into the thousands. The artist's name, their title for the item, and the price are neatly labeled in a spinsterly scrawl on preprinted cards. I saw one piece that I thought was nice (a yellow woven number with different dye patterns) and ran for $900. I don't have that kind of money; presumably somebody does.
Wandering away from the High End you travel into the Yarn and Thread section: raw wool, dyed wool, and spun wool (and acrylics, and cottons). You can get your stuff in any stage of readiness, skeins ranged from a reasonable $10 to a slightly more egregious $36; all similarly displayed so you really did need to read all of the fine print. The racks are side by side and quite close, so you end up doing a move that looks like the Charleston trying to back-and-fill into gaps so you can see if that aquamarine thread is actually wool or cotton blend.
I will point out, right now, that absolutely no one pressure sales you. Like at all. Some of the artists/crafts(wo)men are there and some are not, but if you have questions the onus is YOURS to go find someone to ask about it. They are not overtly solicitous and this works just fine by me. I will also point out, right now, that if it werent for discreet (and by that I mean hardly noticeable) little nametags you'd have a hard time judging the tradespeople from the patrons; everyone (yours truly included) arrived wearing their latest crafted item.
Past the Yarn and Thread section was the rag-rug and Other Rug Section, and past that was what I could call the KnickKnacks section: wool felt baskets, crocheted buttons, tissue covers, the like. By this point GH and I were about crafted out, and I was to say "Hi" to my mom's friends at the cash register.
Never was another human not welcome at the register.
NOT by the ladies manning the registers, mind you, but by the 20-odd people in line, who were absolutely certain that I, with nothing to purchase in my hands, was somehow line-jumping.
Have you ever been to a bingo game with elderly people? Do you know how vicious they can get? This is about the caliber of looks you get for POTENTIAL line-jumping at the Weaver's Guild Sale. Thus deterred, we left the sale, having purchased nothing (I did drool over a few things and would've purchased if I hadn't had more craft stuff than I know what to do with) and having failed in the ancillary mission of saying "hi". However, we will be back again next year.
For my birthday :)
