What color is an editor's parachute?

Seriously, reason number 482 that I should leave my current gig to be a full-time editor. My "professional" editor just sent me back a document with the following question, after a deadline we'd listed as May 18, 2006, 3:00 p.m. (EDT):

"what happened to (EST) and (CST)??"

Well, sweet nuts, it's called daylight savings time.

Yeesh.

Fat Tuesday, indeed

I'm sort of a lapsed Catholic -- all the guilt, none of the church-going -- but old habits die hard, and for Lent I'm planning to give up chocolate and ice cream, which I managed to do successfully a few years ago, but in all subsequent attempts I have failed miserably (which is embarrassing, especially because the Smelmooo -- who was never any kind of Catholic -- consistently manages to give up many more, and many more difficult, temptations during this 46-day period. Yeah, you read it right, and it still pisses me off: Lent is so not 40 days. Grab your calendar and count it out). So anyway, here we go again, tomorrow.

But in the meantime, I've been celebrating an extended Mardi Gras, which included the purchase of a pint of Cherry Garcia (fro-yo, which according to my Lenten resolution falls under the "ice cream" category, as well as the chocolate category, of course) last night, to be consumed in its entirety before midnight tonight (I'm about halfway there right now).

I got an email the other day from Ben & Jerry's to alert me that they have a new pint flavor, Neopolitan Dynamite, which is half-Cherry Garcia and half-Chocolate Fudge Brownie, and believe me, if it'd been available in my grocer's freezer last night, I'd have devoured it in a heartbeat.

[I've probably written a thousand times about the time that Jenny and I in high school went to 7-11 during a free period and got (and finished) a pint of Mint Cookies-n-Cream, and poor Jenny was sick for like three days. Anyway, Jenny heads back to the States tomorrow from Africa (where she'll return sometime this summer...booo...), and I can't wait, and all this Ben & Jerry's talk reminded me of it, although I just now realized that when I see her in a couple of weeks I will be abstaining. Dammit.]

Anyway.

In addition to the half-pint of Cherry Garcia that I'll consume tonight, I have already eaten a giant chocolate-chip cookie along with a generous bowl of vanilla frozen yogurt, and a cup of hot chocolate, as well as a huge serving of turkey jumbalaya, which was super-awesome, except for the spots that were kind of raw. All this to say that I'm truly getting into the spirit of the holiday, although not to the extent of the handful of my co-workers who are sporting Mardi Gras beads. I'm wondering if I can fit in a Friendly's peanut butter cup sundae while I'm at it, but that might just be too gluttonous for me; again, lapsed or not, there's still that good old Catholic guilt.

Farewell

One of my 101 in 1001 tasks is to send a note to the teachers who've had a big impact on me to say thank you and to let them know they've made a difference.

A few weeks ago, Minnams lent me a copy of a the November 2005 Harper's because it included a review of The Year of Magical Thinking, which she knew I'd just read. As I was paging through the magazine, I saw that one of my English professors, Fred Busch, had written a piece in the same issue, about his son who was serving in Iraq. I thought it was a beautiful piece, and it inspired me to write to my professor to tell him how much I enjoyed his writing, and how much I'd enjoyed his classes at Colgate, including the Living Writers class that introduced me to so many writers I now love. He wrote me a lovely note back the next day, saying how much he appreciated the note, and how he'd written the Harper's piece to get his son home from Iraq (successfully), and how much he'd liked the Hemingway seminar I took with him.

This morning, I was startled to see his obituary.

I'm still in a little bit of shock, I think. I just heard from him a couple of weeks ago; he had his son Ben home; he was teaching at Michigan; he was writing and publishing; he was baking cookies with his beloved Judy. He wasn't dying; he was absolutely full of life.

I didn't like Fred Busch at first; the year I started Colgate, all of the first-years were assigned to read his collection of fairy tales, Children in the Woods, over the summer, and it didn't do it for me. And when I first heard him speak, I thought he was kind of arrogant. And, after graduation, when I bought his book about writing -- this was about the same time I read Stephen King's On Writing, which was a better book -- I was struck again by his arrogance. And really, he probably was a little arrogant, but what author who publishes fairly consistently and is nominated for fairly prestigious writing awards shouldn't be, just a little bit?

I hung back a little in the Living Writers class, which was huge, especially by Colgate standards. Busch always liked my writing and my questions, but he didn't really know me. Then I signed up for his senior seminar on Hemingway, and I didn't speak the entire first class; of the dozen students, probably five of us didn't talk that first meeting.

And then, the second week of class, Busch handed back our first papers (we had to write one every week), and he got to mine and he said, "Who is this Tangent Woman?" I meekly raised my hand, and he said, "You need to speak up. You have a lot to say; you're very smart, and you're a great writer, and I want you contributing in every single class."

And I blushed, and I wanted to crawl under the table, and my classmates were giving me looks of sympathy mixed with envy, which made my face even redder and hotter, but I spoke up in every single class, and I was so grateful to Busch for pushing me. He continued to be supportive and generous throughout the semester, and on my final paper, he wrote at the top, "You must always keep writing."

I'll never keep writing like Fred Busch kept writing; I don't think I have the stories or the patience or the confidence to be a fiction writer. But in my note to him earlier this month, I told him I was doing mostly mundane writing in my job, but that I was blogging and enjoying good books, and that he'd made me a better reader and a better writer. And in the closing of his note back to me, he wrote:

Your generous words make me proud of my time at Colgate--as well as proud of you--and I thank
you for them.
All my highest hopes,
Fred Busch

Busch had probably thousands of students over the course of his teaching career, and although I know he remembered me and respected me, he wouldn't have felt any void in his life had he not had me as a student, or if I'd not sent him that note a few weeks ago. But his high hopes for and high expectations of me really did make a difference to me, and I feel fortunate to have had my path cross his. He and Judy were everything to each other, and I can't imagine how awful this must be for her; I think her experience must be similar to what Didion described in her book about losing her husband. I feel like -- and I got the sense Busch himself felt like -- he'd only just begun, and now, suddenly, he's gone.

They're scheduling a memorial service in NYC in the spring, and I'm sure I'll go there to pay my respects, but I just felt like I needed to say something now, to say goodbye, to say thank you once more.

Get it out!!

I made the huge mistake of listening to the Pussycat Dolls' "Don't Cha" in the car on the way to work, and it simply refuses to leave my brain. This is not the best song to be humming and bopping to in the office.

The mile-high club

No, no, not that one – just the mile-high bloggers’ club, as I’m typing this on my ride home from San Francisco (no access to the In-N-Out Burger, I’m sorry to report to Sharico, and no time for the places Mags recommended, although I’ve been to both on previous trips).

But come to think of it, I’m sort of fascinated by that other mile-high club. Let’s see: I took my first plane ride in 1984 (the infamous, “Look, ma! Chickenpox!” trip to Disney World). And in almost 22 years of flying, I’ve only seen two airplane restrooms that actually appear large enough to accommodate two people under any circumstances whatsoever, never mind if at least one of those people has a serious germ phobia. But I understand that people find a way, and I’ve even heard very detailed stories of how it works, but I still just can’t imagine squeezing into your average-size airplane lavatory with another person and having it be any fun.

Anyway.

The plane home is packed, and the movie is The Legend of Zorro, but I’m doing work so not watching. But I am startled by the number of people who are clearly engrossed in the movie, because they are reacting to it quite loudly:

“That’s the end of the line!!”
“Look out!!!”
“Oh-ho!!”

I’ve never heard such loud and consistent reactions to airplane movies before. (Airplane! movies, maybe. Heh. See how capitalization and punctuation make a difference? God I’m a dork.)

I don’t usually use my laptop on the plane; on my way out, I marked up hard copies of really crappy papers, and I was attempting to make those changes to the electronic versions on this leg of my trip, but it’s turning out to be such a ridiculous process that I’m giving up. I had to take a 30-minute break while my dinner tray was in the way, and even with a clear tray-table, there’s nowhere for me to put my reference papers while I type, except for my mouth, and people are looking at me funny. I think the flight attendant would like to take back the, “My, aren’t you polite!” she served me after I said, “Yes, please,” when she asked if I’d like a chicken sandwich and, “Thanks so much,” when she handed it to me. Really, people are a bunch of ingrates, but it’s always surprising to me how far a little “please” and “thank you” can go when people are so unaccustomed to hearing it.

Speaking of manners: would you knock it off with the shoving five bags plus your sport coat and your winter coat in the overhead twelve seats ahead of yours? And with the loitering in the aisles when people are just trying to get to their seats? What is wrong with people?

Okay, done with the rant.

I can’t wait to get home to my guys; the Smelmooo and I were back to the “ships passing in the night” business this week (we saw each other for about an hour and a half on Tuesday night; he unpacked the bag he used for D.C. and I packed it up for SF; we watched 24; we were done), and I’m so over it, although my travel’s slowing down again next month.

I feel like I’m having a quarter-life crisis, which is so lame and yuppie-ish, and it occurred to me that I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis, because I don’t think I’m going to make it to 114. But regardless, I’m having one of those “life’s too short” kinds of feelings about nonsense at work, and I am wondering what color my parachute is and all that crap, and feeling sort of paralyzed and scared. As Sharico knows, because she still has a copy of it, I wrote my college essay about not knowing what I want to be when I grow up.

A quick diversion: Minnams asked me the other day why, if I was clearly such a nerdy overachiever, did I not go to a top-notch college? And my answer was that: (a) I was interested in Brown, but then when my mom and I got to the campus we couldn’t find any parking, so I decided I didn’t want to go there; (b) I was interested in Dartmouth, but then heard it was a misogynistic kind of place, which I didn’t want; and (c) I visited and loved Amherst, but got intimidated by the application and didn’t apply. And really, that is one of the few regrets I have in life, the not even applying because I was too scared of rejection. Because really? I had kick-ass SAT scores, and fine grades, and good activities, and I could write well, and it’s entirely possible I could’ve gotten in. But I got spooked, and I just wanted the whole application process done with, so I applied early-decision to a fine school where I was 99% sure I’d get in, and I did, and that was that. This isn’t something that haunts me, particularly, and in the end I really don’t think it matters much where you go to college; I think it’s a regret less about actually where I did or didn’t go to school as about my total lack of confidence and fear of rejection.

Anyway, I'm going through it again, the still not knowing what I want to do when I grow up, even though I'm ostensibly already a grown-up. But that's another entry for another time. For now, I will turn to my US Weekly and have a nice weekend with my guys, and worry about it on Monday.

Uninspired

I haven't written here in ages, and am still not particularly feeling it, but I figure I should get back in the swing while I'm out of town.

I'm in San Francisco, one of my favorite places; I've never been here this time of year, though, and I was surprised how perfect the weather is here. It's sunny and warm -- like early spring rather than mid-winter -- and the sky is beautifully clear. Most of the time I've spent roaming around San Francisco has been near the water, but this time I'm further inland and the it's much warmer without the wind.

I'm a few blocks away from Union Square, but when I arrived at the hotel yesterday -- absolutely STARVING, having eaten nothing since a biscuit and fruit cup on the plane seven hours earlier -- I didn't have a good sense of where I was in relation to everything else in the city (anyone who knows me even a little is wholly unsurprised by this, I know). I went to a little Thai restaurant a few doors down from the hotel, which was outstanding, and once my tummy was full, I set out to explore the city a little.

Had I turned right and walked a couple of blocks, and then gone right again, I'd have found myself in the heart of Union Square, where all the great shopping is in SF, where there are street vendors and, I discovered today, the world's most awesome Walgreen's on Market Street.

Of course, I instead made a left and another left, and found myself in a neighborhood that would have made my mother bless herself and have a heart attack. There were a handful of lovely restaurants and theaters along the way, but they were nestled between rundown liquor stores and boarded-up buildings, and there were pigeons absolutely everywhere. Oof. But today, I headed to the right side of the tracks, and all was well. Yay.

Other random thoughts from San Francisco:

-- I'm at a meeting where everyone pretty much knows each other, and I only knew one person when I arrived yesterday. This, coupled with my being socially inept and shy and 20 years younger than everyone else, is generally not a good thing. But at the opening reception, I somehow connected with two incredibly lovely, gregarious people who introduced me to everyone and made me feel like less of an outcast. And one of them is a year younger than me (I looked her up on Friendster last night; I know, I'm a scary stalkerish lame-o), which is amazing. I have a little bit of a crush on her, I think; she's incredibly smart and also really personable, and I was so grateful to her for not being a Mean Girl.

-- I'm shocked by how open the people who are 20 and 30 years older than I am are about their ailments and their medications and whatnot. At breakfast, one of my table-mates rationalized his eating sausage by explaining that he's on 40mg of Lipitor, and another guy busted out his ziploc bag of pills in the middle of the meeting. I've been seeing a lot of this at meetings lately -- even more than people whipping out their knitting in the middle of a session, which also seems a little inappropriate.

-- In the wake of my Friendster obsession (which had been waning until I looked up my girl crush last night), Sharico directed me to MySpace, which I think skews somewhat younger than Friendster. I didn't like it -- people's pages kind of gave me a headache, and I just can't fathom using that medium as a primary means of communication with real-life or virtual friends. But I did stumble upon a girl from my high school who'd nearly died of a heart problem in 9th grade, and one has really faced the fact that life is short.

-- My hotel provides complimentary yoga gear for the guest rooms, as well as an assortment of board games that guests can borrow, but there is not a single damn vending machine or gift shop or anything (the guest services book tells me that there's a Walgreen's up the street if I need sundries, but it's as dodgy as the Market Street Walgreen's is awe-inspiring). But they did put out Diet Coke by 10am, so they get points for that.

-- I feel glad for the Powerball winners, and I can't help but think that if the Smelmooo and I win the lottery like we plan to, people will think we're undeserving. But I think I'm okay with that.

-- I'm a big fan of taking the stairs rather than the elevator, but it's kicking my ass. I'm on the seventh floor, and every single time I come up to my room I'm winded. What is up with that? I'm in relatively good shape -- I'm no marathon runner, but I go to the gym with some regularity, and I'm not sprinting up the stairs or anything, so it's unsettling to me that I'm breathing heavily by the sixth floor.

-- I went ice skating twice this weekend, after not having been for probably eight years. I'm no Kristy Swanson (whore), and I'm not particularly graceful or elegant on the ice, but I was still sort of amazed how easily it came back, after some initial serious unsteadiness. There was this old guy lacing up at the same time we were, and we weren't sure whether to call him whimsical or crazy -- he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat -- and then all of a sudden I spotted him falling backward, cracking open the back of his head, straw hat several feet away from him, blood all over the ice, him just lying there in a heap, staring up at the ceiling. It was so awful and scary and there were like five skate guards attending to him and trying to help him off the ice. And just seconds before I'd been thinking how wimpy kids today are, wearing helmets while they ice skate. Poor old guy; I wonder if he is all alone and whether he cracked a hip or something.

-- I'm trying to stay on east coast time while I'm out here, so I was up really early and watching bad TV. Dawson's Creek was on, an episode I hadn't seen, and Katie Holmes was being such a prissy little bitch I wanted to smack her through the screen (and she was wearing a really stupid hat, to boot). And Michelle Williams was all smitten with Henry and dressed up for a Valentine's dinner with him and she looked young and adorable, a little rounder but basically the same as she does now. I feel like there should be Team Potter and Team Lindley shirts at Kitson, and I would totally buy and wear Team Lindley.

That's all I got.

My Achilles heel is in my face

I could ramble on for ages about my trip to Atlanta last week, about attending the Pet Expo this weekend, about all the freakin' snow, about how envious I am of my parents in Florida and my sister in Hawaii, about how sad I am that we couldn't go to a surprise party yesterday because of the snow (and how really sad I am for the would-be hostess who planned such a great party, as well as for the guest of honor), about the stupid people who drive around with a foot of snow on top of their cars, about my intensifying love affair with Ms.PacMan and Flavor of Love, about the perfect grilled cheese I made yesterday, about how much I hate that my new car's hood requires a whole lot of effort to stay propped open, about how conflicted I feel about my oldest sister, about all the recent celebrity break-ups, about Madonna's get-up on Ellen after the Grammys, about the end (or, I hope, "end") of Arreseted Development, about stupid Britney with her baby on her lap in the car.

But I won't.

I will, instead, simply say that, for almost my entire life, any sort of stress I've experienced has manifested itself in a vicious attack on my tummy. Always, always, from the time I was a stressed-out third-grader, my mom pointed out that my gut is my Achilles Heel.

And then, weirdly, about this time last year, as I was considering moving into a new position at work and then actually beginning my transition to the new work, I developed this horrendous growth on my face that basically boils (heh) down to a giant cyst on my chin. I mean HUGE -- like, borderline Elephant Man. It did a number on my stomach, as well, but this chin thing was a new addition, and I wrote it off as an anomaly.

And today, I noticed, it's back, with a vengeance -- giant, disfiguring and painful to boot. I mentioned it (well, really, wailed and whined about it) to Minnams, who didn't notice it without my pointing it out. But once she saw it, she couldn't stop staring at it quizzically.

My head is officially a train wreck.

You're really wishing I'd just stuck to bitching about the snow, aren't you? Just be glad that, unlike Minnams and my valentine, you'll mostly likely not be subjected to it up close.

Stupid rules

I am, undeniably, a rule-follower. I don't know if it's the comfort of having structure and order or plain old Catholic guilt, but there you have it. The Smelmooo always mocks me for refusing to bring snacks into the move theater -- even my mother will do so without guilt! -- although I'm starting to waffle on that one. When I took my nieces to see Disney on Ice -- which should be a whole nother entry at some point -- I totally set a horrible, hypocritical example for them and sneaked in five different kinds of snacks in the bottom of my purse, despite giant signs everywhere warning us that outside food and beverages were prohibited. But no way was I paying 10 bucks for a teensy bag of popcorn, on top of the 20-dollars-apiece programs.

Anyway, though, despite this weird recent tendency toward rule-breaking (which I expect will be short-lived), the rules that have consistently done me wrong are those freakin' Microsoft Outlook rules that supposedly will dump all of my emails from one address into my junk mail folder without passing through my In Box, or automatically make an email from my boss pop up in green font so it sticks out. These never work for me, somehow.

In my (thankfully former) job as the main media contact for my organization, I ended up being the de facto go-to person for all of the crazies, press credentials or not. I tried to get all emails from the particularly persistent crazies dumped automatically into my "Nuts" folder, and I ended up with totally innocuous things from other people being junked or dumped into Nuts, and all the messages from the crazies coming straight through to my In Box. So I abandoned that whole notion and swore off the rules.

And this week, Bill Gates -- or whoever -- came back to bite me in the ass. I'm still not using the rules, but one of my co-workers somehow managed to set up a rule that automatically forwards every email I send him to two of my external consultants. I think he didn't do it on purpose, but still: I feel horribly exposed, and now I am living in absolute fear of sending any emails to anyone. You could totally sink someone by using this little trick. But you shouldn't, because I'm pretty sure it's against the rules.

Good news!

That's all I can think, anyway, if you follow the cliche that no news equals good news. Because on my way home from work yesterday, this was the breathless teaser I heard for Channel 7 Eyewitness News (during February sweeps, mind you):

"Seven on Your Side with the real scoop on soup! What are you really getting when you order the bowl instead of the cup?!"

This, during February sweeps.

Granted, from the station's web site, it doesn't look as though they spent a lot of time on this story, and it's basically just another indictment of Quiznos (I have really mixed feelings about Quiznos; I love the food, but hear so many bad stories about how they screw the people who own their franchises, and then they go on Ellen and give away a franchise or two -- I can only assume to repair the tarnished image -- and I worry that Ellen will go down with them a la Oprah and James Frey, and I just can't imagine Ellen bringing the Quiznos CEO onto her show and telling him he disappointed her).

But again, good news, because usually the exposes on restaurants during Sweeps are more about "You'll never guess what's living in your soup bowl!!" or something along those lines, so part of me is grateful that they were only able to dig up something this lame. And, I have to admit, I will now always opt for the cup of chicken-corn-chowder if I go to Quiznos, so maybe Seven really is on my side.

Desperately seeking my filter

For the past few days, I've found that pretty much every thought that pops into my head comes spilling out of my mouth uncontrollably. I'm not sure what's up with that, but I fear that it's going to start having some consequences.

I've had some better success with emails -- I type everything in my head, but I'm smart enough, for the most part, to edit before hitting Send -- but I feel like I now need to post all of those unsaid things, as well. We'll call it TMI Thursday, I think. Here we go. I'm warning you, though: you may think I'm disgusting, crazy, or both after reading the following.

-- As Minnams and I were discussing the earwax study with another colleague, I felt compelled to tell them about how, when I was studying abroad, I dislodged a piece of earwax so impressive that I mailed it to my sister in a Halloween card. And then, when she and my brother-in-law moved this summer, she found it, and mailed it back to me, and I nearly died laughing, and the Smelmooo nearly divorced me, I think.

-- I caught up yesterday with a consultant I used to work with all the time but whom I hardly talk to anymore; I got in touch with him because it was his birthday. He asked me how a project I'm now working on is going, and I just vomited out, "God, I hate it so much. I hate the people working on it; they all suck, and I'm miserable." Blah blah blah inappropriateness and self-centeredness, and on the poor guy's birthday call!

-- As I said, I'm doing better in writing, but I want to get it all out of my system in the hope that it cures me. So this morning, I responded to Seth's post about changing dentists, but what I deleted was a whole diatribe about not wanting to change gynecologists, even though mine is an hour away, because I love how predictable everything is (exact same questions, exact same order, exact same wording, every single visit) and, more importantly, I love that there are soothing posters on the ceiling over the examination table. Love it, and I've never heard of any other GYNs who do that, so I'll stick with the commute until I do.

-- Our friends are having an Oscar party (yay!), and we're all supposed to bring our favorite movie-watching snacks. I changed it to pretzel bites on the Evite response (or maybe I got rid of any references altogether; I'm too lazy to go back to check), but the first thing that popped into my head was that I should bring Twizzlers and Diet Coke, for the purpose of using the Twizzlers as a straw for the soda. But I think that, while that may be fine for a dark theater in junior high, not so much for a party in our friends' living room on Oscar night.

I kind of think all of this inappropriateness is spilling out because I've been spending so much time biting my tongue directly to the stupid people like the ones I ranted about to my consultant on his birthday. I don't know. I worry that I might crack one of these days, and turn into Ben Affleck at the Will Smith press conference in Jersey Girl. Yeah, you read that right. And I even watch parts of it when I stumble across it on TV.

I'm in trouble, aren't I?

Groundhog Day shout-outs

In addition to Punxsutawney Phil and Bill Murray, of course (is it appropriate that I hated the movie Groundhog Day the first time I saw it, but I like it better every time I watch it?), a couple of others to recognize on this lovely day:

-- Happy birthday to my brother-in-law (brother of the Smelmooo), who turns 30 today!

-- Minnams also has a birthday today, although I still argue that two years out is not quite "pushing 40." Happy birthday to you, as well.

That's all I got. I think I'm still reeling from this "Jodie 'How rude!' Sweetin of Full House fame was a meth addict but now is recovered and ready to act again!" business being news. I think she has some sort of Jan Brady syndrome (the Olsen twins are ubiquitous! Candace married that hockey player and is all about performing her "wifely and motherly duties" as God wanted!) and this is her busting out the black wig. Weird.

SOTU

I feel that it's my duty as an American to watch the State of the Union address each year. I also really love the theater of it all: I like seeing the interactions as the President makes his way inside (who gets a smooch, how good an acting job the President and the leaders of the opposite party will do of making nice); I like analyzing the composition of the First Lady's Box (dirty, I know); I like seeing the great visual divide when one side of the floor is on its feet, offering thunderous applause, which the other side sits there looking neutral or plain pissed; I like trying to predict the exact moment when Ted Kennedy's head might actually explode.

But still, I have trouble making it through the SOTU, because I really have trouble listening to our President. I don't actually think that W is purposely evil; I actually think he's well-intentioned, if often misguided. But I find him to be so damned smug that I feel like my own head may explode, and I don't care how many times people tell me it's a regional dialect thing, it is NUKE-LEE-ER.

I thought about making last night's SOTU into a drinking game (Do a shot every time he says nucyoular! Chug each time he inappropriately and manipulatively invokes the memory of 9/11!) but figured I'd be dead from alcohol poisoning by 9:15, so instead I watched a bit and fell asleep probably 10 minutes in, waking occasionally when the Smelmooo made indignant noises that carried from the other room.

I did wake up enough to catch the end of Flavor of Love, which features nearly as inarticulate a protagonist as the SOTU, but I was impressed by how compassionate and lovely Flavor Flav was when Red Oyster (real name: Abigail, although Red Oyster seems more fitting) told him her dad was injured in a car accident.

I fear that this makes me a bad, but possibly typical, American, that I found Flavor Flav more compelling and sympathetic than our President. Flavor Flav in '08? I think I need a drink.