October 4, 2008 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me, Good Things Come to Those Who Are Impatient Whiners

You know that $700 billion financial bailout package the House failed to pass last Monday?  That the Senate voted out on Wednesday?  That the House DID pass on Friday and the President nearly immediately signed into law?  Well, somewhere in those 400-and-some-odd pages are about five pages dedicated to my organization’s top priority.  A policy we’ve been working on getting enacted for nearly two years.  (To be fair, that’s pretty decent turnaround time.  Some groups have fought for policy changes for better than a decade, without success.)  A policy which commands the attention of much of the staff and sucks all the air out of the room whenever we consider tackling other projects.

One 15-minute vote, and just like that, the whole world changed. 

We high-fived and hugged and drank champagne and went to the roof deck to smoke cigars.  Somebody thought to order pizza.  When we ran out of booze, we went to the bar downstairs.

My role isn’t to be the office cynic — someone else has that title wrapped up — but I am, at best, “cautiously optimistic” when it comes to this sort of stuff.  I know the many, many, many ways in which things can go wrong, so I take a firm stance of not counting one’s chickens before they’re hatched.  Thus, even yesterday morning I was unconvinced this bill would actually pass with our policy intact.  Blame it on my conservative Midwestern upbringing, where even deserved celebrating is frowned upon, let alone premature celebration. 

It’s slowly sinking in, but I don’t think it will be real for a week or two or maybe not for another couple of months, when our Board sits down to identify next year’s priorities and we have to find something new to put in that #1 slot.  It’s somewhat frightening to realize that the issues I work on are leading contenders, but that’s a good problem to have.

September 7, 2008 | Filed under: I Run Therefore I Am, Is She Still Talking?

August, as I told a friend, turned into Mental Health for Katherine Month.  (Yes, I realize I missed 2008’s official Mental Health Month.  It’s been one of those days weeks years.)  She started to remind me about the flurry of activity that September was sure to bring, but I stopped her, imploring, “Please don’t ruin Mental Health for Katherine. Things were going so well!”

I spent less time at work.  I spent less time at the computer.  I spent less time being stressed out. 

Even better, I used those extra hours that I wasn’t working to do things that are important to me or needed to be accomplished. 

I think it may have worked — in the last two weeks, I’ve exercised more than in the previous two months combined. I finished all of the painting around my house.  I’ve hosted out-of-town guests and gone out of town and seen a bunch of friends around town.  I’ve read books — plural!  I’ve consumed copious amounts of alcohol in the spirit of being social, not as a coping mechanism.  I am, I think, a more pleasant person to be around.

In a moment when I suspect my mental health was in a frightening place, where thoughts like “Life is grand! I can do anything I put my mind to!” abound, I signed up for a half marathon only six weeks hence.  Because getting to the gym more than once a week somehow qualifies me to run 13.1 miles.  Mm-hmm.  Brilliant.

But, tra-la-la! I’m determined to make Mental Health Month for Katherine last through October, even if my legs don’t.

August 6, 2008 | Filed under: Is She Still Talking?

I’m traveling. Again. Two weeks ago I was in Portland, which lived up to its reputation for being walkable and public transit-able and chilly in July, which was unfortunate because I took summer clothes with me, nary a long-sleeve in sight and certainly not a sweatshirt or fleece jacket. Sadly I didn’t learn my lesson then, because again this week I find myself wishing for jeans — not the capris I packed — and something other than my suit jacket to wear for warmth outside. And really, I should have known — Berkeley has a similar climate to San Francisco, which I conveniently forgot. My logic went something like this: I know SF will be cold, but I’m not going to SF, so therefore it will be warm. WRONG. Berkeley is ON THE BAY. In fact, I can SEE THE BAY from my hotel room window.

What is the deal with the homeless population out west? Holy cripes, I was not prepared for that in Portland — people sleeping in nearly every doorway and parking garage within six blocks of my downtown hotel. And while I anticipated the homeless population here in Berkeley, I was still a bit horrified to see a guy walking half a block in front of me pause at the corner of a church property to relieve himself in the waist-high bushes planted there. In broad daylight. As I walked past.

Anyway, my real point here is that I’ve finally, finally been broken of my 6 PM = dinnertime habit, which had been pretty well entrenched since, oh, the day I was born. When I got back to the hotel last evening, I just expected that next on the agenda was dinner, but one look at the clock quashed that. “I can’t eat dinner now! It’s just barely six o’clock.” I went for a run instead, showered and then ate dinner at the much more civilized hour of 8 PM. OK, EAST COAST SOCIAL MORES, YOU WIN.

I also discovered that I’m old. Being on a college campus — wearing a suit and heels, no less — will do that to you. Even more telling, though, is that in my quest for dinner I breezily dismissed the falafel stands and Chipotles and the dozens of places with the word “cafe” in their name. On my run I passed a restaurant that actual real grown-ups (read: people my parents’ age) were exiting and put it at the top of my list of options. Good call.

In an odd juxtaposition, I also managed to feel nineteen again. That was the summer that I pierced my bellybutton. Yes, really. It continues to be a source of curiosity, especially among the Junior League crowd. (I love the ice-breaker game “Two truths and a lie” because the declaration the I have a belly ring is almost always mis-identified as the lie.) Yesterday I discovered I needed a new bead for the center of the ring, which makes sense as I don’t think I’ve done anything with it in eight years. In a stroke of brilliance, I realized that this errand was probably easier accomplished in an alternative college town such as this, rather than downtown DC. Which is how I came to be standing in front of the counter at a bustling tattoo/piercing establishment in the middle of the Berkeley shopping district, feeling every bit as uncertain as I did when I first got the piercing. I just don’t fit the mold of the average customer at these places, and it shows.

I’m headed back to DC tomorrow, where I can once again blend into the 8 PM dinner crowd, belly ring safely concealed beneath my suit.

July 20, 2008 | Filed under: Is She Still Talking?

Ugh. I spend so much time working these days, and I get home (sometimes as early as 8 PM!) and I just want to do … nothing. And in particular, nothing that requires a computer. No checking e-mail, no composing of blog posts, no paying bills online, no nothin’. (This may explain why my home phone plays a message about my service being temporarily suspended, but I can still dial 911 if it’s an emergency.)  Sometimes I’ll read or flip through Pottery Barn catalogs fancy interior design magazines, but some days even that takes too much effort. So I turn on baseball. Yes, I am one of the 359 people who watch Nats games. Really, I had no idea I was so special.

But I figure you deserve some amusement, so please enjoy these somewhat recent realizations that there is, in fact, something wrong with me.

• I showed up for our beach weekend with a library book. A non-fiction book. About science. Before anyone could accuse me of being a giant dork, I discovered that my dad brought the same exact book for the trip.
• I wear dress clothes and jewelry every day. I can wear them comfortably for as long as the day requires, but the second I walk in the door it’s off like a prom dress with them. If I pause to read the mail rather immediately changing into yoga pants, my clothes begin to bind, my necklace starts choking me and I’ll stop in the middle of a paragraph to go change because OK, ENOUGH ALREADY!
• I lost three pounds this week without even trying. Ordinarily that would be cause for celebration, but it’s actually quite troubling, as it seems that my body now disdains food. I’m rarely hungry, nothing sounds appealing, and many many items cause my insides to do flips. Especially crazy foods like a banana, which I ordinarily eat as a snack on a daily basis.
• I’ve sort of adopted the homeless guy who sits on a bench over the bridge near my house. He doesn’t panhandle or harrass people or scream rants full of crazy. And he thinks I’m pretty. In other words, he’s my kind of homeless guy. I don’t know his name or where he goes when he’s not on the bench (I’ve been trying to figure out if he sleeps there overnight — I’m leaning toward not) and I know it’s a little odd, but there’s something reassuring to me about our routine interactions. It’s a solid reminder that I live in a big city.

June 30, 2008 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me, Thinky

I started my first job in DC six years ago, on the tenth of June. (I meant to write this to commemorate the actual anniversary, but like so many brilliant blog ideas I’ve had this year, time got away from me.) I had a good job, it was in the field I wanted, there was a lot to learn and my colleagues were willing to teach me. Work also provided a hefty part of my social life, for which I am still grateful. It was exactly what I wanted.

* * * * *

I’d had visions of my big city life since I was a kid. My job, oh, that was usually the focus of these daydreams. The frantic pace, the expense account lunches, the schmoozing at cocktail parties, the conversations about how we’d be a hell of a lot more successful if certain people were capable of removing their heads from their asses for just five minutes. (Yes, even my daydreams contain foul language.)

My last place of employment had none of that, which is probably a good thing.

* * * * *

I wear a suit every day, except for the days on which I don’t anticipate any outside meetings and then I wear an outfit over which I can toss the jacket that lives at the office specifically for that purpose. You know you’re dedicated to your job when you work six days in a row, one of which is a Sunday and another of which is a federal holiday, all of those days decked out in a suit and heels. It was three months before I wore jeans to work on a Friday, and only then could I get away with it because it was Good Friday and half the city wasn’t at work anyway. I blow dry my hair and do full makeup almost every day, again only slacking on the days I’m not in a suit. I shave far more than once a fortnight now, to accommodate all the pantyhose-wearing. The personal upkeep alone is a part-time job.

* * * * *

“How’s the job going?” a friend inquired.

“Have you ever been thrown into a murky pool filled with piranhas that immediately get to work eating you alive?” I replied. “It’s kind of like that.”

I had a rough couple of weeks there, time that conveniently coincided with my parents’ visit, which I’m sure just made me a barrel of monkeys to be around. I don’t know – maybe they liked being snapped at and told I don’t have time for things and work sucked, could we please not talk about it, what did you do today? Probably the icing on the cake was when I left them at the table to order my dinner for me while I went to the restroom and sobbed. If they noticed that I came back to the table without any mascara on, they didn’t mention it.

* * * * *

I knew this job would be a challenge. I picked it because there were new things to learn and good opportunities to develop skills in areas in which I know I’m weak.

I grossly under-estimated the extent of the challenge. Every day is a busy day. Few days go as planned, even when I don’t make a plan until 10 AM. I try in vain to enforce my rule of going home on time two nights a week. Officially we end at 5:30 but anything before 6:30 counts as “on time” in my book; 8:30 is not unheard of. And those weaknesses? Boy do they come to the fore in some pretty ugly ways. Well, awareness is the first step, right?

* * * * *

“Who are the piranhas?” my friend asked, “And why aren’t you biting back?”

I didn’t bite back, but I did manage to pull myself out of the water last week and score a couple of wins. That’s enough to keep me afloat for a while.