May 16, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

Oh, Internet people, how I hope you will come through for me. It seems as though I have angered the Technology Gods mightily. I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I forgot our anniversary or didn’t notice someone’s new haircut. Whatever it was, it’s past the point of being funny — we are firmly in Tragic Territory — and now I am in need of your assistance.

But first, some highlights, for your bribery amusement:

I switched cell phone providers for my work phone. After a year of having to leave my desk, position myself next to the window (or all the way outside), stand very still when I stumble upon a signal, pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time, and still only hearing about 48% of what the person on the other end of the line said, I decided it was time to switch. Something about significantly increased productivity and no longer feeling like a dork every time I answer this phone. So now I have a new phone that I have no idea how to use. (Apparently I hang up on people when attempting to increase the earpiece volume. Not such a good habit.) And, naturally, the new phone has no one’s phone number(s) in it. Soooo convenient.

That same week, while I was in DC, my (work) laptop decided to succumb to a localized power outage in the building. I called IT Support and left for a meeting. I came back to my office to discover that they managed to make things WORSE. (Hello, blue screen of death! So nice to see you!) Two days sans laptop (no, don’t worry, I didn’t want to get any work done this week) and a complete re-imaging of the hard drive later, we were back in business. Sort of. Except for that part about how they changed my password and didn’t tell me the new one. And then the IT guy swore he could fix it by resetting my network password. (Hint: WRONG. I’m not on the network.) And then he swore he could fix it if I would just turn off the computer and turn it back on. (Hint: WRONG. AGAIN. The computer still wants a password and my old one still doesn’t work and, no, you can’t see my computer on the network because I’m not on the network.)

Anyway, once the password problem was resolved, I discovered the various other glitches with the re-imaged computer. For starters, I nearly had a meltdown when I saw that iTunes wasn’t loaded. Ummmm, that’s really not going to work for me. But that problem was easily resolved. Not so easily resolved? Some damn Adobe Acrobat update this thing keeps looking for. On the network. The network TO WHICH I AM NOT CONNECTED. EVER. Also, printing. Three days I spent trying to connect to the printers in my office in California, with more than a few calls to the IT Support Center.

My personal favorite moment? When the IT guy suggested I borrow an IT laptop for a few days until they fix mine. Hmmmm, interesting idea. Especially considering that the IT laptops are in DC and I’M IN CALIFORNIA.

(Can I just tell you how scary it is when I know more than the IT Support people? I know they’re nice people, and I’m developing quite a telephone relationship with one of them, but REALLY. I should not be the one who figures out how to properly configure my printers. That’s what I call YOU for.)

On the bright side, an e-mail from one IT guy to another described one of my programs as “FUBAR.” And in my professional opinion, I have to say, YES. Now, please fix it.

At any rate, all of this pain was just background for you. Here’s the real issue. Upon re-imaging of my computer, all the stuff on display is a different size. Like, the resolution of my screen is different and while I can change the resolution settings, none of the options match my old resolution. Annoying, but not as annoying as this:

This is what my site currently looks like in Internet Explorer. It did not used to look like this on my computer, at my previous resolution. Makes me wonder what things look like on your end.

(Sidenote: Ok, yes, in an attempt to be, in all ways possible, snobby, I switched to Firefox for my browser and there are not words to describe how much I ♥ Firefox right now, for the sole reason that my blog does not look like crap in it. The computer re-imaging has done nothing to alter the display of my blog. Also, that explains why it took several days for me to discover the ugliness in Internet Explorer. And, if it doesn’t look ugly to you, I am not going to waste my time trying to prettify it. Bill Gates and his crappy browser can suck it.)

So here’s where you come in:

• What browser do you view this site in?

• Does it look like crap?
• No seriously, does it resemble the picture above, or does the title bar look normal? There should be only one tile of red tulips, not one-and-a-third, and the quote should be two lines, plus Mr. Wilde’s name.
• Is there any other blog-related feedback you would like to share? Length or frequency of posts? Content? Site design?

Please keep in mind that I am very good at taking criticism and often respond by telling people that they can suck it. But, you know, I’d love to hear from you.

May 15, 2006 | Filed under: The Fam

From the “Because in This Family We Just Make Fun of Everything Instead of Actually Talking About Our Feelings” Files

On the phone with my mother Sunday, shortly after she told Dad she didn’t want to talk to me.

Me: Thanks for being my mom!

Mom: Uh, ok. Not like I had much choice in the matter. I mean, I guess it depends on how you define “choice.”

Me: Well, you didn’t leave me on someone else’s doorstep or something!

Mom: *laughing* I suppose that’s true.

Me: So, you know, thanks for that.

May 12, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

Ok, so I have been duly called out for the complete opacity of that last post. Sorry. Sometimes I write things that aren’t 100% about me (I know! Why would I do such a thing?!) and sometimes they’re not 100% mine to talk about and sometimes you won’t get 100% of the story. And I am 100% ok with that.

[Though I will say that if my writing is being compared to J. D. Salinger's, I must be doing something right. But I definitely don't talk about sex or say "for Chrissake" enough to be mistaken for Holden Caulfield.]

But! Today! Back to our narcissistic focus on me, me, me!

My vanity level has reached new heights this month, as I am struck with the realization that it’s nearly summer and my class reunion is a mere four weeks away. This means there’s been a concerted effort to spend plenty of time in the sun and at the gym. Both require a delicate balance between doing-enough-to-look-beautiful and not-killing-oneself-via-exertion-or-skin-cancer.

The sun exposure serves two purposes. First, I live in California. And while not all of Cali looks like what you see on TV (that would be LA, people, and it is a decidedly different world there), for heaven’s sake, I should look like I live in California! Or at least make a credible argument (through my appearance) that occasionally I emerge from my office during daylight hours. Second, the natural highlights infiltrating my hair will save me gobs of money at the salon and I will not feel guilty turning down my stylist’s offer to “just lighten things up a bit — everyone gets a little darker during winter.” Yes, thank you for pointing that out because I was actually trying to pretend that I hadn’t noticed and it doesn’t make me worry that I’m getting old and it doesn’t bother me in the least, but I guess that bubble’s burst today, huh?

(In all seriousness, I love my current stylist. But every stylist I’ve ever had spends our first session ooohing and ahhhing over my natural hair color and how great it is and some women pay gazillions of dollars to look like this. And then in our second session, that same stylist will suggest highlights. And then I have to politely say no to the highlights until they quit to have a baby or I move across the country. Despite my current aversion, however, at the first sign of gray, we will be getting out the chemicals faster than you can say “peroxide,” no questions asked.)

On the gym front, I’ve decided to take full advantage of those monthly fees they peskily deduct from my checking account Every. Single. Month. Some people would be perfectly happy running every day for the rest of their lives. But some people’s knees will not tolerate such abuse, so that means switching from an I-Go-When-It’s-Convenient-
And-There’s-A-Reasonble-Shot-At-Getting-A-Treadmill-Or-Stationary-Bike approach to the gym to one in which I Actually Take The Classes. And that is how I ended up in a yoga class the other night. It was hilarious, of course, because yoga is all about balance and flexibility and maybe some upper body strength, and I possess, um, none of the above. Right. Oh yes, and the calm, deep breathing thing. Definitely my strong suit. Ahem.

This morning’s spin class, though…Wow. For starters, it begins at 5:00 am. For those of you keeping score at home, that means I had to be up and out of the house by 4:40. (I will freely admit that being able to brag to you lovely Internet people that I was at the gym by 5:00 was approximately 96.5% of my motivation for getting out of bed this morning. So I thank you.)

At my gym, the tradition is to do spin class in the dark. (Have other people experienced this or are they just freaks here in NorCal?) I have several theories as to how this began. Maybe somebody said, “Let’s keep the lights off so it stays cooler in here” or maybe “Let’s keep the lights off so nobody can see how slowly I’m pedaling” or maybe even “Let’s keep the lights off so I don’t have to watch the perfectly-toned instructor and hate her with every ounce of my being.” My money is on, “Let’s keep the lights off so nobody can SEE ME CRY.”

So, I put my feet in the clips and sat down on the bike, and it was The Most Uncomfortable Thing Ever. Yes, even more uncomfortable than those trips to the gynecologist for one’s “annual exam.” Apparently the seats are not designed with women in mind. Though it would not surprise me to learn that they aren’t designed with men in mind, either. Throughout the warm-up, I thought, “I don’t know if I can do this for an hour, it is SO DAMN UNCOMFORTABLE.”

Then we jacked up the tension and began a climb and the searing pain in my quads quickly shoved the “I’m uncomfortable” thought to the back of my mind, in favor of “Ow. Ow. Stupid sonofa… Ow.” By 5:20 I was desperately looking out the windows for signs that the sun was coming up. Light outside = six o’clock = I can go pass out on the locker room floor now.

I personally think this is what Hell looks like: You and a couple hundred pour souls crammed into a room that’s, well, hot as Hades, led by a perky instructor with a perfect body, spinning spinning spinning for all eternity. And to top it all off, you’ll never lose an ounce. This vision alone is enough to keep me from cheating on my taxes. The IRS doesn’t scare me. Spin class until the second coming? What sort of indulgences will keep me from that? I’m sure we can work out a deal here.

A few pointers, in case this review inspires you to try it for yourself:

1. Always drink plenty of water. You will sweat out enough to soak your t-shirt through twice.

2. Resist the urge to remove said t-shirt. Because, EW. Unless you look like the instructor, nobody wants to see that.
3. Skip the hand towel and bring a full-sized one. To help with the buckets o’ sweat. And the tears.
4. A gel seat cushion thing works wonders. They’re available at most sporting goods stores.
5. Triceps and shoulder muscles are highly encouraged. The more weight they can bear, the more you can lean on those handlebars and give your legs a break. Which is definitely the point of taking a spin class.
6. Don’t forget to pack a small handgun in your gym bag. Be sure to check your state’s concealed weapon laws — you may need to brandish it openly and not tuck it inside your shoe. If you’re looking for ways to avoid Hell by being nice to others, offer the gun to your classmates, too. They’ll appreciate it.

May 11, 2006 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb

Calm, rational adult voice: You know what you have to do.

Six-year-old-who-refuses-to-go-to-bed-because-it’s-summer-and-still-light-out-and-there’s-plenty-of-basketball-to-be-played-voice: I don’t wanna!

Yes, but, you have to.

But. I. Don’t. Want. To.

That’s just part of being a grown-up. We choose to do things that are in our best interest, even if we don’t really want to.

Sigh.

You’ve been here before. And you know you need to leave. Sure, the streets have different names, but the signs are all the same.

*Pout.* Fine. But I don’t have to like it.

No, none of us do.

May 8, 2006 | Filed under: DC! DC! DC!, I Write About My Feelings

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. But I haven’t been able to find a picture that adequately captures how I feel about this magical place.

How I get off the airplane and stand on the platform waiting for the Metro to take me downtown and am struck by an overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around the city and give it a great big hug, like reunited lovers reveling in their good fortune of once again being in the same zip code who can’t bear the thought of ever letting go.

How I laugh at signs for the Verizon Center, because, duh, it’s the MCI Center, and always will be to me. (Hey, the first pro basketball team I saw in DC went by the name of The Bullets and played at an arena most easily accessed by way of a rather frightening Cab Ride from Hell, so I think referring to it as the MCI Center is the least of my sins.)

How content I am walking out of the house at 5:15 am, headed to the gym, the comfortably humid air of DC in May wrapped around me with the same cozy feeling of flannel sheets in a Wisconsin winter.

How I gush like a proud parent over her kid’s first tooth when I see an area that’s been (re)developed and a new restaurant opened since the last time I was in town.

How perfection may be six in the morning, the sun up and the air just cool enough that I have to run to stay warm, iPod-less, with only the view of the Capitol, the Washington Monument and whatever event is being set up on the Mall this week to entertain me on my run.

How it gets easier each time to leave, not because I love the city less, but because I am filled with the knowledge that I will be back sooner than I think and confident that one of these days there won’t be a return flight.

You had me at hello.