January 18, 2007 | Filed under: Is She Still Talking?, People I Like Even More Than My Job

Alternate Title: Because Generating My Own Content Is So Hard!

Y’all, I am an idiot. Of course, you already knew that. But ARGH! It’s hard enough to cram five days’ worth of work into a four-day week, but then I go and volunteer to write an article (plus sidebar) for a newsletter and agree to an alumni board conference call, for which I have yet to prepare, and…the week just gets away from a girl and here it is Thursday and I haven’t regaled you with any exciting stories!

Today, though, we’re going to change things up a little. My very talented friend Neal Hutchko (see him here; read about his tendency to turn me into an alcoholic here) has gotten his own website up and running. While I normally update my sidebar with links to blogs I’m reading every month year, his site isn’t a blog so much as a virtual art gallery of paintings. Paintings he himself painted. I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around this one, as Neal is not the beret-wearing, pot-smoking, tortured artiste type, so much as the soccer-playing, beer-swilling guy who would drag me to Vegas for a weekend of drinking and gambling — quarterly, if I let him.

But his work is damn good.

(Boring legal reminder: All of Neal’s works are fully copyrighted and may not be reproduced or rebroadcast without express written consent of the artist or the National Football League. Which I have, so nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-na. Don’t try this at home.)

This painting, SG Part 2, is my favorite, though there were some other really strong contenders. I expect to see it hanging in my living room, just as soon as I have a living room where I’m allowed to put holes in the walls. Actually, if I had a living room, I’d take SG Part 2 and Squire’s Garden and hang them on the wall over the sofa, just like Martha says to.

My market research shows that you, my loyal readers, are highly educated, culturally-aware types with plenty of disposable income to spend on one-of-a-kind art, so go take a tour of the virtual gallery. Then come back and leave a note in the comments section telling us about your favorite. We’ll all be virtual art snobs together! Here, have some virtual port while you ponder the significance of that brushstroke.

Did I mention you’re smokin’ hot? Well, you are. Now go!

January 12, 2007 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb, I Write About My Feelings, Is She Still Talking?

I got my hair cut today, which is always a delightful experience. I don’t know if it’s the scalp massage, the general feeling of pampering, or the lovely things Frank says about me, but I always leave there happier than when I arrived.

Today, Frank’s comments ranged from “I love your sweater! Feels so soft…like Angora, almost.” (Yes, that’s because it’s 50% Angora.) to “Your eyebrows are perfect! Do you have them waxed?” Um, no I tweeze them myself. “Holy crap! They’re gorgeous!” (Yes, I think so, too.) to persistent head-shaking at how stupid boys are. “What is wrong with them? Don’t they know a good thing when they see it? God, I’d snap you up in a second and never let you get away!” (Yes, what, exactly is wrong with them? I’d like to know, too.)

So, I left there feeling like a million bucks, having spent only half that, and looking like this:

Not pictured: 40 degree weather, annoying wind whipping
hair into my face, and creepy moving company guys staring
from the parking lot.

Back in the office, I checked my e-mail and was immediately hit with some rather unwelcome news. Apparently I’m still a 19-year old sorority girl, because upon hearing this not-so-pleasant news, my first reaction was to get drunk and screw. (It’s an expression, people; let’s not take this too literally.) Not surprisingly, neither beer nor someone to hook up with magically materialized in my office. Instead I settled for a seething e-mail rant, half of which was conducted entirely in capital letters. Good times.

So, as long as my good mood’s been shot to hell and we’re talking about stupid boys, let me ask you this: Is it acceptable to stop seeing someone because you don’t like the way he walks? And, is the mere fact that you’re considering this definitive proof that maybe, just maybe, you’re too picky?

January 10, 2007 | Filed under: Uncategorized

First, it’s National De-Lurking Week. And, rather than break with the grand tradition I started last year, here at Daily Tragedies we’re having National De-Lurking Seventy Two Hours. Get on it and de-lurk! (In return, I will try to have something interesting to say, once every 72 hours or so.)

(If by “something interesting” you mean “words strung together to form sentences and maybe even paragraphs.”)

(And if by “every 72 hours or so” you mean “every 8-10 days, on average, because I am a selfish little bitch who does not call her mother often enough.”)

(Also, can you believe I’ve been half-assedly blogging for a year now?!?!?!?!)

Anyway. The short of it is, comment and I will love you forever. The end, amen.

(If you don’t know what to comment on, tell me what your favorite post of 2006 was. I’m incurably nosy curious.)

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Second, I am doing exceedingly terribly on those New Year’s resolutions, thanks for asking. So, I thought I’d expand the list. To increase my potential success rate or something.

Personal: My mother thinks I need a hobby. One that, in her words, “does not involve working.” So let’s call this resolution “be more social.” Not particularly measurable, but it should generate some good stories for y’all. (It should help that I just quit BR. Again.)

Professional: This week I discovered that I’m (a) ahead of schedule on a project and (b) it ROCKS.

I also came across a spreadsheet I made in a fit of extreme anal-retentiveness, detailing the provisions of eight related cases I was working on. In January 2003. Somebody asked me a question about those cases today and I could actually answer it, thanks to that ridiculous spreadsheet.

So now, I’m inspired: I need to be that organized, all of the time. (Perhaps not quite that anal, however. I’m supposed to be having a social life here!) Also, no more procrastinating!

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Third, I wrote my first post of 2007 yesterday. If you haven’t seen it, go read it. Wouldn’t want all that hard work and emotion to get lost in the meaningless drivel I typically put out here.

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Speaking of meaningless drivel, have this little story:

I sat in a meeting today where someone (correctly) used the term “prophylactic,” and half the room snickered. Later someone else used the phrase “go bare” three times in three sentences and, looking around the room, it appears that I was the only one who wanted to crawl into a hole due to this particular word choice. I’m not sure what this says about me. Or my colleagues.

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Finally, yes I know my RSS feed isn’t working properly, and no, I do not know what causes this problem, nor how to fix it. I’m confident it’s all Blogger’s fault and feel comfortable passing the buck entirely. Good luck. Well, seems like we’re back in business now, and I did exactly nothing. I feel good about my diagnosis.

Filed under: I Write About My Feelings, The Fam

Home is full of little paradoxes, which tends to make being there a little strange. My trip over Christmas lived up to that standard…a long, strange trip, indeed.

After doing all the family/Christmas-themed things, I had a couple days to just chill, during which I really can’t recall what I did. I believe naps featured prominently. But my last night in town, I went out to dinner with my parents and then attended a friend’s birthday party. At dinner Dad handed me the wine list and inquired as to my suggestions for a bottle. Apparently living in California qualifies me to be their sommelier. (Admittedly, I probably do have a more extensive repertoire, particularly of California wines.) The surprising part of this interaction was in being treated as a peer, an adult, not my dad’s daughter.

Two hours later, when he handed me the keys to his car, Dad asked what time I’d be home. Just like in high school. (I began to wonder if I still had a midnight curfew…but then realized I probably wouldn’t be putting it to the test.) “It’s Janesville. 10:30.” Dad raised his eyebrow. “Ok, maybe later than that, but I can’t imagine it’ll be past midnight.”

For the party, I’d packed jeans (it’s Janesville – everyone would be wearing jeans) and what can only be described as a “going-out shirt.” But when my friend’s mom stopped over to chat on Christmas Eve (bearing a cheese ball, no less) and invited my parents to the party, it occurred to me that there would probably be other parent-types there. And that perhaps they wouldn’t enjoy seeing my midriff through my translucent shirt. Whoops. Time for a new plan! I concluded that I could still wear the shirt, if I tossed a shrug-like sweater over it. I didn’t take the sweater off all night. And I was still one of the cutest-dressed people there.

At the party, I caught up with four girls I went to high school with. We were mutually aware of each others’ existence, but I wasn’t friends with them. Now that we’ve been at several post-college events together, we actually can carry on not-so-awkward conversations. During one of these exchanges, Heather mentioned that there are a dozen girls, mostly friends from high school, but a couple additions from college (all of the high school friends attended the same college, 30 minutes away from home) who are still friends and every year they go away for a girls’ weekend. This concept amazes me. I don’t think I’ve ever been part of a 12-person circle of friends, and it certainly wasn’t comprised of people I went to high school with!

I was left with a mild feeling of being an outsider — a feeling which, while significantly diminished, has not yet dissipated, despite living in/having ties to Janesville for the past SEVENTEEN YEARS. (Seriously, people, how long does it take to be considered a local? Don’t be too quick to bestow that term on me, though, I’m still ambivalent about the idea of being “from” Janesville.)

At one point during the evening, the five of us girls were chatting when a guy friend joined us. Upon seeing me he said, “Katie! Are you back? Like, are you just here for Christmas or did you move back to Janesville?” I didn’t even have to answer, as each of the four girls shot him a withering look and one chortled, “No, she did not MOVE BACK here!” (The only thing missing was “as if” tacked on to the end of her statement.)

Despite my outsider status, I have made some noticeable inroads. When I stopped at the drug store to buy a birthday card, I recognized the cashier as the mother of a boy I went to middle and high school with. I debated about saying hello, but when there was no glimmer of recognition on her part, I decided to pass. Other than, “Hi, I’m Katie! Do you remember me?” what was there to say? “I went to school with your son and despite the fact that he’s turning 30 this year, I can still only picture him as the 13-year old boy I had a crush on” just didn’t seem appropriate. Besides, she probably would’ve asked if I’m married, and that becomes a pretty short conversation in a hurry.

Lastly, one of these high school girls (who still lives in Janesville) is newly engaged. I politely inquired about her fiancé, expecting not to recognize the name. Turns out he’s a guy we graduated with. Though neither she nor I were friends with him in high school, I know exactly who he is because my mom taught him science at a different middle school than one I attended. So, I got all caught up on his life and dutifully reported back to my mother what one of her former students is up to.

After a couple hours of birthday fun, the high school girls headed out to the bars. I took my leave, as well — why stick around when the few people I knew were leaving? — and pulled in the garage at 10:38.

I don’t know what any of this means, really. I guess just that there’s some weird bond, maybe just the bonds of time, that tie me to this place that I’d never heard of or cared about before we moved there. Some day my parents will retire elsewhere and I’ll have no reason to go back to that little city in Southern Wisconsin that everyone recognizes because of “The Oasis Cow.” Dad won’t show off all the fancy new restaurants in town. Mom won’t brag that there’s now a Starbucks over by the Interstate. (Awwww, my baby’s all growed up!) My family won’t marvel over the intertwined families, the descendents of whom stick around Janesville and marry each other and send their kids to school together and, apparently, plan a weekend getaway together once a year. It’s a little sad to think that, someday, I won’t be part of this place, that nobody expects me to move back, that I’m missing out on that kind of wholesome, small-town, everyone’s-connected-to-each-other lifestyle. Then again, perhaps that’s an idealized, insider version of reality. After all, it’s not the life I had, even when I lived there.

January 1, 2007 | Filed under: The Fam

Well it’s been a busy week of eating chocolate by the pound (lovingly provided by Steve, who still has the metabolism of a young man, unlike the rest of us) and wearing my pajamas all day long and checking my e-mail only once a day. Exhausting work, I tell you, which explains the near-daily naps.

I think I also managed to confuse the hell out of my mother by alternately talking about how ready I am to be a housewife (tongue-in-cheek, as I had just cooked dinner for the first time in the past three weeks) and then openly obsessing over career-related things that would leave little time for a personal life, let alone marriage and children any time in the next century. (For the record, I WILL HAVE IT ALL, JUST WATCH ME. Hey! Stop laughing. I’m not kidding.)

Alas, the Christmas excitement is over, though the joy of my new egg separator will last for years to come. Now I’m back in California, attending to various work details, grocery shopping, and continuing the Christmas card death march, three weeks late, while watching football and drinking beer. Emily Post is probably rolling over in her grave. But I’ll be sure to include thank you messages to those who sent me gifts. Surely that counts for something, right?

And now it’s the high-pressure New Year’s Eve. To make resolutions or not to make resolutions? That is the question. Followed shortly by, what, exactly, shall I resolve? I guess, since I actually have a place to document them, I may as well. Then perhaps I can even refer back to them, making them, you know, actually useful. (Did I make resolutions last year? No idea.)

The old stand-by: Be a kinder, more patient person. Yes, this is like the fifteenth consecutive year I’ve resolved to do this. Continual improvement is clearly required.

Physical health: Go to the gym every day. Seriously. Whine all you want, but there are no good excuses for missing it.

Financial health: Save, save, save, save, save.

Mental health: Read books. Maybe even ones that you can’t read in a seven-hour plane trip and are more than the print equivalent of a chick flick. And that New York Times subscription you pay for? Try to make use of it more than once a quarter.

And you? How was Christmas with the fam? Did you make any resolutions for 2007? And do we get to place bets as to how long they’ll last?