September 19, 2007 | Filed under: Is She Still Talking?

Who? Who are these people with full-time jobs and spouses and kids who still manage to find time to blog (nearly) every day? And, perhaps more importantly, How do they do it??? Does their day magically come with 28 hours, while mine is the standard-issue 24?

Y’all, I am so tired. And so old, apparently, because it used to take me a solid few weeks to wear myself down like this, instead of a mere ten days. Most people probably wouldn’t notice my exhaustion — I have lots of little clothing/hair/make-up tricks in my arsenal to camouflage the utter lack of sleep (I have an excellent stylist, after all) — but my eyes always tell me the truth, even if no one else sees.

My eyes, they twitch. It’s nearly imperceptible in the mirror, but I can feel it happening randomly throughout the day and pretty soon I am yelling in my empty office for my eyelids to knock it the hell off. Because it’s not like you can read or write a document while your eye is busy twitching. And if you can hold a thought in your head while being interrupted with yelling like this, you’re a more fastidious worker than I.

(This post is fascinating, isn’t it? Perhaps I should go back to that model of posting once a week. Ish.)

In short: tired. Twitchy eyes. Grrr.

Other unanswerable questions of the day:

Brewers, why could you not pull off a win against the Astros? Huh? Do you enjoy being a game behind the Cubs? Who, incidentally, managed to scrape together a win tonight? Really, is this fun for you? Because it’s not much fun for me.

Self, why did you sign up for a Junior League committee that feels a lot like work, with the coordinating of teams and the writing of documents and the getting things sent up the chain for review? That was stupid. Sure, last year’s committee was wholly ineffective, but hey, at least it didn’t cause you any stress.

Everyone on my commute today, what was your deal? Morning and night, nothing but idiocy and a whole lot of braking. Do you not know what those solid white lines near the exit ramps mean? Do you need a refresher course? This behavior alone is enough to make my eye twitch. I promise, we are all better off when I drive in the left lane, so just let. me. over.

September 18, 2007 | Filed under: I'm a Dork

I stopped at Trader Joe’s tonight on my way home to grab a couple staple items for the week. As I strolled past a shelf, a pre-cooked, vacuum-sealed package of palak paneer nearly jumped into my basket and I knew I had to have it. In that instant, I was suddenly craving the comforting warmth of Indian food and even had to circle back through the bakery section to pick up some naan. Feeling satisfied, I headed to the checkout.

And then I stopped and asked myself what sort of parallel universe I was living in — me, a former Midwesterner who is undeniably in the running for whitest white girl ever. Palak paneer as comfort food? Naan? WTH? Growing up, I knew nothing of Indian food and the only Indians I was familiar with were the Cree and the Sioux and the Blackfoot and the Iroquois. And yes, Emily, we called them Indians, which today sounds as shocking and antiquated as when those ancient filmstrips and documentaries on Martin Luther King, Jr. we watched at school referred to their subjects as “Negroes.”

Sure, I still crave classic American comfort foods like homemade macaroni and cheese and this hamburger and mashed potato casserole that my mom probably hasn’t made since I was nine, but Indian ranks high on my list of comfort foods. And Ethiopian. Oh god, I may have to schedule a night during which to gorge myself at Meskerem the next time I’m in DC, because I don’t think I’ve had Ethiopian since Liz and I sat Indian-style ahem, cross-legged in the grass in her backyard and stuffed ourselves full of it … in May. Of 2005. I am way overdue.

* * * * *

My new life insurance company (I know. I’ll pause here to let that wave of jealousy pass.) dispatched a medical examiner/nurse type person named Edward to my house the other day. (At least I hope he’s had some kind of medical training — there were needles involved.) Edward and I had spoken on the phone and it was obvious that he had not been born in the U.S. My guess is somewhere in the Middle East — maybe India! (OK, I know India is not exactly the Middle East, but it is possible that Edward is Indian. I didn’t get his last name, so my ability to narrow down his country of origin is limited.) There’s nothing wrong with not being a native English speaker, though I did wonder what sort of challenge that would present for all the medical paperwork we had to go through.

After a series of questions about my medical history (high blood pressure? heart disease? diabetes? psychiatric treatment? no, no, no, no but maybe I should look into it) I laughed and said, “No. All healthy.” And he explained to me that, in his country, nobody would say “healthy as a horse,” as it would be considered rude to compare a man to a horse. Good point, I thought. Then I wondered if it was equally rude to compare a woman to a horse, or just a man, but resisted the urge to ask.

Later in the information-gathering, Edward asked me, “And you are having? … your time of? … the womanly? …” and I tell you what, I could not help him out, as I had no earthly idea what he was asking, until he got to “…menstruation? Today?” Ohhhhh, that.

Sorry, Edward. I hope it’s not terribly rude in your country to have to openly discuss with women their, uh, special time. (Gag, barf, wretch, I hate that stupid euphemism. Special, indeed.)

* * * * *

There’s a new taqueria in my neighborhood, with a menu that reads like all the other taquerias in the area and a yellow and red sign out front, like all the other taquerias in the area. I grabbed take-out from there a couple of weeks ago. An older man was bouncing from behind the counter to back in the kitchen, giving directions to the staff in low tones and bringing food out to customers at their tables — the manager? the owner? Something like that.

While waiting for my food, he looked at me, I smiled at him, but we didn’t exchange words. Based on his age, apparent position in the business and general lack of customer interaction, I figured he didn’t speak much English. Imagine my surprise, then, when he brought out my food and I handed him my plastic number, saying quietly, “Diez,” and he handed me the bag, saying in unaccented American dialect, “Here you go, sweetheart.”

September 14, 2007 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me

All year, I’ve known about a project that would land on my desk and take over my life in spectacular fashion. It’s been pushed back twice — for good reason — and at the beginning of August its arrival was imminent. I have been working to clear other projects off my plate, in preparation for this one, but still, I knew that this wasn’t something I could prepare for, and that, despite my best efforts, there would come a day when everything would erupt.

Yesterday was that day.

At 10:00 last night I finally felt like enough of the pieces had been duct-taped back together into some semblance of order, but … it’s going to be a rocky couple of weeks until our first milestone. And then a rocky couple of weeks after that. And after that … well, I’m just not thinking that far out. But if I had to guess, it’ll be, um, bumpy to say the least.

It’s Friday today and yet I want nothing more than for there to be another day or two in my work week, because, wow, have I got a lot to do. And that? Is just sick and wrong.

But you know what will make me love you forever? When we’re making plans and I figure out that between your schedule and my schedule we’ve got about a 50-minute window in which to squeeze lunch before I have to get to another meeting where I am on the panel at the front of the room with a frickin’ nameplate in front of me and I’m already somewhat stressed about it, despite the fact that it’s days from now, and you write back saying, “Shall I see if I can get a reservation nearby?”

Yes, I really am that easy to please.

** Editor’s Note: I was not drinking beer at noon on Tuesday, nor even yesterday. In fact, I was in a meeting — you can verify this claim with my colleagues. But I’m beginning to wonder if it would help.

UPDATE: I just agreed to be the point person on a project, meaning I will have to coordinate and review a couple hundred documents from fifty staff. But first, I have to train those staff. In two weeks. Apparently I think I don’t need to sleep. Ever.

September 10, 2007 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me, Is She Still Talking?

Friday afternoon nearly killed me. For the third time in a week. (No, I haven’t yet told you about the first two events. I will, shortly.)

No, really. Usually when I say things like that I mean “work’s busy, life is busy, I haven’t been home long enough to check the mail…”. But last week my actual physical well-being, my continued existence on this planet, was put into jeopardy no fewer than four times. Somehow I turned into Wile E. Coyote and The Universe wasn’t content to just chuck an anvil at my head, it had to get creative.

And that is how I ended up standing in the parking lot outside my building Friday just before noon, instead of sitting in a meeting in my conference room. The colleague I was to meet with had, only minutes before, informed me that someone had called in a bomb threat and the building was being evacuated.

“Reminds you of DC, huh?” someone joked in the parking lot. And while, yes, I’ve certainly evacuated my DC office building on a number of occasions, it actually reminds me more of high school. In my boring, small town. Where apparently people will do anything to avoid going to class, including, but not limited to, calling in bomb threats or setting the paper towel dispensers in the bathrooms on fire. Good old-fashioned skipping always sounded a lot easier to me.

So, when I got that call from my colleague, my response was generally “Yawn.” And “oh crap, better get ready to go.” I shut down the computer and packed my bag and when the security guard came by to tell us to leave, I gathered my belongings, turned off the lights, and left the building with no expectation of getting back in my office that day.

Then I did what any reasonable person would do: took my unfinished work and my laptop to the nearest coffee shop with wireless internet access. I worked until the battery died, which, conveniently enough, was around the time I needed to head to another meeting — this one, thankfully, not in my building.

Big, Giant Disclaimer that I Shouldn’t Have to Add but I Will Anyway: I realize that most of you will be reading this post on September 11. Please let me make it very clear that my overly-dramatic characterization of “death” is in no way comparable to the very real injuries and/or and death sustained by many. However, I covered most of what I want to say about this day last year, so this year I get to talk about the trivial things going on in my life and not feel guilty about it.

September 6, 2007 | Filed under: Is She Still Talking?

Yes, last week — I’m a busy person. And yes, it took me a whole week to experience this much mirth. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but this place is called “Daily Tragedies,” not “Daily Puppies and Rainbows and Other Things that Make Me Happy to Be Alive.”

Anyway. Here you go. Now you, too, can be happy, dammit.

* * * * *

Me: Do you have an X-acto knife? If so, can you bring it with you?
Him: What’s an X-acto knife?
Me: So that’s a “no” then, huh?

* * * * *

Her: Do you know how to cook tofu?
Me: Um, you can put it in the oven. Or in a pan on the stove.
Her: But, what do you put on it to make it taste good?
Me: I think I used some lemon-pepper seasoning. [I may have neglected to mention that it still didn't taste very good.]
Her: OK, maybe I’ll — oh! My Chinese friend is calling! Hopefully she can tell me how to cook this tofu.

* * * * *

On the radio: Great White’s Once Bitten, Twice Shy, immediately followed by Hootie and the Blowfish’s Hold My Hand. Sacramento DJs are on crack, I tell ya.

* * * * *

Me: Thank you. I really a lot appreciate it.
Him: Really a lot appreciate it?
Me: I know what I’m supposed to say here, but the fact is, you don’t make me nervous.
Him: I don’t think nuclear war could make you nervous.

[Oh, people, must I do everything for you? Here.]

* * * * *

Me: Well, there goes Michigan’s BCS bowl game berth.
Dad: Breaks my heart, too.