Shoulda Known Better

The week before last I surrendered to boredom and ordered The Sims 3 from Amazon.com. It took about 9 days to get here from Lexington, KY, which would be impressive if the Post Office was still using horse-drawn wagons to transport the mail. I got around to installing it on Thursday evening after church.

Oh boy.

I'm doomed. I'll never accomplish anything ever again. Sims 2 was bad enough for wasting time, with entire weekends being eaten up by marathon Sims-sessions. I'm not bragging about this, mind you, but admitting that I have a problem.

So, Thursday evening I stayed up until 11:00 getting acquainted with the game. At first glance that doesn't seem so very late, but when you consider that I needed to get up at 7:00 the next morning, and I have a difficult time functioning on less than 8 hours of sleep. . . . Last night, I was awake until midnight playing with my Sim. I could have kept on going, but my (limited and computer addled) sense finally kicked in and I went to bed.

But please don't judge me for my geeky gamer tendencies. I spend all day being put-together and professional and it feels good to let my brain check-out for the evening.

I took my brothers, my father, and Emma to the Daughtry/Theory of a Deadman/Cavo concert last night. I had intended to post something about that, but my brother beat me to the punch. There doesn't seem to be any sense in repeating what he already said. If you want to know how it was, read what he wrote. I'll just say be succinct and say that the concert was AWESOME.

Ok, so the concert was awesome. Waking up the next morning after a scant 6 hours of sleep? Not so much. The good news is that I was probably not in the same sort of fix as the trampy chicks who sat in front of me.... Well, sat when they weren't running out to buy more beer. I'm sure they had a lovely day today. No hangover here, just one zombified girl who did not get quite enough sleep. "Quite enough" meaning 10 hours.

Enjoying it while it lasts

My twenty-minutes in the car on the way home was the best part of the day. The sun was shining and I had my windows down, enjoying the nearly 70 degree air. Traffic was relatively sane (although there was that one idiot that seemed oblivious to all other drivers) and I was able to take it easy. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Nearer to home, someone (across the street, and therefore in unincorporated territory where stupid city laws don't apply) was doing a controlled burn of their vegetable garden and the air was full of thick, woody, leafy, autumn-y smoke. At home, Andrew had just finished mowing the lawn and the collision of the two smells--smoke and grass clippings--seemed to fit the weather perfectly.

So, could the weather just stay like this for a while? Please? That whole ice-and-snow thing is pointless.

Is Winter over yet? Wait.... It hasn't even started?

As I sit here, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, I really miss my beach. The warm sun. The warm breeze. The warmest softest sand you've ever felt.


The food isn't too bad either.

Casual Day?

This afternoon, the announcement went out that tomorrow is Jeans Day at SUM-Law. Both partners will be out and there are no meetings scheduled, thus giving the paralegals and secretaries a certain feeling of freedom and relaxation. This idea was first run past the associate attorneys (both 20-something males, inclined to put their feet on their desks and wear IU sweatshirts at work when they think no one is looking), who thought it was a brilliant idea.

I suppose I'll be going along with it, although I dislike the idea of casual days at work as a general rule. The more professionally I'm dressed, the more I get done. Tomorrow, it will just take more effort, I suppose.

And this reminds me of one of my pet peeves, encountered this evening at the grocery store: why oh why oh why do medical "professionals" wear scrubs out of work? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Aren't scrubs supposed to hygienic and aid in controlling germs and all those gross things that can potentially fasten themselves to street wear?

Besides that, they just look slovenly. I know they're supposed to be so comfortable, but so are pajamas and you don't see people. . . . Nevermind.

Exercising my selective memory

I've said before that I'm glad I don't live in the Chicago area, but I'm glad I did live there once. There were any number of reasons that we were all glad to get out of Chicagoland: probably too many to count, any one of which would be enough for it's own post. But I like to remember the fun parts too.

As a kid, I was there for five of the Bulls' six championships, moments of which I remember vividly.... standing in the middle of our great room, watching MJ on our little TV, jumping up and down and screaming. My favorite bedtime story was the Three Little Bulls--Michael, Scottie, and Dennis-- who always managed to conquer their nemesis, be it the Big Bad Barkley or the Big Bad Ewing.

Most of my favorite restaurants are still up in the northwest suburbs. (Drat, now I'm really hungry for a Hackneyburger.)

I still listen to The Roe Conn Show regularly and laugh at Chicago-related jokes.

I still feel a pleasant sensation of nostalgia when I get off work and listen to WLS for the twenty minutes it takes me to get home, especially when Jim Johnson delivers the rush-hour traffic reports. Oh wait. That's not nostalgia. That's schadenfreude.

The very thought of living within Cook, Lake, or McHenry County EVER again fills me with something between annoyance and dread. But it's fun to reminisce.

Eleven, please.

One of the things I've had to get used to over the last few months is the daily ride in the elevator. I've never been a big elevator fan. When staying in hotels, I've been known to drag my suitcase up four floors (and not just at the hotel in Italy where that was the only option) to avoid being enclosed in a metal box and suspended within a shaft of unknown depth. I suspect that this senseless aversion has its origins in memories of my five-year-old self sneaking out of bed to watch TV and seeing one of the chicks on L.A. Law fall down an elevator shaft. That really freaked me out.
Now, I need the elevator to get to my office, to get to the building break room, to get to the rest rooms, and to come back down to earth in the evening. Thank goodness, I've gotten used to it and no longer experience any sort of apprehension.

I have noticed, however, that people act differently in elevators. There are the people who engage total strangers in conversation. There are people who look everywhere but at the other person in the elevator (kinda hard since the walls are mirrors.... ). There are the people who smile tentatively at their fellow passengers and then act really interested in their purse or cuffs. Then, there's the blonde from the 7th floor who acts like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club, minus the hoodie. She steps on with quick, mechanical steps, keeps her head down, and heads directly for the corner. She stands there, impervious to the conversation around her until the doors open again and she can make her escape. Despite getting to work at approximately the same time and riding seven floors together almost every morning, I've never seen her face. Just her hair. Lots of permed, bleached, crunchy-sprayed hair.

When things feel particularly awkward in the elevator (and whenever Miss 7th Floor steps on), I just think of this and everything seems a little cozier.

Unlike most of my friends, I never thought I wanted to be a teacher. My pals growing up all wanted to be teachers. Or marine biologists. Or pediatricians. Or stunningly beautiful princess-ballerina dancers. I went along with those fads, but I never EVER thought that I should be a teacher. It wasn't because the teachers I knew were so horrible, although they did have a tendency to "seatbelt" children into their chairs and take recess away from the entire class because that one obnoxious eight year old boy in the back wouldn't shut up. (Huh. Turns out I'm still mad about that 14 years later.) Even knowing that my wonderful grandma was a teacher didn't help. I just knew that I did NOT want to be one of them.

It turns out I was wise beyond my years.
Hauptbeispiel: My Sunday School class. I am teaching the 3rd through 5th grade class, comprised of 5-9 girls (only girls, for some reason). They are all very sweet and smart and, since they've all been through confirmation classes already, they know their stuff about as well as I do. The problem is that they are all FUNNY and I cannot concentrate on the lesson for laughing.

I ask a question and they respond by pointing out the window and cooing about the cute birdies on the roof: I laugh.
I ask a question and they give an answer that strikes me as funny ("Well, I bet the rich man didn't trust God to take care of him because he had servants to do that stuff"): I laugh.
I ask a question and the only answer I can get is how this reminded so-and-so of a movie she just saw..... : I laugh.

THEY ask questions. Why do you sit on the desk instead of the chair like a normal person? Did you know that Andrew likes Gracie? Why don't you write on the chalkboard? Can I borrow your shoes when I'm older? Why don't you have a boyfriend? Why is it so cold in our Sunday School room? Can I read next? What does [list 10-15 long, foreign, and/or archaic words from the reading] mean? Why are you teaching us instead of, like, an old grown up? (HA! Loved that one.)

I just laugh. Victoria, my assistant who loves seeing me lose my composure, laughs. The girls look at me like I'm crazy, because these are obviously very serious matters. And then I try calm down and explain things without using any words with more than three syllables, which turns out to be harder than one would expect.

The good news is that they all come and we do get at least a little work done. We read the day's lesson from the Bible and (attempt to) talk about it. At least one of them will have done their memory work from the previous week. And if nothing else, they're getting a vocabulary lesson.

Fierce!

From my second favorite Project Runway alumnus:

Christian Siriano, Spring 2010.

There are several dresses in there that I would be more than happy to wear.

This post is for my dear friend DoRena, who is so very tired of seeing the same post every time she checks my blog.

I actually had a pretty good post, talking about the fun of working downtown in a building with shiny brass elevators, how freezing-cold my office is (because I can't complain enough about that), and how good Fort Wayne can smell in the evening (baking bread and gyros, anyone?)

Obviously, that was a "things are good" sort of post. Well, I'm too ticked off at the moment to write one of those. Right now I'm stuck on the topic of how undependable some people can be and bemoaning the manners of the world in general.

The week before last I assumed my position as numero uno paralegal in our office; my predecessor left to join her husband in Chicago, and we hired a new paralegal to take my place in the cubicle while I settled into an office with a door. The new girl turned out to be very friendly and outgoing, good at the job, and easy to work with. She asked plenty of good questions and not many stupid ones (that's still my job). We went out to lunch last Wednesday and swapped IPFW stories over pub chips at JK O'Donnell's. On Thursday, we chatted about some photos she brought in to decorate her cubicle.

Then, Friday morning, I came in to find out that she had called in (before the office was even open) to say that she wasn't ever coming back. No notice, no apology for leaving us shorthanded at a very busy time. She left her pictures (including family photos) in her cubicle, along with a personal coffee mug and portfolio of school documents. On Saturday, I received a text from her saying that she had a new job, wouldn't be coming back , that she had left the office keys were in the drawer, and wanted me to keep her photos (just what I always wanted.... pictures of someone else's husband and daughter).

We have another candidate coming in next week for an interview, and until that time Heather, the other former paralegal--who is still stuck in Fort Wayne-- is filling in a few days a week and helping me keep up with the increased work load. I am SO thankful that she is around to help because, as much as I'd like to be able to handle a double work load and even though I was considering working extra hours as long as necessary, I definitely needed help today. If not for Heather, I'd be a quivering mass of nerves and my boss would be majorly inconvenienced by my inability to work 24 hour days (my 9 hours, the other nine hours, and an extra 6 for diminishing returns).

So, there are dependable people out there and my head doesn't need to explode from stress...this week. But PLEASE, people. Two weeks notice is encouraged for a reason.

Ben and Jerry's renames ice cream Hubby Hubby in celebration of gay marriage.

Ewwwwww. My craving for ice-cream has suddenly evaporated.

At least they chose one of their more revolting flavors for this dubious honor. I can't imagine what take off on "Cherry Garcia" they could have come up with, but I'm glad their thoughts were not bent in that direction.

Loratadine. NOW.

Forget images of a scaly-looking red guy wielding a pitchfork. I'm pretty certain this is what the devil looks like:


Thanks to my allergies--which have never hit me quite this hard-- I felt subhuman enough that I stayed home from church this morning. My brain was so foggy I couldn't read, so I ended up turning on TCM and staring at the TV, not comprehending anything except that Jean Arthur was throwing herself at Cary Grant. After taking a very (very, very) long shower, inhaling absurd amounts of melaleuca oil-laced steam, and drinking about a gallon of tea with honey, I finally feel alive enough to contemplate going to my god-brother's birthday party with the rest of the family....
...out in the country....
...next door to a ragweed farm.

Ok, I made that last part up. I hope.

And yes, respiratory ailments make me cranky.

I think I'm hungry.

Is there anything that doesn't go with bacon? Really?

Yes, I was a nerd. Probably still am.

Last month I posted a story Rachael and I wrote way back in 2004. Today, I found more of our disastrous creativity on a piece of paper shoved inside a book that hadn't been read in a while. (I love it when that happens. I think that, from now on, I'm going to leave notes and newspaper clippings inside every book I return to the library just in case someone else loves silly things like that.)

For your amusement:

May 17, 2004: Obituaries.

Boromir, Son of Denethor, aged 41, died February 26, 3019, of wounds sustained in battle at the Fields of Rauros. The oldest son of Denethor II, he achieved fame through his military prowess. Preceding him in death are his mother Finduilas and his grandparents. Surviving are his father and younger, cooler, cuter, nicer brother Faramir. Services will be held Sunday at the White Tower. Memorials may be made to the Gondorian Restoration Fund or Poppies for Pelennor.

Smeagol/Gollum, age unknown, died March 25, 3019, of severe burns sustained at the Cracks of Doom. A long time resident of The Misty Mountains, his previous residences are unknown. Preceding him in death is his friend Deagol. There will be no services. Memorials may be made to the Ring Addiction Awareness Foundation.

The Ring of Power, born cir. 1600, the Second Age, at Orodruin, died March 25, 3019. It spent many years with Smeagol/Gollum, after being found by Deagol in the Gladden Fields in 2463, the Third Age. The Ring abandoned Gollum in 2941 to live with Mr. Bilbo Baggins, now of Rivendell. It was given to Frodo Baggins, a relative of Bilbo, in 3001, and it continued in his company to the end, at which point both the Ring and Gollum suffered severe burns and perished. No services will be held. Memorials may be made to the Barad-dur Reclamation Fund.

Arwen Undomiel, age 1300, died of unknown causes. Born in year 241 of the Third Age in Rivendell, to Elrond Half-Elven and the daughter of Celeborn, she lived in Lothlorien for many years before returning home. She married King Elessar in 3019 on Mid Year's Day. Surviving are her brothers, grandfather, a son, and several daughters. Preceding her in death is her husband. Gone to the Grey Havens without here are her father, grandmother, and mother. Services and burial will be held in Lothlorien on Sunday afternoon. Memorials may be made to the Hope Foundation for Underprivileged Hobbits.

I am not sure I've ever seen a stranger juxtaposition than that which I saw at a gas station in Columbia City this evening. Pulled up outside was a truck from "Suzy Q's Escort Service," occupied by two incredibly vapid-looking, overly made-up, silicone-adjusted "ladies." Standing a few feet away, waiting for their driver, were two Old Order Amish women and their children.

I just wish my camera had been along.

While I was sitting at work today, trying desperately to forget how tired I was, I thought up the best idea for a blog post. It was funny, it was thoughtful, and it was way better than anything I've posted in a long time. I had it all planned out and was geared up to write it all out as soon as I got home.

Yeah. Whatever my brilliant idea was at 12:00, I don't remember it now. It's gone.


So, in place of the brilliant and striking piece of prose that is now forever lost in the ether, I'm going to say just how thrilled I was when I opened my September issue of InStyle this evening. "Thrilled?" you wonder. "What could Bethany possibly have found so exciting?" I'll tell you.

I am officially avant garde without making any effort. In fact, a positive lack of effort has led to me being at the forefront of fashion. According to that fount of knowledge, InStyle Magazine, paleness is officially attractive and smooth ponytails are the last word in hairdos.

This is fantastic news. Now, when I wake up in the morning, pasty white after yet another sunless week spent locked in an office like a vampire in a coffin, and too tired to do anything but throw my wet hair up into a severe pony tail, I can be confident that I do not look lazy or harried but chic and up-to-date.

I think I'll re-enable the snooze function on my alarm. This discovery merits an extra 15 minutes of sleep, at least.

I should do this more often!

My room wasn't really all the messy today, if you don't count the pile of clothing that had accumulated on my bench or the pile of pillows in the middle of the floor.  Even worse than just messy, it had gotten disorganized.  The books were on the bookshelves, just not in their proper places.  All of my purses and tote bags were put away, but with things in them.  Things I've been looking for.  Cleaning those bags out felt like Christmas .  My closet yielded up a missing hairbrush, Mambo Surf tote, a missing (and much needed) lint roller, my missing iPod, an unopened box of Rock'n'Roll magnetic poetry, and a bag of dark chocolate M&Ms.

None of these things had been missing very long, but I was still  very glad to see them.  Especially the chocolate.

Learning to. . . wait.

I decided a few days ago that I wanted to try sewing again. My last attempt was somewhat less than successful.  The apron I made as a Christmas present for my grandmother ended up being so large that it would have fit three of her.  (What's that phrase going around right now? Oh yeah. "Epic Fail.")  

Yesterday evening, I thought it would be fun to work on another apron while watching movies with my mother and brother.  We had picked out an old-fashioned half-apron pattern a while back and I had some sweet, equally old-fashioned fabric just waiting for me to get up the courage to make a second (or third, or fourth... I've lost count) attempt.  The pattern-pinning and fabric-cutting part went very well and I now have a nice, orderly little pile of apron parts waiting to be assembled.  That's splendid.  Now I just have to figure out what the heck the pattern is trying to tell me to do with them.  The packaging says "easy," but in this case, I believe they mean "easy if you have someone to translate seamstress-speak." (Jenny? Anna? Someone?) 

Even if I could read the instructions I would need to wait to put everything together.  Somehow, when we got the fabric, we failed to get the necessary finishing touches: bias tape and some sort of ruffly trim stuff.  For now, I just have another unfinished project (like my  paintings and my quilt and my scrapbooks, and my and my embroidery. . . .)

Photo taken today, just down the road from our house:

Isn't that special?

For some reason, this reminds me of the time my (Lutheran) kindergarten class baptized a clutch of newly hatched chicks.   

Wooohooo! Project Runway returns in one week! The new season (on Lifetime) starts on August 20.
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