As a side question, when there's green frosting on a dessert, what flavor do you assume it will be?
I'd say mint. Maaaaybe pistachio.
Someone who made desserts for our holiday party today decided that it stood for peanut butter.
I still think green should be the internationally-recognized dessert color representing mint.
Friday, December 15, 2006
miscellaneous
Make that four people.
Too many projects at work due in too little time, not to mention other drama, are all collaborating to take me away from the projects I want to work on. Not to mention that virtually all of them are due by Christmas.
Though it doesn't feel like the season in question: yesterday I went to yoga in a t-shirt and exercise pants. Today I added a hoodie against the wind that had been kicked up by a dark cloud over head, but would sweat when the sun hit.
It's global warming, I tell you.
Too many projects at work due in too little time, not to mention other drama, are all collaborating to take me away from the projects I want to work on. Not to mention that virtually all of them are due by Christmas.
Though it doesn't feel like the season in question: yesterday I went to yoga in a t-shirt and exercise pants. Today I added a hoodie against the wind that had been kicked up by a dark cloud over head, but would sweat when the sun hit.
It's global warming, I tell you.
Monday, December 11, 2006
potential.
Recently I've been finding other people recognizing potential in me.
No less than three people in as many weeks have told me I should look into having my photography published. Two of these were prompted by the photos I recently hung in my office with three of these fantastic photo ropes. They hold four photos each, and right now I have the following posted: these four of office raptors, these four of Dax and Miss Halo, and these four macros of cats. People seem to like this and this most, and though my boss thinks this one's creepy, I like it.
Thursday after yoga, my instructor asked: "Were you a dancer?" To my "not recently, though I took lessons growing up," she pointed out that I evidently have great turn-out, though she said that can be taken to an extreme. She demonstrated the walk of a friend of hers, toes pointed outwards, to which I replied that I had a coach in high school who had a similar walk, though he was definitely not a dancer. (Mr. Waters, if you're out there, I apologize that this is how you came to mind most recently.)
On Saturday I nearly finished two pieces of jewelry: one bracelet and one choker, both in a half-Persian weave, but vastly different. The choker's a chunky dyed-aluminum in red and black, started while I was teaching Dax how to do it, and the bracelet's a dense silver and may turn into a gift if I'm happy with it. Both just need clasps to be completely done, but I need to make those first. I usually make a bunch at a time.
Yesterday my dad called to tell me about his finds at the Gem and Jewelry Show, and had to give away one of his Christmas gifts to get my address for a magazine subscription which may come very much in handy for the above.
In reading through my other magazines yesterday, I was struck by the work in American Photo: it sparked all kinds of ideas for new work of my own. And the potentiality of it (I don't mind if I created a new word there, I might add): it's this amazing expanding feeling. The almost measurable widening of horizons--it doesn't come around all that often, but I truly enjoy when it does.
Last night at the club I had a trainee. Before, I'd been told I'm one of the best trainers, but that may be a combination of having been there so long and having taught for years as well. In either case, the manager of the club stopped me on the way out to return a couple of the free passes he'd given me (basically, it works such that I get so many passes, put my name on the back, and when people use them, they get returned to me to give out again). He asked if the rumor was true that I was leaving soon. I told him I had no plan to, and he said that was good and returned the passes and gave me about double the number I'd originally had to give out again. Not sure one's a product of the other, but I took it as a compliment.
On a totally different note, an old, old friend from college contacted me recently. He's going through almost exactly the same thing I did a few years ago with his wife. They just separated, and he's working to solve his own problems, as opposed to purely working to get her back, and absolutely going about it the right way. It may be silly, but I was proud of him to hear that. Despite some errors along the way, he's still sensible, overall.
I talked with him on the phone yesterday for awhile. Definitely good to hear from him, and I was glad that my experience--however problematic, of course--could be of some use to others. I didn't give a whole lot of detail about my situation, but I certainly used it to give advice, however minor.
I also have as a major project the making of a few other things (they're surprises to some who read this, so I'm keeping details hush-hush), originally as a gift to an online friend, and I'm giving S. a few of them along the way. When she heard yesterday that the final product has glitter, she was all "they have glitter?" and wanted some of that type too. Another pleasing "I can make things that people enjoy"-type moment.
There's a few other potential projects I want to work on: my own fitness, learning more good recipes, that sort of thing. But the potential for all this is astounding, and I can't wait to start on (or finish) a whole lot of them. Looking forward to it.
No less than three people in as many weeks have told me I should look into having my photography published. Two of these were prompted by the photos I recently hung in my office with three of these fantastic photo ropes. They hold four photos each, and right now I have the following posted: these four of office raptors, these four of Dax and Miss Halo, and these four macros of cats. People seem to like this and this most, and though my boss thinks this one's creepy, I like it.
Thursday after yoga, my instructor asked: "Were you a dancer?" To my "not recently, though I took lessons growing up," she pointed out that I evidently have great turn-out, though she said that can be taken to an extreme. She demonstrated the walk of a friend of hers, toes pointed outwards, to which I replied that I had a coach in high school who had a similar walk, though he was definitely not a dancer. (Mr. Waters, if you're out there, I apologize that this is how you came to mind most recently.)
On Saturday I nearly finished two pieces of jewelry: one bracelet and one choker, both in a half-Persian weave, but vastly different. The choker's a chunky dyed-aluminum in red and black, started while I was teaching Dax how to do it, and the bracelet's a dense silver and may turn into a gift if I'm happy with it. Both just need clasps to be completely done, but I need to make those first. I usually make a bunch at a time.
Yesterday my dad called to tell me about his finds at the Gem and Jewelry Show, and had to give away one of his Christmas gifts to get my address for a magazine subscription which may come very much in handy for the above.
In reading through my other magazines yesterday, I was struck by the work in American Photo: it sparked all kinds of ideas for new work of my own. And the potentiality of it (I don't mind if I created a new word there, I might add): it's this amazing expanding feeling. The almost measurable widening of horizons--it doesn't come around all that often, but I truly enjoy when it does.
Last night at the club I had a trainee. Before, I'd been told I'm one of the best trainers, but that may be a combination of having been there so long and having taught for years as well. In either case, the manager of the club stopped me on the way out to return a couple of the free passes he'd given me (basically, it works such that I get so many passes, put my name on the back, and when people use them, they get returned to me to give out again). He asked if the rumor was true that I was leaving soon. I told him I had no plan to, and he said that was good and returned the passes and gave me about double the number I'd originally had to give out again. Not sure one's a product of the other, but I took it as a compliment.
On a totally different note, an old, old friend from college contacted me recently. He's going through almost exactly the same thing I did a few years ago with his wife. They just separated, and he's working to solve his own problems, as opposed to purely working to get her back, and absolutely going about it the right way. It may be silly, but I was proud of him to hear that. Despite some errors along the way, he's still sensible, overall.
I talked with him on the phone yesterday for awhile. Definitely good to hear from him, and I was glad that my experience--however problematic, of course--could be of some use to others. I didn't give a whole lot of detail about my situation, but I certainly used it to give advice, however minor.
I also have as a major project the making of a few other things (they're surprises to some who read this, so I'm keeping details hush-hush), originally as a gift to an online friend, and I'm giving S. a few of them along the way. When she heard yesterday that the final product has glitter, she was all "they have glitter?" and wanted some of that type too. Another pleasing "I can make things that people enjoy"-type moment.
There's a few other potential projects I want to work on: my own fitness, learning more good recipes, that sort of thing. But the potential for all this is astounding, and I can't wait to start on (or finish) a whole lot of them. Looking forward to it.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
rime, language, and direction
There's a thick layer of fog obscuring the base of the mountains this morning, leaving only the ridges exposed.
If you haven't been here before, you should know there are no peaks here: all the mountains here have been dulled by time and exposure. And glaciers, usually.
But this morning's fog also reached us far into the valley, leaving every car with a hard candy shell, including mine, as I commented to my grand-boss on the walk in from the parking lot. He laughed and theorized that when I went to try it, my tongue stuck to the windshield.
He's not feeling so hot, but he's good to riff with even when he's under the weather. And his under the weather is following my under the weather, and I really I hope I didn't pass what I had around the office.
There's construction in the lot next door to home, as well as on my way to work. All of their equipment was frosted with rime as well.
Yes, I just used "rime" in a sentence. And I did it without thinking about it, though it occurred to me to look it up afterwards, since it does sound like a made-up word. But no, according to Merriam-Webster's (my free online dictionary of choice since going to the Oxford English Dictionary takes about four extra steps, since it requires me to sign into my Penn State library account), it's "frost," or "an accumulation of granular ice tufts on the windward sides of exposed objects that is formed from supercooled fog or cloud and built out directly against the wind," and comes from Old English hrIm; akin to Old Norse hrIm, which explains why I probably like the word so much to begin with. Though the OED is a tad more precise: "Hoar-frost; frozen mist. a chill mist or fog," cautioning that "in scientific use rime is now distinguished from hoar-frost," and traces its usage from 725, though most of its examples are from the 1500s.
Today's etymology lesson brought to you by Anne's brain having been kicked into high gear.
Where I was originally going with this was that passing the construction (covered with rime, no less), this is the second day I've seen the Amish worker there: working in shirtsleeves but no coat, with his suspenders and straw hat.
More than once during my frequent stops to Amish open-air markets of their produce, baking, and preserving over the last few years, I've wished I learned German. Not just because I'm curious about what they say about us, though I'm sure there's a little of that: they do consider us outsiders, calling us "the English." One of the professors in the English department grew up Mennonite and will tell similar stories if asked. But that's not so much my concern--I kind of want to put them at ease as much as I can. They seem awkward with their customers (and I know this is a generalization), especially the older and the very young: strangely, the older teens seem most comfortable with their position and how to deal with the public, from what I've seen thus far. Though I suppose it's one family that I see most often, and it could just be them.
Given that I'm struggling to retain Danish, though, I'm not so sure learning German would've worked. When I was in Denmark, I took French. And boy, was that a doozy. I had already had a year of French, and this was the class's first year with it, so I was in essence going back a year, though language classes over there strike me as much more stringent than in the U.S.
In class one day early on, when I was still learning Danish, the African-born (Francophone) teacher turned to me and in English, asked me to translate a word into French. I answered immediately with the word in Danish, not realizing I had done so until I was told.
I don't want to say that's proof for sticking to one language at a time, but it does strike me as telling for me and how I learn languages, at least. Though I suppose it's different for dead languages: I don't think the same problem would have occurred if I'd been learning Old English at the time, and it didn't occur so much with Latin (which was another course taken at the time, I might add).
My grandboss has "Quo Vadimus" as a sign on his door, which means "Where are we going?" I rather wish I remembered enough Latin to be able to conjugate that into "Where have we been?" His is a noble sentiment, though I'd also argue that parts of this office could stand to learn from their mistakes (including myself).
And with that, off to a meeting.
If you haven't been here before, you should know there are no peaks here: all the mountains here have been dulled by time and exposure. And glaciers, usually.
But this morning's fog also reached us far into the valley, leaving every car with a hard candy shell, including mine, as I commented to my grand-boss on the walk in from the parking lot. He laughed and theorized that when I went to try it, my tongue stuck to the windshield.
He's not feeling so hot, but he's good to riff with even when he's under the weather. And his under the weather is following my under the weather, and I really I hope I didn't pass what I had around the office.
There's construction in the lot next door to home, as well as on my way to work. All of their equipment was frosted with rime as well.
Yes, I just used "rime" in a sentence. And I did it without thinking about it, though it occurred to me to look it up afterwards, since it does sound like a made-up word. But no, according to Merriam-Webster's (my free online dictionary of choice since going to the Oxford English Dictionary takes about four extra steps, since it requires me to sign into my Penn State library account), it's "frost," or "an accumulation of granular ice tufts on the windward sides of exposed objects that is formed from supercooled fog or cloud and built out directly against the wind," and comes from Old English hrIm; akin to Old Norse hrIm, which explains why I probably like the word so much to begin with. Though the OED is a tad more precise: "Hoar-frost; frozen mist. a chill mist or fog," cautioning that "in scientific use rime is now distinguished from hoar-frost," and traces its usage from 725, though most of its examples are from the 1500s.
Today's etymology lesson brought to you by Anne's brain having been kicked into high gear.
Where I was originally going with this was that passing the construction (covered with rime, no less), this is the second day I've seen the Amish worker there: working in shirtsleeves but no coat, with his suspenders and straw hat.
More than once during my frequent stops to Amish open-air markets of their produce, baking, and preserving over the last few years, I've wished I learned German. Not just because I'm curious about what they say about us, though I'm sure there's a little of that: they do consider us outsiders, calling us "the English." One of the professors in the English department grew up Mennonite and will tell similar stories if asked. But that's not so much my concern--I kind of want to put them at ease as much as I can. They seem awkward with their customers (and I know this is a generalization), especially the older and the very young: strangely, the older teens seem most comfortable with their position and how to deal with the public, from what I've seen thus far. Though I suppose it's one family that I see most often, and it could just be them.
Given that I'm struggling to retain Danish, though, I'm not so sure learning German would've worked. When I was in Denmark, I took French. And boy, was that a doozy. I had already had a year of French, and this was the class's first year with it, so I was in essence going back a year, though language classes over there strike me as much more stringent than in the U.S.
In class one day early on, when I was still learning Danish, the African-born (Francophone) teacher turned to me and in English, asked me to translate a word into French. I answered immediately with the word in Danish, not realizing I had done so until I was told.
I don't want to say that's proof for sticking to one language at a time, but it does strike me as telling for me and how I learn languages, at least. Though I suppose it's different for dead languages: I don't think the same problem would have occurred if I'd been learning Old English at the time, and it didn't occur so much with Latin (which was another course taken at the time, I might add).
My grandboss has "Quo Vadimus" as a sign on his door, which means "Where are we going?" I rather wish I remembered enough Latin to be able to conjugate that into "Where have we been?" His is a noble sentiment, though I'd also argue that parts of this office could stand to learn from their mistakes (including myself).
And with that, off to a meeting.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
all I want
All I want for Christmas is a garage. Scraping my car's windows every morning got old sometime in the last couple years.
And welcome to the worst of the pre-application date craziness: this is when students and parents start panicking about our November 30th priority date. Panicking means calls shoot through the roof, and virtually no one on the other end of the line is in a pleasant frame of mind. And now, of course, is when virtually the entire office takes two days off (Thanksgiving and the day after).
A word to the wise: if all of your materials haven't been received by us by Thanksgiving, you might as well kiss the possibility of being on time goodbye.
Perhaps that's too harsh. But five days (or four, depending on if you get the day after Thanksgiving off or not--we don't officially, but most people take a vacation day) is generally not long enough for standardized test scores or high school transcripts to reach us. And if you're having trouble with the password to your online application? It usually takes two days of back-and-forth emails for us to confirm your identity and then reset your password. I used to be the only one in the office officially handling those problems, I might add.
Are you sensing some stress here? Nah.
And welcome to the worst of the pre-application date craziness: this is when students and parents start panicking about our November 30th priority date. Panicking means calls shoot through the roof, and virtually no one on the other end of the line is in a pleasant frame of mind. And now, of course, is when virtually the entire office takes two days off (Thanksgiving and the day after).
A word to the wise: if all of your materials haven't been received by us by Thanksgiving, you might as well kiss the possibility of being on time goodbye.
Perhaps that's too harsh. But five days (or four, depending on if you get the day after Thanksgiving off or not--we don't officially, but most people take a vacation day) is generally not long enough for standardized test scores or high school transcripts to reach us. And if you're having trouble with the password to your online application? It usually takes two days of back-and-forth emails for us to confirm your identity and then reset your password. I used to be the only one in the office officially handling those problems, I might add.
Are you sensing some stress here? Nah.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Signs of Life
Forgot to mention: the book that I had a photo in the running for is out now, but my shot didn't make it. It's still a great collection--I bought a copy myself. You can pick up a copy of Signs of Life here, if you're interested. They're really close to making it to their publisher's top 100, and the profits go to two area service organizations. Check it out.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
update, schmupdate.
I know it's been awhile. It's been crazy lately, including work. 'Tis the season for admissions applications.
I feel like I spent less than an hour at my desk today, and I frankly wouldn't be too far off. At one point, I got back to the building after a cross-campus hike in the cold and wet only to turn around and leave it again about fifteen minutes later for another meeting. Though they fed us pizza there, so I can't complain too much.
It's been a cold, wet, miserable, and frazzled sort of day, and a sneezing on your paycheck while stuffing it in your wallet for your next run to the bank (nevermind the coincidence that you just went today before this one arrived) and trying to change out of your work clothes so you can make a quick entry, cook some quick stir fry, and get out to join friends for the night's plans sort of an evening. Which is what's going on now.
I made an amazing meal yesterday, courtesy of a link sent by S, who I joined a local CSA with for local, organic veggies. Which is actually making me cook more, which is good. And successfully! I was amazed at how well this turned out, given all the substitutions I made: shallots for the yellow onion, garlic powder for the fresh, chicken broth rather than veggie. I'm not even sure I used kale: I used whatever dark green leafy thing I got this week from the CSA, plus some tatsoi left over from last week's haul. How I managed to get everything coordinated so the sunflower seeds were toasting while the greens were simmering and the pasta cooking, after having started with cooking the edamame, I'm not sure, nor am I sure I'll ever be able to do again. But it's nice being in the zone in something I'm not so confident at.
On the other end, with something I'm more confident in, I tried the half-Persian weave in silver rather than steel over the weekend, and it turned out quite nicely, though I gave myself a blister on my thumb in the process.
I also recently spoke to N., my oldest friend. And it's funny how whenever we talk (which is rare), it turns out to be this intense summary and almost mini-therapy in that I talk about things I barely even think about, even though they're part of my day-to-day and have been for years.
I've been wanting to write but not having or wanting to sacrifice the time I need to do so. Frustrating. But even more frustrating is bit by bit trying to scrape and make sacrifices for a new computer--an expense I hadn't planned on until recently, when I realized I need to upgrade soon, given that this one's almost five years old, though I have made additions along the way.
Despite all this nonsense, I'm still happy. I've had a song running through my head for weeks now: a BT song whose chorus goes "simply being loved, loved, loved, is more than enough." And it is. I treasure my friends, whom I consider close enough to be family, both here and elsewhere. And I'll end there, because I desperately need to go and make dinner in order to join a few of them.
I feel like I spent less than an hour at my desk today, and I frankly wouldn't be too far off. At one point, I got back to the building after a cross-campus hike in the cold and wet only to turn around and leave it again about fifteen minutes later for another meeting. Though they fed us pizza there, so I can't complain too much.
It's been a cold, wet, miserable, and frazzled sort of day, and a sneezing on your paycheck while stuffing it in your wallet for your next run to the bank (nevermind the coincidence that you just went today before this one arrived) and trying to change out of your work clothes so you can make a quick entry, cook some quick stir fry, and get out to join friends for the night's plans sort of an evening. Which is what's going on now.
I made an amazing meal yesterday, courtesy of a link sent by S, who I joined a local CSA with for local, organic veggies. Which is actually making me cook more, which is good. And successfully! I was amazed at how well this turned out, given all the substitutions I made: shallots for the yellow onion, garlic powder for the fresh, chicken broth rather than veggie. I'm not even sure I used kale: I used whatever dark green leafy thing I got this week from the CSA, plus some tatsoi left over from last week's haul. How I managed to get everything coordinated so the sunflower seeds were toasting while the greens were simmering and the pasta cooking, after having started with cooking the edamame, I'm not sure, nor am I sure I'll ever be able to do again. But it's nice being in the zone in something I'm not so confident at.
On the other end, with something I'm more confident in, I tried the half-Persian weave in silver rather than steel over the weekend, and it turned out quite nicely, though I gave myself a blister on my thumb in the process.
I also recently spoke to N., my oldest friend. And it's funny how whenever we talk (which is rare), it turns out to be this intense summary and almost mini-therapy in that I talk about things I barely even think about, even though they're part of my day-to-day and have been for years.
I've been wanting to write but not having or wanting to sacrifice the time I need to do so. Frustrating. But even more frustrating is bit by bit trying to scrape and make sacrifices for a new computer--an expense I hadn't planned on until recently, when I realized I need to upgrade soon, given that this one's almost five years old, though I have made additions along the way.
Despite all this nonsense, I'm still happy. I've had a song running through my head for weeks now: a BT song whose chorus goes "simply being loved, loved, loved, is more than enough." And it is. I treasure my friends, whom I consider close enough to be family, both here and elsewhere. And I'll end there, because I desperately need to go and make dinner in order to join a few of them.
Friday, September 08, 2006
banner follow-up
Also, to follow-up on the mention of the abortion banner, here, Michael Bérubé also noted the absurdity of the thing, pointing out with some profundity what I couldn't quite come to grips with. It was also pointed out to me that the banner had been sighted in Pittsburgh a few weeks before. Is it a crusade targeting college students? No doubt in my mind.
have a thicker blanket.
Both yesterday and today the fog's been a morning greeting--this time even at home, not just campus. Yesterday it burned off beautifully, exposing sunshine and warm temperatures. Today it's too early to tell--I can't even see the field behind the office currently.
Yesterday evening as I was exiting the office, I bumped into a lady that works downstairs, with the office that does the programming for our administrative mainframe. Despite being a near-total stranger, conversation started right up--about the weather, of course, that being the easiest thing for strangers in the same geographic area to talk about. Then she brought up how beautiful the moon had been the night before. I mentioned that I hadn't been out to see it--it was full, right? (Knowing full well, as I do these days, when the moon is full--in no small part due to BPAL's release schedule. It's Chrysanthemum Moon according to their reckoning, based on Asian moons, and next month's full moon will be Kindly.) She agreed, then asked me if I was new to the building. I shook my head no and said I'd been here a year and a half (it's edging closer to two now, but I didn't point that out at the time). She kind of laughed, and said "oh, well that's new." And as we parted ways, headed for our respective cars, she waved and said "welcome to [the building]."
And our building is full of long-haulers. My grand-boss has been here for more than 20 years for certain, probably more than 25. Three people off the top of my head are about to retire in our Admissions Services and Evaluation Team. On the other hand, since I arrived in the office, we've hired a dozen people I can think of off the top of my head. I guess that makes for a relatively good balance of institutional knowledge and fresh input. These kinds of things have been increasingly coming to the forefront of my mind as we've been trying to form these committees, which should start their first meetings next week, we hope.
Unfortunately, navigating what they're going to turn out like and how they're going to operate is a lot like navigating the fog this morning--being never quite sure what might pop into view as you travel.
This morning, on the drive in, it was thick, thick, thick, until I hit one patch in the heavily wooded area I drive through, at which point it cleared up completely in this little bubble of stillness. And that was magic. A small kind of magic, certainly, but magic nonetheless: this pure, clear vision as woods pressed close, every detail perfectly visible, but the very distinct knowledge of when you have to enter the dimness again. And it hits in a wall, and then you're engulfed and straining to see clearly once more.
Welcome to the world of office politics.
Yesterday evening as I was exiting the office, I bumped into a lady that works downstairs, with the office that does the programming for our administrative mainframe. Despite being a near-total stranger, conversation started right up--about the weather, of course, that being the easiest thing for strangers in the same geographic area to talk about. Then she brought up how beautiful the moon had been the night before. I mentioned that I hadn't been out to see it--it was full, right? (Knowing full well, as I do these days, when the moon is full--in no small part due to BPAL's release schedule. It's Chrysanthemum Moon according to their reckoning, based on Asian moons, and next month's full moon will be Kindly.) She agreed, then asked me if I was new to the building. I shook my head no and said I'd been here a year and a half (it's edging closer to two now, but I didn't point that out at the time). She kind of laughed, and said "oh, well that's new." And as we parted ways, headed for our respective cars, she waved and said "welcome to [the building]."
And our building is full of long-haulers. My grand-boss has been here for more than 20 years for certain, probably more than 25. Three people off the top of my head are about to retire in our Admissions Services and Evaluation Team. On the other hand, since I arrived in the office, we've hired a dozen people I can think of off the top of my head. I guess that makes for a relatively good balance of institutional knowledge and fresh input. These kinds of things have been increasingly coming to the forefront of my mind as we've been trying to form these committees, which should start their first meetings next week, we hope.
Unfortunately, navigating what they're going to turn out like and how they're going to operate is a lot like navigating the fog this morning--being never quite sure what might pop into view as you travel.
This morning, on the drive in, it was thick, thick, thick, until I hit one patch in the heavily wooded area I drive through, at which point it cleared up completely in this little bubble of stillness. And that was magic. A small kind of magic, certainly, but magic nonetheless: this pure, clear vision as woods pressed close, every detail perfectly visible, but the very distinct knowledge of when you have to enter the dimness again. And it hits in a wall, and then you're engulfed and straining to see clearly once more.
Welcome to the world of office politics.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Welcome to Happy Valley--have a blanket.
Today, the second day of fall classes, dawned dull and cold and spitting. I was amused on my drive in to see a professor-type in suit and bow tie standing beneath a great black umbrella at the bus stop. I was even more amused to see what for the life of me seemed like flecks of snow hitting my windshield along with the sprinkles of rain.
The wall of fog I encountered as I drove toward campus further expanded my delight. Strange, I know, but I think we've covered that about me. In the case, it was a gorgeous, deep fog. Which slowed down traffic, of course, but that's the only down side.
Forget about my view of the mountains: on the way in, I could barely see the watertower I usually pass. On the corner of the intersection the stadium's closest to, I could barely see its struts, and couldn't at all see the other side of it.
Now that I'm in my office, once I look beyond the field and accompanying field house just outside my window, there's nothing beyond. If I crane back to see Pollock Halls, the closest are kind of visible, but the ones closer to the heart of campus are just--gone. Swallowed up. The world has been shallowed, the horizon brought in closer. No sign of Mount Nittany or the range it's attached to, much less the range beyond that.
While a nasty greeting for those from warmer climes, I find this comforting--as if the valley pulled around a nestling blanket for its new residents. I doubt they'll be as appreciative, but I have to admit that I love this.
The wall of fog I encountered as I drove toward campus further expanded my delight. Strange, I know, but I think we've covered that about me. In the case, it was a gorgeous, deep fog. Which slowed down traffic, of course, but that's the only down side.
Forget about my view of the mountains: on the way in, I could barely see the watertower I usually pass. On the corner of the intersection the stadium's closest to, I could barely see its struts, and couldn't at all see the other side of it.
Now that I'm in my office, once I look beyond the field and accompanying field house just outside my window, there's nothing beyond. If I crane back to see Pollock Halls, the closest are kind of visible, but the ones closer to the heart of campus are just--gone. Swallowed up. The world has been shallowed, the horizon brought in closer. No sign of Mount Nittany or the range it's attached to, much less the range beyond that.
While a nasty greeting for those from warmer climes, I find this comforting--as if the valley pulled around a nestling blanket for its new residents. I doubt they'll be as appreciative, but I have to admit that I love this.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
move-in, eating crow, and fanatics
Today is overcast. It has been for awhile. Students have been moving in for the past two days, and S.C. has exploded, population-wise, especially when you count all the parents either overnighting or making a weekend of it with the game and all, plus classes not starting until Tuesday.
I'm impressed every time. Things change so suddenly around here. I moved from a village that doubles in the summer to a small city that doubles whenever it's not summer. And they bring wonder to town, the students, as do their parents, oftentimes.
I'm trying to have a slow lunch after the bustle of the rest of my day--slowly sipping my jasmine tea until it cools enough to drink, writing this old school with the tiny pad and pen that fits into my wallet--an extremely useful gift from J.
I have to say I'm awfully fond of the colleague who stopped in my door yesterday to inform me that "I'm here to eat crow." There's little in my book that's more endearing than having the cajones to admit you're wrong.
He came down earlier that day to chastise me for making the incorrect call on a deferral and to correct the letter I'd had sent out that hadn't escaped our mail room yet. I told him that I thought I knew the policy and followed it, to the point of looking it up as I was doing it, but if I was wrong, I'd correct it. He had come back to let me know I'd done it all right in the first place, and he would have to correct his own incorrect call on the matter.
And he technically outranks me in this: both in which team he's on here (Admissions Services and Evaluation Team vs. me in the Communication and Customer Service Team), rank and title, and of course years of experience. I can't deny it feels good to be right here.
Circling around campus is a plane dragging a huge banner that reads "10 week abortion," with a phone number and accompanying graphic photo, in a size too big to mention. This is the first time I've seen this, though it may have been up before. The unfortunate bit is that from afar, I'd thought it read "10 week audition" and I couldn't see the photo, and then I'd craned to figure out what the auditions were for. The other unfortunate bit is that though I certainly can guess, it's not clear if it's an ad for a clinic that provides those services, or a protest against such.
There's a commonly-repeated saying to the effect that fanatics of any stripe make the reasonable members of the group look bad. On the other hand, I would argue, there are also fanatics that make the human race look bad.
Not that this is the worst offender. But even so.
But even despite that view, and despite the overcast sky, I'll likely drive home tonight with the sunroof open, as I have pretty much every day it hasn't rained since I re-discovered the beauty of having one.
I'm impressed every time. Things change so suddenly around here. I moved from a village that doubles in the summer to a small city that doubles whenever it's not summer. And they bring wonder to town, the students, as do their parents, oftentimes.
I'm trying to have a slow lunch after the bustle of the rest of my day--slowly sipping my jasmine tea until it cools enough to drink, writing this old school with the tiny pad and pen that fits into my wallet--an extremely useful gift from J.
I have to say I'm awfully fond of the colleague who stopped in my door yesterday to inform me that "I'm here to eat crow." There's little in my book that's more endearing than having the cajones to admit you're wrong.
He came down earlier that day to chastise me for making the incorrect call on a deferral and to correct the letter I'd had sent out that hadn't escaped our mail room yet. I told him that I thought I knew the policy and followed it, to the point of looking it up as I was doing it, but if I was wrong, I'd correct it. He had come back to let me know I'd done it all right in the first place, and he would have to correct his own incorrect call on the matter.
And he technically outranks me in this: both in which team he's on here (Admissions Services and Evaluation Team vs. me in the Communication and Customer Service Team), rank and title, and of course years of experience. I can't deny it feels good to be right here.
Circling around campus is a plane dragging a huge banner that reads "10 week abortion," with a phone number and accompanying graphic photo, in a size too big to mention. This is the first time I've seen this, though it may have been up before. The unfortunate bit is that from afar, I'd thought it read "10 week audition" and I couldn't see the photo, and then I'd craned to figure out what the auditions were for. The other unfortunate bit is that though I certainly can guess, it's not clear if it's an ad for a clinic that provides those services, or a protest against such.
There's a commonly-repeated saying to the effect that fanatics of any stripe make the reasonable members of the group look bad. On the other hand, I would argue, there are also fanatics that make the human race look bad.
Not that this is the worst offender. But even so.
But even despite that view, and despite the overcast sky, I'll likely drive home tonight with the sunroof open, as I have pretty much every day it hasn't rained since I re-discovered the beauty of having one.
Monday, August 28, 2006
current status and an ode to my uncle
Status report:
Generally satisfied and happy, but missing people. I came home today, threw in a load of laundry, made some chicken pad thai, finished a mix CD after some arguing with my relatively ancient Frankencomputer (4 and a half years is old in computer years), talked with my WUL (Weird Uncle L, for those in the know) on the phone for the first time in far too long and now I'm arranging swaps with friends online and listening to the newly-made CD front to back, scrutinizing the transitions. And writing this, of course.
New developments on this end: I've realized I really do need to get a new computer. How fast I move on this depends on how it behaves in the near future, though. And, really, I'm kind of putting it off, since I certainly hadn't budgeted for it.
The source of some relatively major headaches at the DJ gig is suddenly absent--my most recent regular Sunday night co-worker's been fired. I didn't really realize exactly how bad it had gotten until I found myself telling my manager that the company almost lost me over him. The manager in question had gotten one email about his behavior, but until he was gone, I didn't realize just how tense he'd made me those nights.
But: crisis averted. All is well: I think the manager in question is actually going to be taking on the night with me, which I'm pretty cool with.
Talking to my uncle, though, made me start missing him. We were talking about major life shifts and developments, the significance of which is still sinking in and making me think about my own, of course, and about how little time we both have. 'S truth, as an old fling (who I still keep in loose contact with, I might add) once had a habit of saying.
I love chatting with WUL, and I miss being able to do it in person, when we're both relatively at our leisure. But these days, enough time stretches between chats with him that there are sometimes odd pauses where we try to figure out what needs to be said--what we've told each other and what we haven't, what needs to be updated or has new developments, how much time we can spare to chat, and then eventually how to sign off. This time it took a good even dozen tries, I'm certain. We'll usually start wrapping up, then get distracted with a significant detail or anecdote, and have to approach the end of the conversation from a different angle.
I also have lodged in my head his signoff tonight, which meant a lot to me. It was a sentiment I hadn't heard out of him for awhile, and I'd noted its absence. There are relatives of mine that I can basically take or leave--I care, sure, but I wouldn't fuss or make note if they weren't totally forthcoming or genuine in a telephone conversation. WUL is not one of those. He means a lot to me, and I'm not always sure he knows it.
I value his opinions, his thoughts and theories, his personal values, his weirdnesses, his spirituality and beliefs, and being able to talk with him about all the above. And I miss it a lot. I'm proud of him, and that seems weird coming from the younger one of the two of us, I'm sure. But: 's truth. It's why I brought him as a guest panel member to my college when I was organizing our convention there. I wanted my friends to meet him, to talk with him, to realize how brilliant he was, to gain a little bit of what I've gained over the years from him. I'm still pretty constantly amazed that he's part of my family. But happy, certainly happy.
Please excuse this evening's sappiness. I'm operating on about four hours of sleep and I miss my uncle. I just hope he knows how much.
Generally satisfied and happy, but missing people. I came home today, threw in a load of laundry, made some chicken pad thai, finished a mix CD after some arguing with my relatively ancient Frankencomputer (4 and a half years is old in computer years), talked with my WUL (Weird Uncle L, for those in the know) on the phone for the first time in far too long and now I'm arranging swaps with friends online and listening to the newly-made CD front to back, scrutinizing the transitions. And writing this, of course.
New developments on this end: I've realized I really do need to get a new computer. How fast I move on this depends on how it behaves in the near future, though. And, really, I'm kind of putting it off, since I certainly hadn't budgeted for it.
The source of some relatively major headaches at the DJ gig is suddenly absent--my most recent regular Sunday night co-worker's been fired. I didn't really realize exactly how bad it had gotten until I found myself telling my manager that the company almost lost me over him. The manager in question had gotten one email about his behavior, but until he was gone, I didn't realize just how tense he'd made me those nights.
But: crisis averted. All is well: I think the manager in question is actually going to be taking on the night with me, which I'm pretty cool with.
Talking to my uncle, though, made me start missing him. We were talking about major life shifts and developments, the significance of which is still sinking in and making me think about my own, of course, and about how little time we both have. 'S truth, as an old fling (who I still keep in loose contact with, I might add) once had a habit of saying.
I love chatting with WUL, and I miss being able to do it in person, when we're both relatively at our leisure. But these days, enough time stretches between chats with him that there are sometimes odd pauses where we try to figure out what needs to be said--what we've told each other and what we haven't, what needs to be updated or has new developments, how much time we can spare to chat, and then eventually how to sign off. This time it took a good even dozen tries, I'm certain. We'll usually start wrapping up, then get distracted with a significant detail or anecdote, and have to approach the end of the conversation from a different angle.
I also have lodged in my head his signoff tonight, which meant a lot to me. It was a sentiment I hadn't heard out of him for awhile, and I'd noted its absence. There are relatives of mine that I can basically take or leave--I care, sure, but I wouldn't fuss or make note if they weren't totally forthcoming or genuine in a telephone conversation. WUL is not one of those. He means a lot to me, and I'm not always sure he knows it.
I value his opinions, his thoughts and theories, his personal values, his weirdnesses, his spirituality and beliefs, and being able to talk with him about all the above. And I miss it a lot. I'm proud of him, and that seems weird coming from the younger one of the two of us, I'm sure. But: 's truth. It's why I brought him as a guest panel member to my college when I was organizing our convention there. I wanted my friends to meet him, to talk with him, to realize how brilliant he was, to gain a little bit of what I've gained over the years from him. I'm still pretty constantly amazed that he's part of my family. But happy, certainly happy.
Please excuse this evening's sappiness. I'm operating on about four hours of sleep and I miss my uncle. I just hope he knows how much.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Leaving New Orleans, part the final
The morning I flew out was strange. My flight left incredibly early, which meant I and my host got up at 4 a.m. or so to get ready to make the drive out to the airport. Instead of taking the highway, which wasn't entirely reliable due to night construction, we ghosted through neighborhood after neighborhood. Some were eerily quiet. Others, from all indications, were completely abandoned. There was mist across the road in a lot of places, especially near the park.
After I finished being unnerved, I found it a completely appropriate environment for my exit from the city. New Orleans would haunt me, much as that morning's ride did. I am amazingly thankful that I got a chance to go, and took it.
Once aloft, I could see the city below quite clearly as we were banking:
Thanks to the wonder that is the satellite view on Google Maps, I managed to precisely identify what I was seeing. Metairie Cemetery is the one arranged in an oval above the golf course. Greenwood Cemetery is across the Ponchartrain Expressway from it to the right and St. Patrick's Cemetery is just below, more across from the golf course. Note the cluster of blue tarps in the lower right (click through the picture if you can't see them well enough: you can also click "All Sizes" above the picture on that page to enlarge it).
A line of sunlight appeared over the city as we left it:
And a new day dawned for New Orleans as I left it behind.
Take that as a metaphor, if you will.
After I finished being unnerved, I found it a completely appropriate environment for my exit from the city. New Orleans would haunt me, much as that morning's ride did. I am amazingly thankful that I got a chance to go, and took it.
Once aloft, I could see the city below quite clearly as we were banking:
Thanks to the wonder that is the satellite view on Google Maps, I managed to precisely identify what I was seeing. Metairie Cemetery is the one arranged in an oval above the golf course. Greenwood Cemetery is across the Ponchartrain Expressway from it to the right and St. Patrick's Cemetery is just below, more across from the golf course. Note the cluster of blue tarps in the lower right (click through the picture if you can't see them well enough: you can also click "All Sizes" above the picture on that page to enlarge it).
A line of sunlight appeared over the city as we left it:
And a new day dawned for New Orleans as I left it behind.
Take that as a metaphor, if you will.
New Orleans pictures, part the seventh
But there were other signs as well. Signs that life was returning to normal.
The shops, many of them, were open again.
The tourists were returning, that Easter weekend:
And with the tourists came the street performers:
The characters that make up the heart of New Orleans were either back, or never left:
You'll still find surprises in your food:
Like the crab's claw I found in my gumbo at Coop's Place, but it was still amazing food. I miss it, and before this I never particularly cared for spicy food.
The beautiful buildings haven't gone away:
And some things never change:
This is Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, said to be the longest continuously operating bar in the America, located on a far end of Bourbon Street. It's quiet, almost entirely lit by candles, and the interior is largely unchanged.
After all this, though, I felt just about like this:
The shops, many of them, were open again.
The tourists were returning, that Easter weekend:
And with the tourists came the street performers:
The characters that make up the heart of New Orleans were either back, or never left:
You'll still find surprises in your food:
Like the crab's claw I found in my gumbo at Coop's Place, but it was still amazing food. I miss it, and before this I never particularly cared for spicy food.
The beautiful buildings haven't gone away:
And some things never change:
This is Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, said to be the longest continuously operating bar in the America, located on a far end of Bourbon Street. It's quiet, almost entirely lit by candles, and the interior is largely unchanged.
After all this, though, I felt just about like this:
New Orleans pictures, part the sixth
Throughout, I was fascinated by the tagging. What it meant, where the different services placed them, why each was searching. But only after I returned did I look up the codes: "The top obviously represented the date of the search. The left, the unit who conducted it. The right was a code for the type of contamination found within. The bottom number told the grim tale of how many bodies were found." (I don't have the original source of that quote because it's been reposted so often.)
"When they enter a structure to search for survivors, they put a slash on the building (usually in orange spray paint) with the date to the right of it and some type of identification for the search team on the left. Then they "cross the X" on the way out of the structure, writing body counts at the bottom and other hazards to the right. (That way, if they get in trouble and never come back out, another crew can tell which building they're stuck in because the X isn't crossed.)"
And some, more practical, like this one for mail.
Also on the more practical end were those who searched for pets. A good thing in theory, it didn't work out in practice as well. Some of these folks broke into houses to find abandoned pets, and left those houses wide open to be looted.
And then there were signs of a different sort, not encoded, but plain to read. Signs like the one I contributed to Signs of Life and others, begging for an end:
And yet others carrying more hope than despair:
"When they enter a structure to search for survivors, they put a slash on the building (usually in orange spray paint) with the date to the right of it and some type of identification for the search team on the left. Then they "cross the X" on the way out of the structure, writing body counts at the bottom and other hazards to the right. (That way, if they get in trouble and never come back out, another crew can tell which building they're stuck in because the X isn't crossed.)"
And some, more practical, like this one for mail.
Also on the more practical end were those who searched for pets. A good thing in theory, it didn't work out in practice as well. Some of these folks broke into houses to find abandoned pets, and left those houses wide open to be looted.
And then there were signs of a different sort, not encoded, but plain to read. Signs like the one I contributed to Signs of Life and others, begging for an end:
And yet others carrying more hope than despair:
New Orleans pictures, part the fifth
Then there were these:
Yes, that water line would be over your head. This is from Lakeview, with a storm rolling in to the left, through a car window. Since Lakeview and several other areas that got hit hard are basically suburban cookie-cutter hells, those areas turned out like this:
Full curbs, fridges often full of rotten food, at each stop down the line.
Curbs full of belongings, furniture, clothes; often moldy or still waterlogged, in the case of mattresses.
The "luckier" areas, where people qualified, saw trailers in each driveway.
I was heartened to see kids biking down the road here, like in any neighborhood, which is why I took this shot.
Tons of new businesses sprang up or moved to the area, and advertised on every lightpole they could get ahold of:
I'm not real fond of these businesses, though I know their services are needed. To me, a lot of these are just making their money off the disaster--demolition, mold removal, businesses that buy up old houses, you name it--and others are just plain scams.
Lest you think it was just middle-class suburbia that got hit:
And the ubiquitous blue tarps:
And fridges. No electricity = rotting food. Most people probably checked theirs after they returned, then duct taped it shut and tossed it to the curb:
Yes, that water line would be over your head. This is from Lakeview, with a storm rolling in to the left, through a car window. Since Lakeview and several other areas that got hit hard are basically suburban cookie-cutter hells, those areas turned out like this:
Full curbs, fridges often full of rotten food, at each stop down the line.
Curbs full of belongings, furniture, clothes; often moldy or still waterlogged, in the case of mattresses.
The "luckier" areas, where people qualified, saw trailers in each driveway.
I was heartened to see kids biking down the road here, like in any neighborhood, which is why I took this shot.
Tons of new businesses sprang up or moved to the area, and advertised on every lightpole they could get ahold of:
I'm not real fond of these businesses, though I know their services are needed. To me, a lot of these are just making their money off the disaster--demolition, mold removal, businesses that buy up old houses, you name it--and others are just plain scams.
Lest you think it was just middle-class suburbia that got hit:
And the ubiquitous blue tarps:
And fridges. No electricity = rotting food. Most people probably checked theirs after they returned, then duct taped it shut and tossed it to the curb:
New Orleans pictures, part the fourth
Here's the much briefer and segmented version of what I wanted to do earlier: post some of the New Orleans pictures with context. I'll do separate entries for these, to break it up a bit.
A former stoplight in the Marigny. As of April, a lot of stoplights were still down, turning those intersections into four-way stops, which messed with traffic something fierce.
They are, of course, making progress on that account, though.
And, on the other hand, some are operable, just a bit cock-eyed:
And then there are other signs that are just a bit off as well:
A former stoplight in the Marigny. As of April, a lot of stoplights were still down, turning those intersections into four-way stops, which messed with traffic something fierce.
They are, of course, making progress on that account, though.
And, on the other hand, some are operable, just a bit cock-eyed:
And then there are other signs that are just a bit off as well:
the forest for the trees
This morning, driving in to work, I noticed one of the other things I appreciate about this area of Pennsylvania. While I was driving, the odd fir trees on either side of the road turned into oaks, and I realized that I really enjoy the variability of the landscape.
There's this one type of fir that you can see from the bypass out to Bellefonte, that I swear has always struck me at first, from afar, to look like a grove of palm trees. They're amazingly tall, and bend slightly from the prevailing wind, but only have needles and branches at the very tippy-top. When I was dating the former Forestry major, I should've asked about them--but then again, I might not have remembered the answer. I've forgotten a lot of what I learned then, and I wish I'd thought to write it down. Then again, I knew that relationship would end (the person in question was moving to Philly only a few short months--in reality, more like six, but it felt short--after we started dating) so I was probably busy enjoying the presence rather than planning for the absence. In any case.
Yesterday I had the morning presentation. It went well enough--one rather insistent questioner who asked some rather off-the-wall questions, but other than that and one tangent that caused, well enough. On the way back to the office after yoga yesterday, I ran into one of the families that had been in the presentation: a family I remembered not only because the mother had a foot injury that caused her to move around in a boot, but because it was one of those odd situations we run into here surprisingly often--what we call the change-of-assignment student. The student had started at Penn State York and was soon to be switching to Penn State University Park as planned, but wanted to get a tour first. He and his family had come in late to the information session (it didn't really apply to them anyway), and the mother had asked me a few questions about housing afterwards.
When I realized they were somewhat lost, I offered to walk them back to Shields, which was where I was headed anyway. I fell into step with the student and chatted with him--about getting used to a large campus, about housing, about York, and about the weather and environment here at UP. He mentioned that the landscape on the drive up was "hard to resist," and I had to agree with him there.
He asked about winter--York's almost on the Maryland border, and gets a really minor amount of snowfall--and I told him how we get one or two bad snowfalls a year, but typically that's all. The rest of the winter's just minor flurries and subsequent slush. But then I told him about the beautiful storms--the way you can see rain falling on the mountains but not touching the valley, and the way you can watch a thunderstorm crest Mount Nittany, the dark clouds building above it before it tumbles down the other side. I don't think he got the beauty in it. But I think he will, eventually.
It was when he asked my major that I realized he didn't recognize me from the presentation. I laughed, said I had changed clothes, given the workout, and that I was in disguise. I'm still amused and mostly enjoy these kinds of mistakes, and they happen often, despite that I feel the beginnings of age creeping into the edges of my eyes and in the crease between my eyebrows. But we're all our own worst critics, of course.
And now you see how the minor things--the incidentals--distract me from the grandeur and beauty of this place. Maybe I'll ask L. if he wants to go hiking this weekend. Then again, with my luck (after checking the forecast), we'll get caught in one of those beautiful rainstorms I was just raving about. 40-60% chance, depending on which day? Yeah, probably would. Then again, I don't mind a little damp every once in awhile, and I don't think L. does either. It's been a long time since I've been out to the Shingletown Gap trails. Maybe we'll try to hit it up anyway.
There's this one type of fir that you can see from the bypass out to Bellefonte, that I swear has always struck me at first, from afar, to look like a grove of palm trees. They're amazingly tall, and bend slightly from the prevailing wind, but only have needles and branches at the very tippy-top. When I was dating the former Forestry major, I should've asked about them--but then again, I might not have remembered the answer. I've forgotten a lot of what I learned then, and I wish I'd thought to write it down. Then again, I knew that relationship would end (the person in question was moving to Philly only a few short months--in reality, more like six, but it felt short--after we started dating) so I was probably busy enjoying the presence rather than planning for the absence. In any case.
Yesterday I had the morning presentation. It went well enough--one rather insistent questioner who asked some rather off-the-wall questions, but other than that and one tangent that caused, well enough. On the way back to the office after yoga yesterday, I ran into one of the families that had been in the presentation: a family I remembered not only because the mother had a foot injury that caused her to move around in a boot, but because it was one of those odd situations we run into here surprisingly often--what we call the change-of-assignment student. The student had started at Penn State York and was soon to be switching to Penn State University Park as planned, but wanted to get a tour first. He and his family had come in late to the information session (it didn't really apply to them anyway), and the mother had asked me a few questions about housing afterwards.
When I realized they were somewhat lost, I offered to walk them back to Shields, which was where I was headed anyway. I fell into step with the student and chatted with him--about getting used to a large campus, about housing, about York, and about the weather and environment here at UP. He mentioned that the landscape on the drive up was "hard to resist," and I had to agree with him there.
He asked about winter--York's almost on the Maryland border, and gets a really minor amount of snowfall--and I told him how we get one or two bad snowfalls a year, but typically that's all. The rest of the winter's just minor flurries and subsequent slush. But then I told him about the beautiful storms--the way you can see rain falling on the mountains but not touching the valley, and the way you can watch a thunderstorm crest Mount Nittany, the dark clouds building above it before it tumbles down the other side. I don't think he got the beauty in it. But I think he will, eventually.
It was when he asked my major that I realized he didn't recognize me from the presentation. I laughed, said I had changed clothes, given the workout, and that I was in disguise. I'm still amused and mostly enjoy these kinds of mistakes, and they happen often, despite that I feel the beginnings of age creeping into the edges of my eyes and in the crease between my eyebrows. But we're all our own worst critics, of course.
And now you see how the minor things--the incidentals--distract me from the grandeur and beauty of this place. Maybe I'll ask L. if he wants to go hiking this weekend. Then again, with my luck (after checking the forecast), we'll get caught in one of those beautiful rainstorms I was just raving about. 40-60% chance, depending on which day? Yeah, probably would. Then again, I don't mind a little damp every once in awhile, and I don't think L. does either. It's been a long time since I've been out to the Shingletown Gap trails. Maybe we'll try to hit it up anyway.
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