A friend sent me an email a few days ago to let me know her mother had passed away. My friend and I had worked together for my last employer, but she had resigned first. She had been offered the opportunity to work at home for a state-wide advocacy program.
We have kept in touch and I had often gone to her house to help her with techincal issues in her network. Her mother ad I were on friendly terms (my friend and she lived together.) My friend's mother and I also shared a special bond of shared illness in that we both have diabetes. Her death was a shock to me, because she had been in good health when I last talked to her shortly after the new year.
When I called to let her know I would be coming to the funeral, my friend surprised me with an offer. While caring for her mother, she had gotten behind in her work for the advocacy program. She had contacted the parent organization, and they gave her permission and funding to hire a temporary assistant to get back on track. She asked me to be that assistant.
She said she would work around my schedule (knowing I have children and church obligations) and she even offered to work around the schedule if I get the other position I have been waiting on. I accepted. I know that she and I will have no trouble working together. We have done it before.
So, God closed a door when I left my last job. He also closed a door when he took my friend's mother home, but he also opened a window. He gave us each other. I will be there to help her transition back into her career now that her mom is gone and she will help me transition through my time without a permanent job.
Perhaps by the time this temporary job is over, another window will open for each of us. Will we have to wait and see, until then, we will help each other.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The price of integrity
I was offered a job on Friday, but yesterday I declined. I would have been working from home with a monthly stipend. The work would have been fairly easy, and I would have received additional training, though I am the most trained in the area. The catch was that it would have been for my previous employer.
I left them in February for many reasons, more than I want to go into here. I still feel kindly toward most of the people there and miss working with them. But, in the last several months, the office has gotten worse. Certain members have been treating others very poorly, not just other workers in the office, but those we ... they ... should be serving. I saw a striking example on Monday.
The office manager had arranged for a trainer to come, from Canada, to do training on the job I refused. I am sure he thought I would come back and therefore take the training. I had been asking for it for the two years I was there. This trainer showed up Monday morning. The office manager was not in the office. He had not told the staff the trainer was coming. He left no information for the trainer. When he did arrive after 1 p.m., he didn't let the trainer know he was in the office. I was shocked. I was there for another reason. I took time to greet the trainer (whom I had worked with via email), and offered to give him the password he needed to set up his training and also showed him where the computer was located.
That someone outside the office (though recently assocaited with it) had to do these basic tasks of consideration just blew my mind. What if I hadn't needed to be there on Monday? After seeing how well the office now treats its "guests" and hearing that others are being debased with obscene monikers, regardless that I need the money, I passed.
I would rather make little or nothing and keep my integrity, than stoop to such a lowness just for money.
I left them in February for many reasons, more than I want to go into here. I still feel kindly toward most of the people there and miss working with them. But, in the last several months, the office has gotten worse. Certain members have been treating others very poorly, not just other workers in the office, but those we ... they ... should be serving. I saw a striking example on Monday.
The office manager had arranged for a trainer to come, from Canada, to do training on the job I refused. I am sure he thought I would come back and therefore take the training. I had been asking for it for the two years I was there. This trainer showed up Monday morning. The office manager was not in the office. He had not told the staff the trainer was coming. He left no information for the trainer. When he did arrive after 1 p.m., he didn't let the trainer know he was in the office. I was shocked. I was there for another reason. I took time to greet the trainer (whom I had worked with via email), and offered to give him the password he needed to set up his training and also showed him where the computer was located.
That someone outside the office (though recently assocaited with it) had to do these basic tasks of consideration just blew my mind. What if I hadn't needed to be there on Monday? After seeing how well the office now treats its "guests" and hearing that others are being debased with obscene monikers, regardless that I need the money, I passed.
I would rather make little or nothing and keep my integrity, than stoop to such a lowness just for money.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
To Work or Create, Part 2
As you may have read in an earlier blog, I had another job interview today.
But I am still thinking about web design. It is calling to me, and it is
getting less subtle.
Late Monday afternoon, in desperation after a day stuck in bed because of my
ankle, I hobbled to my bathroom, and crawled onto the edge of my tub. I hate
being dirty. I wanted to wash my hair and at least rinse the rest of me. I
knew that getting all the way in the tub was a bad idea, as I was unlikely
to be able to get back out. With my husband on the other side of the
country, I would be stuck in there until Friday. Luckily, I have a shower
nozzle on a hose (it is one of the "massaging" showerheads. I find it is
easier to clean the tub when I can move the spray to reach all sides.)
I started the water and adjusted the temperature. I leaned forward and wet
my head. No sooner did I have shampoo in my hand than my 13-year old knocked
on the door. I had a phone call. "Who is it?" I asked, hoping I could just
call back. "I don't know. He said something about a web site." Sigh. "Is it
Ned?" (He and I had been talking about a site earlier that day.) "Yeah, I
think that is what he said." Good, he would understand. "Tell him I'm in the
tub and take his number." I knew he wouldn't mind a bit. He knew about my
ankle. We had worked together for the Diocese, and still kept in touch.
Thank God for small favors.
When I was done, I crawled back to the bed. It was easier than using the
crutches. There was a piece of paper with a phone number in orange, but no
area code. I knew Ned was out of our district, and the number looked like a
local exchange. I called her in and asked her to go back over what he had
said. "Well, he thought I was you and when I told him I was your daughter,
he said that someone had told him to call you about a website." Okay, that
would not be Ned then. This was someone else. "Oh, and he said wait until
tomorrow, because he was on his way out of the office." Probably someone
from one of the churches who thought I still worked for the diocese and
would help them with a hosting problem. That would be easy to take care of;
I would just point them back to the diocesan office. I don't do that job
anymore.
The next morning I called the mystery number. But it wasn't a church, it was
a business. He had gotten my name and number from someone I had worked with
before I quit my last job. We wanted me to create a web site for his
business. Well, I was unprepared for the call. I didn't have clients' info
in front of me. I gave him the first one that came to my mind - my mother's
site. She is a potter by trade, and when my server crashed, I put what I had
salvaged of her site up on my own personal webpage until I had a chance to
rebuild the machine. He didn't need to know that she and I were related.
He paused, and then said, "That isn't a domain name. That is just a personal
site." "Yes," I answered, "I put her pages on my site for now. She wasn't
ready to get a domain name yet." He hesitated. That isn't a good sign.
"Could I have the URL of one that did get a domain?" he asked. "None of them
have domain names," I replied. This was not going well. "How long have you
been designing sites?" he asked. "Five years," I replied. "And none of them
have domain names?" he said. I sighed. "None that I am working with now. You
see, most of them pay me in trade," I explained. "This client is a potter
and she pays me in pottery. Another has a vineyard and she pays me in wine.
There is the one I did for my last employer. That has a domain name, but I
don't do their site anymore, so I can't vouch for its condition." He thanked
me for my time and hung up. A lost sale because none of my clients can
afford to pay; they are all just starting businesses too.
I called my ISP. They have a business package that would allow me to run a
full web design and hosting company from my home. It was time for me to
investigate the price. Thirty minutes later, I was depressed. Eighty dollars
a month plus a setup fee. I doubted I would have enough cash paying business
to cover even half that on an ongoing basis. And under no circumstances
would I sell the pottery my mother gave me. It is beautiful art that is
increasing in value each year. In addition, there is a sentimental value
attached to it as well.
I called the vineyard owner to check on her business. This is her third
spring, and she had told me that in March they would be able to tell how the
vines had done over the winter. She was excited to hear from me. The winter
had been kind to her vines and they would have a crop of grapes to sell. I
congratulated her. She had told me in the beginning that it usually took
three years to get a harvest. I asked her to send me some new pictures of
the vines for the website. She told me that she and her husband were finally
ready to get a domain name and start expanding the website. I was ecstatic.
We arranged to meet Thursday (which is today) for lunch to discuss the
expansion and paying me in cash from now on. Maybe it was time to officially
get my business off the ground.
I went downstairs, got my coat and purse, and walked out to the car. I
needed to run a few errands and I wanted lunch out. I called my
brother-in-law. Just the previous night, he had offered to buy my mother a
domain name for her birthday and host her site there. He has his own
business where he goes to people's homes or offices to fix their computers,
sort of like house calls for computers. I wanted to know how much he had to
pay for licenses and such to start up his business two years ago.
I was shocked by what he told me. No, not about his license, which in his
state is free, but that he could show me a place to get hosting at a price
that made my ISP's offer look ridiculous. After thirty minutes on the phone
with him, he had purchased the domain for my mother and sent me the upload
info. There was a way to make this work. I finished my errands and headed
straight home. I contacted the company he dealt with and bought two domain
names (one for myself and one for the vineyard.) I immediately began working
on the files that will go up as soon as the transfer is complete (estimated
to be tomorrow). While I worked on those, I got a call from the vineyard
owner. She had lunched with a real estate agent she knew, and the subject of
web sites came up. Now the realtor wanted me to create a site for her. In
addition, she was going to recommend me to her company and see if the whole
agency would take a site.
I was shocked again. I had gone from no (money) paying clients to two
definite and a possible, with the possible being a large client, in just two
days. I called the city to get information about getting a license. It turns
out to be quite simple and inexpensive in this area. I printed out the forms
and made plans to go to city hall on Friday.
I hung up the phone, and went back to my computer, opening the program I use
to edit web pages. Its familiar screen sprang to life, greeting me and
encouraging me to open a page. I browsed to the folder where I kept the web
pages I have built over the last several years, and opened one. I loaded the
pages and started coding again.
Next week, after my trip to the real estate company, I will make a call to
the man from Monday and arrange an interview with him. I will have three
current domain sites to show him, and half a dozen others (though they still
don't' have domains, and never will). I may even have a preliminary draft
for the real estate company. Then, I will show him my proposal for his site.
But I am still thinking about web design. It is calling to me, and it is
getting less subtle.
Late Monday afternoon, in desperation after a day stuck in bed because of my
ankle, I hobbled to my bathroom, and crawled onto the edge of my tub. I hate
being dirty. I wanted to wash my hair and at least rinse the rest of me. I
knew that getting all the way in the tub was a bad idea, as I was unlikely
to be able to get back out. With my husband on the other side of the
country, I would be stuck in there until Friday. Luckily, I have a shower
nozzle on a hose (it is one of the "massaging" showerheads. I find it is
easier to clean the tub when I can move the spray to reach all sides.)
I started the water and adjusted the temperature. I leaned forward and wet
my head. No sooner did I have shampoo in my hand than my 13-year old knocked
on the door. I had a phone call. "Who is it?" I asked, hoping I could just
call back. "I don't know. He said something about a web site." Sigh. "Is it
Ned?" (He and I had been talking about a site earlier that day.) "Yeah, I
think that is what he said." Good, he would understand. "Tell him I'm in the
tub and take his number." I knew he wouldn't mind a bit. He knew about my
ankle. We had worked together for the Diocese, and still kept in touch.
Thank God for small favors.
When I was done, I crawled back to the bed. It was easier than using the
crutches. There was a piece of paper with a phone number in orange, but no
area code. I knew Ned was out of our district, and the number looked like a
local exchange. I called her in and asked her to go back over what he had
said. "Well, he thought I was you and when I told him I was your daughter,
he said that someone had told him to call you about a website." Okay, that
would not be Ned then. This was someone else. "Oh, and he said wait until
tomorrow, because he was on his way out of the office." Probably someone
from one of the churches who thought I still worked for the diocese and
would help them with a hosting problem. That would be easy to take care of;
I would just point them back to the diocesan office. I don't do that job
anymore.
The next morning I called the mystery number. But it wasn't a church, it was
a business. He had gotten my name and number from someone I had worked with
before I quit my last job. We wanted me to create a web site for his
business. Well, I was unprepared for the call. I didn't have clients' info
in front of me. I gave him the first one that came to my mind - my mother's
site. She is a potter by trade, and when my server crashed, I put what I had
salvaged of her site up on my own personal webpage until I had a chance to
rebuild the machine. He didn't need to know that she and I were related.
He paused, and then said, "That isn't a domain name. That is just a personal
site." "Yes," I answered, "I put her pages on my site for now. She wasn't
ready to get a domain name yet." He hesitated. That isn't a good sign.
"Could I have the URL of one that did get a domain?" he asked. "None of them
have domain names," I replied. This was not going well. "How long have you
been designing sites?" he asked. "Five years," I replied. "And none of them
have domain names?" he said. I sighed. "None that I am working with now. You
see, most of them pay me in trade," I explained. "This client is a potter
and she pays me in pottery. Another has a vineyard and she pays me in wine.
There is the one I did for my last employer. That has a domain name, but I
don't do their site anymore, so I can't vouch for its condition." He thanked
me for my time and hung up. A lost sale because none of my clients can
afford to pay; they are all just starting businesses too.
I called my ISP. They have a business package that would allow me to run a
full web design and hosting company from my home. It was time for me to
investigate the price. Thirty minutes later, I was depressed. Eighty dollars
a month plus a setup fee. I doubted I would have enough cash paying business
to cover even half that on an ongoing basis. And under no circumstances
would I sell the pottery my mother gave me. It is beautiful art that is
increasing in value each year. In addition, there is a sentimental value
attached to it as well.
I called the vineyard owner to check on her business. This is her third
spring, and she had told me that in March they would be able to tell how the
vines had done over the winter. She was excited to hear from me. The winter
had been kind to her vines and they would have a crop of grapes to sell. I
congratulated her. She had told me in the beginning that it usually took
three years to get a harvest. I asked her to send me some new pictures of
the vines for the website. She told me that she and her husband were finally
ready to get a domain name and start expanding the website. I was ecstatic.
We arranged to meet Thursday (which is today) for lunch to discuss the
expansion and paying me in cash from now on. Maybe it was time to officially
get my business off the ground.
I went downstairs, got my coat and purse, and walked out to the car. I
needed to run a few errands and I wanted lunch out. I called my
brother-in-law. Just the previous night, he had offered to buy my mother a
domain name for her birthday and host her site there. He has his own
business where he goes to people's homes or offices to fix their computers,
sort of like house calls for computers. I wanted to know how much he had to
pay for licenses and such to start up his business two years ago.
I was shocked by what he told me. No, not about his license, which in his
state is free, but that he could show me a place to get hosting at a price
that made my ISP's offer look ridiculous. After thirty minutes on the phone
with him, he had purchased the domain for my mother and sent me the upload
info. There was a way to make this work. I finished my errands and headed
straight home. I contacted the company he dealt with and bought two domain
names (one for myself and one for the vineyard.) I immediately began working
on the files that will go up as soon as the transfer is complete (estimated
to be tomorrow). While I worked on those, I got a call from the vineyard
owner. She had lunched with a real estate agent she knew, and the subject of
web sites came up. Now the realtor wanted me to create a site for her. In
addition, she was going to recommend me to her company and see if the whole
agency would take a site.
I was shocked again. I had gone from no (money) paying clients to two
definite and a possible, with the possible being a large client, in just two
days. I called the city to get information about getting a license. It turns
out to be quite simple and inexpensive in this area. I printed out the forms
and made plans to go to city hall on Friday.
I hung up the phone, and went back to my computer, opening the program I use
to edit web pages. Its familiar screen sprang to life, greeting me and
encouraging me to open a page. I browsed to the folder where I kept the web
pages I have built over the last several years, and opened one. I loaded the
pages and started coding again.
Next week, after my trip to the real estate company, I will make a call to
the man from Monday and arrange an interview with him. I will have three
current domain sites to show him, and half a dozen others (though they still
don't' have domains, and never will). I may even have a preliminary draft
for the real estate company. Then, I will show him my proposal for his site.
The further adventures in job searching
My ankle is nearly better. I have rested it (some) and spent time reading (a lot). Today, I actually went out. I had a second interview with a company I had seen two weeks ago.
They finally got all my references and wanted to talk to me about their benefits and the salary. I was anxious to hear what they had to say. I left my last job on February 13, and though my husband makes a reasonable salary, I like the challenge of working. I have been home for a while now and am ready to be productive again.
The day didn’t start out promising, though. At 7:00 a.m., I climbed into the tub. With a 10:00 a.m. interview, I had plenty of time to soak a bit, then dress my 4-year old and myself, get some breakfast, drop her at the sitter, and leisurely make my way to the interview.
I sighed as I eased myself into the hot water. With the bad ankle, I had been taking just quick showers, to reduce the slipping hazard. Now, however, I let every tension melt as the aroma of the scented bubbles reached my nose. “This is going to be a great interview,” I told myself. I knew I had made a great impression at the first one. I have all the skills they need and plenty of experience with them as well. The location is much closer to home than my last job. The hours are perfect. All that I needed was the right salary and benefits, and I would be ready to sign.
I had not even started to wash my hair when there was a timid knock on the bathroom door. “Mom?” Oh no, my 15-year old son, whose bus comes at 6:30 a.m. and who should have been out of the house well before I got up. “Yes, I guess you missed the bus?” I asked, knowing the answer. “I overslept; will you take me?” He isn’t old enough to drive yet. What choice did I have? “Yes, please get your sister dressed. I will hurry.” Darn, darn, darn. I grabbed the shampoo and started to lather up. This was not the best day to have to drive halfway across town. I rinsed the suds and reached for the conditioner. In fact, it was nearly the worst day. I distributed the conditioner through my hair, concentrating on the ends. I let that soak in while I shaved my legs. It was hard to do a good job on the one with the bad ankle, but I was determined to clear the gorilla-growth that had appeared while I was recuperating. I turned on the faucet to get some fresh water to rinse my hair. I was losing precious time.
I toweled off and grabbed my clothes. They were all laid out and ready. I had chosen them last night. For St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to be sure I had something green. I put on the green plaid skirt and a light green shirt. I took out my bone pumps and gingerly slid them on. I hoped my ankle would be able to handle them. I ran a brush through my hair – no time to dry it or style it. Luckily, I have natural curls.
I was putting the brush away when my 13-year old knocked. “Come on in. I’m done,” I said as I closed the drawer. “Don’t forget that you need to drop me off this morning.” I had forgotten. She plays the double bass in the school orchestra and had All-City auditions yesterday. The bass doesn’t fit on the bus. I herded them out the door, reminding them of things that needed to come with us, closing the dogs in their crates, and locking the front door. I glanced out into the yard and saw that it had been raining for quite a while. Great! That means mud on my dress shoes.
We piled in the car. My son had to be taken first. He had a project due in English and it was his first class. The period ends at 8:40. I looked at the clock, 8:02; we might make it. I started calculating the times for various routes based on traffic patterns and accident reports on the radio. Since there was a big accident just before the exit I would need if I took the highway, that was out. Going down Holland at 8 a.m. was sure to be a nightmare. The boulevard was the only possibility, though the thought of stoplights every 50 yards chilled my blood.
Thirty minutes later, we pulled up in front of his school. There were no parking spaces available, of course. He asked why we couldn’t just park at the curb. I rolled my eyes and calmly explained to this near-driving-age-teen-who-got-all-As-in-drivers-ed that parking in a fire lane is considered a no-no. We made it in time for his to turn in his project, but it was close.
One down, two to go. The sitter for the 4-year old was closer, but the 13-year old needed to be through the door before 9:10. Considering her school is only 3 minutes from our house, and it took 28 minutes to get where we were, my first thought was to trek there first, but that would leave me to get the 4-year old in to the sitter, which meant walking in the heels in the rain. Plus, the sitter’s daughter was my 13-year-old’s best friend. I decided to chance it, and headed toward the sitter.
Returning the way we came was not an option. That would have us in the pack with the Navy guys on their way onto base. The highway would have us in the pack of commuters who worked in the Lynnhaven area. Rosemont south was the best alternative. I turned back onto the boulevard heading toward Rosemont. The traffic was light, and I made Rosemont in great time. We pulled into the sitter’s subdivision and I asked my daughter to walk her sister up to the house. The little one suddenly threw a fit. I suppose four weeks of having me home with her had spoiled her a bit. She refused to go inside and fought her sister. I had no choice. I got out in the rain, hiked up my skirt a bit, and picked up the 41-pound dead weight. Somehow, she made herself even heavier. I carefully made my way up the steps, praying I wouldn’t twist my ankle again. My sitter met me at the door, and took her. “Go. I’ve got her. Good luck.”
As quickly as I dared, I turned and made my way back to the car. Two down, one to go. I got in and glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair looked okay if a bit frizzy, darn this humidity, but I hadn’t had time to brush my teeth or put on even a drop of makeup. As I made my way to the school, I counted the stoplights between there and the interview. Would that give me enough time to do make-up? I am not one who typically does my makeup in the car, but I did have some that I keep there for a touch up in the parking lot before I go in somewhere. There was no way I would attempt to do it while moving. I had seen women try that and usually their cars were weaving everywhere while they did. No, it would have to be in the parking lot.
I pulled into the Student Drop-Off lane and popped the trunk. My daughter got out and retrieved the double bass from the back. “Good luck,” she called up through the van. “Thanks, see you later,” I replied as she closed the back. Three down, time to go to the interview.
My tummy rumbled as I pulled out of the school lot. I realized I had not have breakfast either. That would mean a rumbling tummy during the interview. Hardly the best way to make a good impression. I considered a quick stop at a fast food place, but decided against it. As I waited at a stop light, I looked down between the seats. Sure enough, there was an unopened soda there. I had bought a twelve pack the week before I quit and a few were still left on my last day, so I had carried them out to the car. In my laziness, I had not carried them in the house. With the recent weather, the can was nearly as cold as from my fridge. Breakfast, at last. Not the most nutritious, in fact, not even nutritious, since it was Diet, but at least something in my stomach.
I turned at the light, and headed down the final stretch. I was making great time. I would have 30 minutes at least. All the lights were green for me and I got there with 35 minutes to spare. I grabbed the makeup bag, and quickly put on my face. I sprayed some detangler in my hair to calm the frizzies.
I got my portfolio and my purse, and locked the car. I checked in with the receptionist and asked to use the bathroom. I wanted to see my face in a proper sized mirror. Not too bad for a day like today. I washed my hands and put on some hand scented lotion, then I took several deep breaths. I was ready.
Within a few moments of returning to the lobby, my interviewer greeted me and led me to the director’s office.
They finally got all my references and wanted to talk to me about their benefits and the salary. I was anxious to hear what they had to say. I left my last job on February 13, and though my husband makes a reasonable salary, I like the challenge of working. I have been home for a while now and am ready to be productive again.
The day didn’t start out promising, though. At 7:00 a.m., I climbed into the tub. With a 10:00 a.m. interview, I had plenty of time to soak a bit, then dress my 4-year old and myself, get some breakfast, drop her at the sitter, and leisurely make my way to the interview.
I sighed as I eased myself into the hot water. With the bad ankle, I had been taking just quick showers, to reduce the slipping hazard. Now, however, I let every tension melt as the aroma of the scented bubbles reached my nose. “This is going to be a great interview,” I told myself. I knew I had made a great impression at the first one. I have all the skills they need and plenty of experience with them as well. The location is much closer to home than my last job. The hours are perfect. All that I needed was the right salary and benefits, and I would be ready to sign.
I had not even started to wash my hair when there was a timid knock on the bathroom door. “Mom?” Oh no, my 15-year old son, whose bus comes at 6:30 a.m. and who should have been out of the house well before I got up. “Yes, I guess you missed the bus?” I asked, knowing the answer. “I overslept; will you take me?” He isn’t old enough to drive yet. What choice did I have? “Yes, please get your sister dressed. I will hurry.” Darn, darn, darn. I grabbed the shampoo and started to lather up. This was not the best day to have to drive halfway across town. I rinsed the suds and reached for the conditioner. In fact, it was nearly the worst day. I distributed the conditioner through my hair, concentrating on the ends. I let that soak in while I shaved my legs. It was hard to do a good job on the one with the bad ankle, but I was determined to clear the gorilla-growth that had appeared while I was recuperating. I turned on the faucet to get some fresh water to rinse my hair. I was losing precious time.
I toweled off and grabbed my clothes. They were all laid out and ready. I had chosen them last night. For St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to be sure I had something green. I put on the green plaid skirt and a light green shirt. I took out my bone pumps and gingerly slid them on. I hoped my ankle would be able to handle them. I ran a brush through my hair – no time to dry it or style it. Luckily, I have natural curls.
I was putting the brush away when my 13-year old knocked. “Come on in. I’m done,” I said as I closed the drawer. “Don’t forget that you need to drop me off this morning.” I had forgotten. She plays the double bass in the school orchestra and had All-City auditions yesterday. The bass doesn’t fit on the bus. I herded them out the door, reminding them of things that needed to come with us, closing the dogs in their crates, and locking the front door. I glanced out into the yard and saw that it had been raining for quite a while. Great! That means mud on my dress shoes.
We piled in the car. My son had to be taken first. He had a project due in English and it was his first class. The period ends at 8:40. I looked at the clock, 8:02; we might make it. I started calculating the times for various routes based on traffic patterns and accident reports on the radio. Since there was a big accident just before the exit I would need if I took the highway, that was out. Going down Holland at 8 a.m. was sure to be a nightmare. The boulevard was the only possibility, though the thought of stoplights every 50 yards chilled my blood.
Thirty minutes later, we pulled up in front of his school. There were no parking spaces available, of course. He asked why we couldn’t just park at the curb. I rolled my eyes and calmly explained to this near-driving-age-teen-who-got-all-As-in-drivers-ed that parking in a fire lane is considered a no-no. We made it in time for his to turn in his project, but it was close.
One down, two to go. The sitter for the 4-year old was closer, but the 13-year old needed to be through the door before 9:10. Considering her school is only 3 minutes from our house, and it took 28 minutes to get where we were, my first thought was to trek there first, but that would leave me to get the 4-year old in to the sitter, which meant walking in the heels in the rain. Plus, the sitter’s daughter was my 13-year-old’s best friend. I decided to chance it, and headed toward the sitter.
Returning the way we came was not an option. That would have us in the pack with the Navy guys on their way onto base. The highway would have us in the pack of commuters who worked in the Lynnhaven area. Rosemont south was the best alternative. I turned back onto the boulevard heading toward Rosemont. The traffic was light, and I made Rosemont in great time. We pulled into the sitter’s subdivision and I asked my daughter to walk her sister up to the house. The little one suddenly threw a fit. I suppose four weeks of having me home with her had spoiled her a bit. She refused to go inside and fought her sister. I had no choice. I got out in the rain, hiked up my skirt a bit, and picked up the 41-pound dead weight. Somehow, she made herself even heavier. I carefully made my way up the steps, praying I wouldn’t twist my ankle again. My sitter met me at the door, and took her. “Go. I’ve got her. Good luck.”
As quickly as I dared, I turned and made my way back to the car. Two down, one to go. I got in and glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair looked okay if a bit frizzy, darn this humidity, but I hadn’t had time to brush my teeth or put on even a drop of makeup. As I made my way to the school, I counted the stoplights between there and the interview. Would that give me enough time to do make-up? I am not one who typically does my makeup in the car, but I did have some that I keep there for a touch up in the parking lot before I go in somewhere. There was no way I would attempt to do it while moving. I had seen women try that and usually their cars were weaving everywhere while they did. No, it would have to be in the parking lot.
I pulled into the Student Drop-Off lane and popped the trunk. My daughter got out and retrieved the double bass from the back. “Good luck,” she called up through the van. “Thanks, see you later,” I replied as she closed the back. Three down, time to go to the interview.
My tummy rumbled as I pulled out of the school lot. I realized I had not have breakfast either. That would mean a rumbling tummy during the interview. Hardly the best way to make a good impression. I considered a quick stop at a fast food place, but decided against it. As I waited at a stop light, I looked down between the seats. Sure enough, there was an unopened soda there. I had bought a twelve pack the week before I quit and a few were still left on my last day, so I had carried them out to the car. In my laziness, I had not carried them in the house. With the recent weather, the can was nearly as cold as from my fridge. Breakfast, at last. Not the most nutritious, in fact, not even nutritious, since it was Diet, but at least something in my stomach.
I turned at the light, and headed down the final stretch. I was making great time. I would have 30 minutes at least. All the lights were green for me and I got there with 35 minutes to spare. I grabbed the makeup bag, and quickly put on my face. I sprayed some detangler in my hair to calm the frizzies.
I got my portfolio and my purse, and locked the car. I checked in with the receptionist and asked to use the bathroom. I wanted to see my face in a proper sized mirror. Not too bad for a day like today. I washed my hands and put on some hand scented lotion, then I took several deep breaths. I was ready.
Within a few moments of returning to the lobby, my interviewer greeted me and led me to the director’s office.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Laid up
This is not what I intend to write about today, but I have had an unexpected event in my life. I fell and am now stuck with crutches and bed rest.
It amazes me how a day with such potential can become one of the worst in one's life. It started out with two pretty cool possibilities for a Saturday. A friend had called to tell me she was heading down to her beach house, and she invited my family and me to come down for the weekend. We haven't seen each other in months due to conflicting scheduled, so I was excited about the chance to get away from the chores and duties here, and have a weekend of just play.
The other possibility was one of my other friends. He turned in his resignation at work on Friday, and so had his first weekend off in 3 years. He was willing to come to my place to visit.
Either choice was a good one, but I admit my first choice was going to the beach. That friend had some bad news last week, and so she was looking to forget her hard times, whereas my other friend was basking in the glory of dumping a bad boss.
Saturday morning dawned and I called my friend at the beach. She had driven down Friday evening. We talked and she asked if we could wait until Tuesday for our day of fun. She needed a few days to pull herself together. That sounded reasonable, so we planned a day of fun for Tuesday.
I called my other friend, to see if he wanted to come for a day of D&D (those who don't know what that is will have to wait for another blog.) Unfortunately, his wife had come down with something, and he had to stay home and nurse her. Well, with no one to visit, my husband, children and I decided to catch a movie, Robots. So, off we went to the theatre.
In our area, we have a very cool theatre chain that differs from ordinary theatres. At the Cinema Cafe (visit www.conema-cafe.com for more info), the guests sit at tables, and can order full meals to eat while watching the movie. So instead of just popcorn, candy and a soda, my two older children had pizza, whereas our little one had corn dog nuggets.
Anyway, after the food was delivered, we discovered that we were missing a straw, so I decided to sneak out (so the rest of the customers could still see the movie) to get another straw. Unfortunately, I didn't remember the small step at the aisle, and I missed it, landing on my ankle in a way that ankles aren't meant to bend. The waiters came to my rescue getting me ice, and the manager brought me a chair. He offered to get me medical treatment. I declined; after all, I only twisted it. He recommended I fill out an accident report after the movie just in case, so that if went to the doctor I could charge it back to them and helped me back to my seat.
An hour and a half of throbbing ankle pain later, I filled out the paperwork. He gave me passes for a free movie the next time I came, and offered to wheel me out to my car, if necessary. I really didn't think it was their fault. I ended up heading to the Doc-in-a-Box anyway. Two hours later, I was on crutches with my ankle wrapped up. The x-rays didn't show any broken bones, but there could be ligament damage. Wonderful, I thought, remembering that my husband is leaving for a week in San Diego on Monday.
As I hobbled to the car on the new crutches, I realized that I am far from graceful using them. In fact, I am a danger to the civilized world. The doctor had recommended staying in bed at least until Monday, and then just tentative attempts to put weight on it. He hoped I would be back to normal in a week.
This was the death of my Tuesday outing with K. It also meant some major changes in the rest of my week. No way to drive my son to Scouts. No way to pick him up from after school play practice. No way to even hit the grocery store. How can anyone push a grocery cart while hobbling on crutches?
So, here I am, a captive audience. I guess this week I will be reading your blogs.
It amazes me how a day with such potential can become one of the worst in one's life. It started out with two pretty cool possibilities for a Saturday. A friend had called to tell me she was heading down to her beach house, and she invited my family and me to come down for the weekend. We haven't seen each other in months due to conflicting scheduled, so I was excited about the chance to get away from the chores and duties here, and have a weekend of just play.
The other possibility was one of my other friends. He turned in his resignation at work on Friday, and so had his first weekend off in 3 years. He was willing to come to my place to visit.
Either choice was a good one, but I admit my first choice was going to the beach. That friend had some bad news last week, and so she was looking to forget her hard times, whereas my other friend was basking in the glory of dumping a bad boss.
Saturday morning dawned and I called my friend at the beach. She had driven down Friday evening. We talked and she asked if we could wait until Tuesday for our day of fun. She needed a few days to pull herself together. That sounded reasonable, so we planned a day of fun for Tuesday.
I called my other friend, to see if he wanted to come for a day of D&D (those who don't know what that is will have to wait for another blog.) Unfortunately, his wife had come down with something, and he had to stay home and nurse her. Well, with no one to visit, my husband, children and I decided to catch a movie, Robots. So, off we went to the theatre.
In our area, we have a very cool theatre chain that differs from ordinary theatres. At the Cinema Cafe (visit www.conema-cafe.com for more info), the guests sit at tables, and can order full meals to eat while watching the movie. So instead of just popcorn, candy and a soda, my two older children had pizza, whereas our little one had corn dog nuggets.
Anyway, after the food was delivered, we discovered that we were missing a straw, so I decided to sneak out (so the rest of the customers could still see the movie) to get another straw. Unfortunately, I didn't remember the small step at the aisle, and I missed it, landing on my ankle in a way that ankles aren't meant to bend. The waiters came to my rescue getting me ice, and the manager brought me a chair. He offered to get me medical treatment. I declined; after all, I only twisted it. He recommended I fill out an accident report after the movie just in case, so that if went to the doctor I could charge it back to them and helped me back to my seat.
An hour and a half of throbbing ankle pain later, I filled out the paperwork. He gave me passes for a free movie the next time I came, and offered to wheel me out to my car, if necessary. I really didn't think it was their fault. I ended up heading to the Doc-in-a-Box anyway. Two hours later, I was on crutches with my ankle wrapped up. The x-rays didn't show any broken bones, but there could be ligament damage. Wonderful, I thought, remembering that my husband is leaving for a week in San Diego on Monday.
As I hobbled to the car on the new crutches, I realized that I am far from graceful using them. In fact, I am a danger to the civilized world. The doctor had recommended staying in bed at least until Monday, and then just tentative attempts to put weight on it. He hoped I would be back to normal in a week.
This was the death of my Tuesday outing with K. It also meant some major changes in the rest of my week. No way to drive my son to Scouts. No way to pick him up from after school play practice. No way to even hit the grocery store. How can anyone push a grocery cart while hobbling on crutches?
So, here I am, a captive audience. I guess this week I will be reading your blogs.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
The Fifth Duck
Ducks are odd. Their shape is odd; their voices are odd. Who could ever love that billed face? Other ducks obviously do, in their own way.
If you’ve read my other entries about ducks, you’ll remember my fondness for their awkward little selves and that I had taken time to become very familiar with four of their species: Marilyn, Monroe, Larry and Lily.
Over the last several years, I have watched these same four ducks. I have taken pages of notes and hundreds of pictures. While my experiences with them are limited to two months each year, I can safely say that I know these four ducks better than anyone else does. In fact, I may know them better than some human couples I know. After all, how many other couples do I spend several hours with each day, everyday, for 60 days straight in a row, watching their relationship unburdened by any posturing, rationalizing or explanations? Everything I know of Marilyn & Monroe and Lily & Larry I know solely through observation.
Two years ago, I met a fifth duck. I eventually named him Lester. It was several days after the other four appeared that spring before he showed up that first time. Mid-afternoon, my middle child told me that a drake was in the yard. I was surprised, as I had never had a loner in the yard before. My first thought was that Marilyn or Lily was hurt or dead, leaving her mate alone. I wiped my hands dry on the dishtowel and went outside, holding my breath.
It certainly wasn’t Monroe; I felt nearly as sure that it wasn’t Larry. I opened the food container and tossed some out to entice him closer. He eyed me warily, but eventually moved close enough to get some. Just a loner, I thought, snapping a few shots with the camera. After a bit, he waddled to the plum tree and curled up in its shade.
I went back in the house, finished washing the lunch dishes and started on dinner. Just as I slid it in the oven, I heard a familiar tapping. Glancing down the hall, I saw Marilyn on the porch, rapping on the glass down with her bill. She had long lost her fear of me and had actually become quite bold. I gathered my laptop and camera, and adjourned to the porch.
As I had done so many times before, I refilled the water dish, and cast out some food. True to form, Monroe waited while Marilyn ate while Larry pushed past Lily. Sadly, Monroe’s gallantry had not rubbed off on Larry at all. It was then I noticed Lester approaching. He watched as the four moved confidently within a few feet of me. Slowly, he crept forward. Monroe immediately became tense. Anytime Lester came within a few feet of Marilyn, he would nuzzle her, then let out a loud quack at Lester, who would then back off. After two aborted attempts to move hear her, Marilyn waddled off to her normal resting place. This time, instead of feeding while she slept, Monroe sat next to her, head up, eyes constantly on Lester.
Meanwhile, Larry was oblivious to the motions of Lester. Lester made tentative moves toward Lily and finding no reaction from Larry, he moved even closer and in a more determined way. Within seconds, it was over. Lester grabbed Lily by the neck with his bill, held her down and mounted her. By the time Larry reacted, the deed was done. Released, Lily scampered away toward the plum tree. Larry chased Lester until the newcomer took off, then returned to feeding.
“Was Darwin right?” I wondered. Certainly, in light of what I had seen, Larry’s genes were less likely to be passed on than Monroe’s were; and what of Lester? He had invested little to ensure his genes succeeded beyond that first deposit.
I found my mind wandering to people I knew, categorizing them roughly as Monroes, Marilyns, Lilys, Larrys and Lesters. Did the Monroes tend to have a better chance of gene survival? Did the Lesters ever have their genes win out? And if they did win, did the progeny survive without the father in place? The answer seemed obvious. The couples in which the two partners worked together had stronger marriages and children who were more successful. The couples where at least one member was self-centered tended to have relationships that collapsed, either due to intrusion by a newcomer or just deterioration. Their children seemed to suffer as well. Of course, it wasn’t true in 100% of cases, but it did seem to follow in general.
Self Reflection
Many years ago, and no I don't want to discuss how many, I took several psychology courses in college. At the time, I wanted to be a genetic counselor. I wanted to help pregnant couples know more about the child they were carrying and how their genetic traits would be passed on. This meant a lot of biology, physiology, anatomy, and psychology courses. Partway through, the truth of the job hit me like a ton of bricks. There would be times that the information I would have for the couples would not be pleasant. I would be the bearer of that unpleasant news and the choices I would be able to offer them would be insufficient. I lost my desire for that field and moved in other directions.
Regardless, I did learn a lot in those psychology courses. One required that we keep a journal, not that different from this blog. We needed to spend at least 15 minutes each day, just writing. It didn't matter what our topic was or whether we stayed on topic. All that mattered was that we write. We didn't share those notebooks with anyone in the class, nor did the professor ask to see what we had written. All she asked was that we carry the notebooks with us and write when we had the opportunity.
For a while, I let that dream wither in the back of my mind. After all, it was a dream I didn’t pursue. A dream that had spoiled before it was reached, but it didn’t go away. It just sat, dormant, waiting for a chance to resurface.
Many years later, during my first marriage, I was friends with one of my spouse’s co-worker’s wives. That is a typical event in the military. The “members” make their friends among their co-workers, and the spouses are left to make friends, or not, from among themselves. This particular woman and I got along quite well. Her daughter was only a few months older than my son was. We got together on the weekend, when the men were gone, and let the children play. We met at the mall and wandered around to get our exercise. We planned Tupperware parties.
One day, she called me with the news that she was expecting. I was thrilled for her. I knew that she wanted a larger family because she had been an only child. A few weeks later, I found out that I was also expecting. We shared notes from our doctor’s appointments and shopped for maternity clothes together. It was an exciting time, until the day of her ultrasound.
She came over right from the doctor (because I was watching her other child), and showed me the pictures. I looked at them as she raved about the hands and feet and how the baby kicked during the exam. I looked more closely because I thought I saw something that didn’t appear right. I asked her what the doctor had said about the baby. She didn’t realize that there was concern in my voice. She prattled on about the length of the baby and the estimate of its weight. I decided not to mention my concerns. After all, I was not a sonogram technician.
Three weeks later, I had my ultrasound. I scrutinized the screen and even asked the tech about what I thought I had seen on my friend’s picture. She said that if I saw what I thought I saw, it sounded like polydactylism (multiple digits on the hands or feet.) I also mentioned that the kidneys didn’t appear similar to my baby’s. The tech suggested that there might be something genetically wrong with the other baby. I didn’t say another word. I was to watch her daughter the following day because she was going back for another ultrasound. I decided to bide my time.
The following afternoon, when I answered the door, I knew that I had been right. Her eyes were puffy and red. She didn’t say a word; she just walked in and sat down on the sofa. I got us each a glass of ice water and then I took her hand and waited for her to speak.
She took out the pictures, both from that afternoon and the previous appointment. She handed them to me and told me that they thought the baby had a genetic defect. She told me a little about it and I listened. Then, she stopped, hung her head, and wept.
I pulled her to me and told her that I had studied genetics in college and that I knew about Patau syndrome. At first, she didn’t do anything. Then she pulled back a bit, wiped her eyes, and asked what I knew. I got up and retrieved my old genetics books and we flipped through until I found it. I explained more than the doctor had told her. I gave her the odds of successfully finishing the pregnancy. I told her the odds were against the child making her fifth birthday. I told her that I would stand with her through it unless my pregnancy would make her uncomfortable because it suddenly dawned on me that every time she saw me, it would remind her that the baby growing inside her wasn’t perfect.
I went to their house every day from the day she was released from the hospital. I watched her daughters so my friend could shower. I went with her to the mall where we would walk, and browse, and get our exercise. I hugged her when strangers pulled away at the unusualness of her baby’s appearance. I took her older daughter into my home the week they planned the funeral. My doctor didn’t let me attend the funeral though. He felt I was too close to delivery to be that far from the hospital.
Several months later, she called to tell me she was expecting again and she asked if she could come over. I made some tea and waited for her. Her daughter and my son got out blocks and began to build a city, my little one slept nearby in her bassinet. “What is the chance that this baby will have it too?” she asked, tears forming in her eyes. Very little chance, thankfully, it isn’t genetic in that it is passed from parent to child. It is genetic in that the genes are malformed in division. I could see the relief in her eyes for a second, and then they darkened. While I knew the chances were 1 in 3000 that seemed too high a probability to her. I recommended that she see an obstetrician who specialized in high-risk pregnancies and see if he/she thought that testing would be appropriate. She ended up having an amnio and the baby was just fine. No trace of genetic abnormality, he would be a fine son.
Since then, both our families have moved more than once, and I have lost track of them. I wonder sometimes how they are. My dream to be a genetic counselor didn’t turn out the way I thought it would, but I guess that it was fulfilled. I was able to counsel my friend when most of her friends turned away. I was able to help her and her family through a rough time in their lives. I was also able to see how lucky I really was. My daughter was healthy. I never took that for granted again.
Regardless, I did learn a lot in those psychology courses. One required that we keep a journal, not that different from this blog. We needed to spend at least 15 minutes each day, just writing. It didn't matter what our topic was or whether we stayed on topic. All that mattered was that we write. We didn't share those notebooks with anyone in the class, nor did the professor ask to see what we had written. All she asked was that we carry the notebooks with us and write when we had the opportunity.
For a while, I let that dream wither in the back of my mind. After all, it was a dream I didn’t pursue. A dream that had spoiled before it was reached, but it didn’t go away. It just sat, dormant, waiting for a chance to resurface.
Many years later, during my first marriage, I was friends with one of my spouse’s co-worker’s wives. That is a typical event in the military. The “members” make their friends among their co-workers, and the spouses are left to make friends, or not, from among themselves. This particular woman and I got along quite well. Her daughter was only a few months older than my son was. We got together on the weekend, when the men were gone, and let the children play. We met at the mall and wandered around to get our exercise. We planned Tupperware parties.
One day, she called me with the news that she was expecting. I was thrilled for her. I knew that she wanted a larger family because she had been an only child. A few weeks later, I found out that I was also expecting. We shared notes from our doctor’s appointments and shopped for maternity clothes together. It was an exciting time, until the day of her ultrasound.
She came over right from the doctor (because I was watching her other child), and showed me the pictures. I looked at them as she raved about the hands and feet and how the baby kicked during the exam. I looked more closely because I thought I saw something that didn’t appear right. I asked her what the doctor had said about the baby. She didn’t realize that there was concern in my voice. She prattled on about the length of the baby and the estimate of its weight. I decided not to mention my concerns. After all, I was not a sonogram technician.
Three weeks later, I had my ultrasound. I scrutinized the screen and even asked the tech about what I thought I had seen on my friend’s picture. She said that if I saw what I thought I saw, it sounded like polydactylism (multiple digits on the hands or feet.) I also mentioned that the kidneys didn’t appear similar to my baby’s. The tech suggested that there might be something genetically wrong with the other baby. I didn’t say another word. I was to watch her daughter the following day because she was going back for another ultrasound. I decided to bide my time.
The following afternoon, when I answered the door, I knew that I had been right. Her eyes were puffy and red. She didn’t say a word; she just walked in and sat down on the sofa. I got us each a glass of ice water and then I took her hand and waited for her to speak.
She took out the pictures, both from that afternoon and the previous appointment. She handed them to me and told me that they thought the baby had a genetic defect. She told me a little about it and I listened. Then, she stopped, hung her head, and wept.
I pulled her to me and told her that I had studied genetics in college and that I knew about Patau syndrome. At first, she didn’t do anything. Then she pulled back a bit, wiped her eyes, and asked what I knew. I got up and retrieved my old genetics books and we flipped through until I found it. I explained more than the doctor had told her. I gave her the odds of successfully finishing the pregnancy. I told her the odds were against the child making her fifth birthday. I told her that I would stand with her through it unless my pregnancy would make her uncomfortable because it suddenly dawned on me that every time she saw me, it would remind her that the baby growing inside her wasn’t perfect.
I went to their house every day from the day she was released from the hospital. I watched her daughters so my friend could shower. I went with her to the mall where we would walk, and browse, and get our exercise. I hugged her when strangers pulled away at the unusualness of her baby’s appearance. I took her older daughter into my home the week they planned the funeral. My doctor didn’t let me attend the funeral though. He felt I was too close to delivery to be that far from the hospital.
Several months later, she called to tell me she was expecting again and she asked if she could come over. I made some tea and waited for her. Her daughter and my son got out blocks and began to build a city, my little one slept nearby in her bassinet. “What is the chance that this baby will have it too?” she asked, tears forming in her eyes. Very little chance, thankfully, it isn’t genetic in that it is passed from parent to child. It is genetic in that the genes are malformed in division. I could see the relief in her eyes for a second, and then they darkened. While I knew the chances were 1 in 3000 that seemed too high a probability to her. I recommended that she see an obstetrician who specialized in high-risk pregnancies and see if he/she thought that testing would be appropriate. She ended up having an amnio and the baby was just fine. No trace of genetic abnormality, he would be a fine son.
Since then, both our families have moved more than once, and I have lost track of them. I wonder sometimes how they are. My dream to be a genetic counselor didn’t turn out the way I thought it would, but I guess that it was fulfilled. I was able to counsel my friend when most of her friends turned away. I was able to help her and her family through a rough time in their lives. I was also able to see how lucky I really was. My daughter was healthy. I never took that for granted again.
Fickle indeed.
Fickle indeed. As I sit here this afternoon at the computer, I am surprised at the way the weather had turned. 69 yesterday, snowing today. Of course, I don't expect it to stick. Seeing the quarter-sized and larger snowflakes falling outside the window while I lunched with an old friend, it was hard to remember that this is Virginia BEACH.
We ordered the soup and salad special that the Olive Garden has at lunchtime during the week. We both chose the minestrone - a good hearty soup, filled with white beans and vegetables, grated parmesan floating on the top. My friend had just completed a job interview and we were discussing the offer they made.
As we ate and talked, I watched the rain change to sleet. I knew that sleet meant snow was coming. When we walked to the car, I mentioned that the snow must be on the way, and that he should consider leaving directly back northward (he lives 180 miles north-west in Richmond.) While I was not concerned with his driving skills in the snow, I was concerned with those who live in this area. Snow is unusual enough to make good drivers poor, and poor drivers deadly.
I dropped him off at his car, and watched him drive off in the now nearly complete snowfall. My little one and I turned and headed home. In the fifteen minute drive, the snow had begun to stick.
We came in, and I headed up to the computer to check the weather: 2 inch accumulation expected. Maybe I will make soup for dinner. A warm, creamy potato soup with cheddar cheese and thick wheat bread would quickly remove any thoughts of snow from our minds. After dinner, we will set aside our dishes, and spend an evening in story-telling and sharing.
The weather may be fickle, but my life goes on regardless.
We ordered the soup and salad special that the Olive Garden has at lunchtime during the week. We both chose the minestrone - a good hearty soup, filled with white beans and vegetables, grated parmesan floating on the top. My friend had just completed a job interview and we were discussing the offer they made.
As we ate and talked, I watched the rain change to sleet. I knew that sleet meant snow was coming. When we walked to the car, I mentioned that the snow must be on the way, and that he should consider leaving directly back northward (he lives 180 miles north-west in Richmond.) While I was not concerned with his driving skills in the snow, I was concerned with those who live in this area. Snow is unusual enough to make good drivers poor, and poor drivers deadly.
I dropped him off at his car, and watched him drive off in the now nearly complete snowfall. My little one and I turned and headed home. In the fifteen minute drive, the snow had begun to stick.
We came in, and I headed up to the computer to check the weather: 2 inch accumulation expected. Maybe I will make soup for dinner. A warm, creamy potato soup with cheddar cheese and thick wheat bread would quickly remove any thoughts of snow from our minds. After dinner, we will set aside our dishes, and spend an evening in story-telling and sharing.
The weather may be fickle, but my life goes on regardless.
Life of Ducks, 2
Marilyn and Monroe are not the only ducks who choose our yard as their spring vacation spot. Two others, whom I named Larry and Lily, are also frequent visitors.
Larry is a more vocal duck. He quacks a lot, nearly continually. Not all his quacks are loud, in fact it more sounds like grumbling than quacking most of the time. I have come to call it quackeling.
Lily is quiet, tentative and timid. While Marilyn will approach me and wait for me to put down food, Lily hangs back and watches. I wonder what has happened in her life to make her so distrustful.
Her relationship with Larry differs from Marilyn and Monroe's relationship as well. Where Monroe watches Marilyn and encourages her to go first, Larry is not cut from the same cloth. He pushes forward to eat first, he grabs Lily by the neck and pushes her in the direction he thinks is best; he quackles at her constantly.
One morning, as I sipped my coffee and watched Marilyn and Monroe, Larry and Lily came to visit as well. I was about to toss out the grain just as they landed at the edge of the lawn. I recognized them, both by the constant quackeling of Monroe, but also by the small bald spot on the back of Lily’s neck. I set down my coffee and reached for the container of food. Grabbing a handful, I sat down on the steps, and invited Marilyn to approach.
As soon as I sat, she waddled up to me, stopping about a foot away. Monroe wandered by the plum tree about 6 feet away, trying to act nonchalant, but watching me. I began tossing the grain to her. Marilyn ate and then sipped water. When Larry saw me doling out food, he waddled up as well, though he stopped about 2 feet away. When Lily tried to approach, he quackled at her to stay back. I tossed some food her way, and he dove to get it first. I tossed out the rest, making sure that Lily would get some while Larry was busy with some I had tossed a little further out. Soon, Marylyn ambled to her normal sleeping spot, Monroe watching and guarding her. Once she was settled, he came to get his breakfast.
Larry continued to eat, even when Lily waddled off for her nap. He didn’t even watch to see which way she headed. She stopped a few feet from Marilyn, and curled up. Larry tried to prevent Monroe getting food, but I was watching, and made sure that both got plenty.
I stood up, moved back to my regular chair and my now lukewarm coffee, and took some pictures of them. I pondered the styles of the two drakes. I know that part of their actions is inbred instincts, but obviously, there is room for personal variances too. Monroe was a much more nurturing partner than Larry was. In fact, I compared Larry in my mind to the descriptions of abusive spouses and realized that humans do not hold the patent on cruel behavior.
Larry is a more vocal duck. He quacks a lot, nearly continually. Not all his quacks are loud, in fact it more sounds like grumbling than quacking most of the time. I have come to call it quackeling.
Lily is quiet, tentative and timid. While Marilyn will approach me and wait for me to put down food, Lily hangs back and watches. I wonder what has happened in her life to make her so distrustful.
Her relationship with Larry differs from Marilyn and Monroe's relationship as well. Where Monroe watches Marilyn and encourages her to go first, Larry is not cut from the same cloth. He pushes forward to eat first, he grabs Lily by the neck and pushes her in the direction he thinks is best; he quackles at her constantly.
One morning, as I sipped my coffee and watched Marilyn and Monroe, Larry and Lily came to visit as well. I was about to toss out the grain just as they landed at the edge of the lawn. I recognized them, both by the constant quackeling of Monroe, but also by the small bald spot on the back of Lily’s neck. I set down my coffee and reached for the container of food. Grabbing a handful, I sat down on the steps, and invited Marilyn to approach.
As soon as I sat, she waddled up to me, stopping about a foot away. Monroe wandered by the plum tree about 6 feet away, trying to act nonchalant, but watching me. I began tossing the grain to her. Marilyn ate and then sipped water. When Larry saw me doling out food, he waddled up as well, though he stopped about 2 feet away. When Lily tried to approach, he quackled at her to stay back. I tossed some food her way, and he dove to get it first. I tossed out the rest, making sure that Lily would get some while Larry was busy with some I had tossed a little further out. Soon, Marylyn ambled to her normal sleeping spot, Monroe watching and guarding her. Once she was settled, he came to get his breakfast.
Larry continued to eat, even when Lily waddled off for her nap. He didn’t even watch to see which way she headed. She stopped a few feet from Marilyn, and curled up. Larry tried to prevent Monroe getting food, but I was watching, and made sure that both got plenty.
I stood up, moved back to my regular chair and my now lukewarm coffee, and took some pictures of them. I pondered the styles of the two drakes. I know that part of their actions is inbred instincts, but obviously, there is room for personal variances too. Monroe was a much more nurturing partner than Larry was. In fact, I compared Larry in my mind to the descriptions of abusive spouses and realized that humans do not hold the patent on cruel behavior.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
To Work or to Create
I do hate making choices. To be more accurate, it is not making the choices that bothers me, it is acting on them. Several years ago, I wanted to start creating websites for profit. I had made a few sites and they had gone over quite well, but I didn't have any prospects for customers.
I spread the word around that I was willing to build sites for a fee, and finally, I got a bite. My church decided they wanted to have a website and they asked me. I sat down, worked out a pricing schedule (which was well below the average) and proposed the plan to them at the next meeting. They approved it, and asked me to start right away.
I spent hours creating the graphics and working with the layout I had pitched. Of course, I also needed information from them, and that is where it fell flat. They had agreed that they wanted pictures of the main employees, but the employees were slow to get them to me (if they bothered at all.) I also needed information from each committee about their ministry, but again, getting information was like pulling teeth on a 2 month old. I knew it was in there, but it was hard to find.
I did my best, and uploaded the work in progress to the agreed upon URL. Some pages weren't ready, but most were. I approached the vestry and asked them to review the site, and let me know if it suited their needs. A few viewed it and sent in comments (all positive), but most didn't bother. I sent a bill in to the pastor, but nothing happened. I went to the next vestry meeting and they voted again on whether they wanted to support this website. Again it passed, but again, I got no money and no more new information for the site. Four months later, I took the site down.
A month or two later, my mother contacted me. I had already created a site for her pottery and she loved it, but now her church was looking to create a website. They wanted me to do it. I was pumped. Again, I spent hours creating graphics. I submitted the finished product and they loved it. Within a week, I had a check in my hand. I was thrilled. They also asked that I stay on and to updates to the website on a monthly basis. We set a price and that relationship continued for about a year, when one of their parishioners offered to do the updates for free.
In the meantime, I did create some other new sites, but they were all on a voluntary basis, and no money changed hands. I tried advertising, but it brought me no new leads. I reminded everyone I knew that I was looking for freelance work. Still, I got no responses.
One day, while picking up information for our church newsletter (which I also do gratis), there was a postcard for a job opening that the sender wanted us to publisize in our newsletter. The skills requested on the postcard were well within my abilities; they even stated that web design was a plus. I applied that afternoon. Two weeks later, I had the job.
Unfortunately, for me, they had no intention of using those skills. For over a year, my main tasks included fetching paperclips and pens for my "supervisor" (nothing about her was super). I complained, and was moved to another division, but even there, my web design skills were mostly ignored. I got to work on plenty of databases, did some desktop publishing, and a lot of "catch-all" work, like the main switchboard. On top of that, my new boss told me that one of my co-workers had complained about me. I was "too enthusiastic and outgoing". What?
I decided that I no longer needed to subject myself to their idea of "work ethic". The situation was toxic to more than just myself, and if I wasn't wanted, the best thing I could do was leave before I did something I would regret.
So, now I sit here unemployed. I have applied to a few places, and had a few interviews. So far, nothing has come up. I am torn between continuing to try to prove myself to people who will undoubtedly not use the talents I showcase for them (and which they say they want to have) and just starting my business again, and hoping for the best.
I have the skills, I have the personal motivation, I just lack the customers. Is it more important to make money or to feel good about myself? Can I feel good about myself in the long term if I don't get customers, or will their absense slowly eat away at my self-confidence?
I think it is time to build a webserver.
I spread the word around that I was willing to build sites for a fee, and finally, I got a bite. My church decided they wanted to have a website and they asked me. I sat down, worked out a pricing schedule (which was well below the average) and proposed the plan to them at the next meeting. They approved it, and asked me to start right away.
I spent hours creating the graphics and working with the layout I had pitched. Of course, I also needed information from them, and that is where it fell flat. They had agreed that they wanted pictures of the main employees, but the employees were slow to get them to me (if they bothered at all.) I also needed information from each committee about their ministry, but again, getting information was like pulling teeth on a 2 month old. I knew it was in there, but it was hard to find.
I did my best, and uploaded the work in progress to the agreed upon URL. Some pages weren't ready, but most were. I approached the vestry and asked them to review the site, and let me know if it suited their needs. A few viewed it and sent in comments (all positive), but most didn't bother. I sent a bill in to the pastor, but nothing happened. I went to the next vestry meeting and they voted again on whether they wanted to support this website. Again it passed, but again, I got no money and no more new information for the site. Four months later, I took the site down.
A month or two later, my mother contacted me. I had already created a site for her pottery and she loved it, but now her church was looking to create a website. They wanted me to do it. I was pumped. Again, I spent hours creating graphics. I submitted the finished product and they loved it. Within a week, I had a check in my hand. I was thrilled. They also asked that I stay on and to updates to the website on a monthly basis. We set a price and that relationship continued for about a year, when one of their parishioners offered to do the updates for free.
In the meantime, I did create some other new sites, but they were all on a voluntary basis, and no money changed hands. I tried advertising, but it brought me no new leads. I reminded everyone I knew that I was looking for freelance work. Still, I got no responses.
One day, while picking up information for our church newsletter (which I also do gratis), there was a postcard for a job opening that the sender wanted us to publisize in our newsletter. The skills requested on the postcard were well within my abilities; they even stated that web design was a plus. I applied that afternoon. Two weeks later, I had the job.
Unfortunately, for me, they had no intention of using those skills. For over a year, my main tasks included fetching paperclips and pens for my "supervisor" (nothing about her was super). I complained, and was moved to another division, but even there, my web design skills were mostly ignored. I got to work on plenty of databases, did some desktop publishing, and a lot of "catch-all" work, like the main switchboard. On top of that, my new boss told me that one of my co-workers had complained about me. I was "too enthusiastic and outgoing". What?
I decided that I no longer needed to subject myself to their idea of "work ethic". The situation was toxic to more than just myself, and if I wasn't wanted, the best thing I could do was leave before I did something I would regret.
So, now I sit here unemployed. I have applied to a few places, and had a few interviews. So far, nothing has come up. I am torn between continuing to try to prove myself to people who will undoubtedly not use the talents I showcase for them (and which they say they want to have) and just starting my business again, and hoping for the best.
I have the skills, I have the personal motivation, I just lack the customers. Is it more important to make money or to feel good about myself? Can I feel good about myself in the long term if I don't get customers, or will their absense slowly eat away at my self-confidence?
I think it is time to build a webserver.
Monday, March 07, 2005
The fickle hand of nature
I live in Virginia Beach, VA, USA. The city is on the coast and usually has temperate weather. This winter has been particularly cold. It is odd to see people with full-fledged coats, gloves, hats and some even with mufflers. I can remember winters when I was out on Christmas day in just jeans and a shirt, riding my bike. Certainly not this winter.
I am not saying we had a lot of snow this year. We certainly didn't, though we had some. The schools were even out one day for the snow. We just have had brisk cold and windy days. We have also had record amounts of rain already this year. Everything is soggy and cold. Finally, today, we had a day of beautiful clear, warm weather. In fact, it was up to 69 degrees today. It is still 58, which is high enough that I left out some of my hanging plants. Of course, it is warmer now than the high is expected to be for tomorrow, and the rest of the week is kind of bleak as well.
Such is the fickle hand of nature.
I am not saying we had a lot of snow this year. We certainly didn't, though we had some. The schools were even out one day for the snow. We just have had brisk cold and windy days. We have also had record amounts of rain already this year. Everything is soggy and cold. Finally, today, we had a day of beautiful clear, warm weather. In fact, it was up to 69 degrees today. It is still 58, which is high enough that I left out some of my hanging plants. Of course, it is warmer now than the high is expected to be for tomorrow, and the rest of the week is kind of bleak as well.
Such is the fickle hand of nature.
The life of ducks
Living on the coast, we have a good number of migratory birds pass through our area. I had the pleasure of getting to know four of them starting in the spring of 2001.
It began one morning, as I sat on the front porch with my coffee and my laptop. I saw two mallards fly down the street and land at the edge of the lawn. I watched as they wandered in the grass, seeking bugs and seeds. The male followed quietly after the female while she searched, bill down, through my lawn. He never made a sound; he just followed her. After a while, she wandered to the side of the yard, lay down, and curled up to sleep. He watched her silently, and then he wandered back to the middle of the yard, and searched for his own breakfast. After a bit, he wandered to where she slept and curled up next to her.
Later that day, I did some research on Mallards and went out to pick up some food for them. I didn't want to fill their stomachs with something that wasn't suitable. I brought it home, put a portion in a tightly lidded container, and left it on the porch.
The next morning, again I sat on the porch, coffee in one hand, laptop beside me, watching the world wake up. Sure enough, after a long wait, and several cups of coffee, I saw them flying in low. They landed at the lower end of the lawn and began to wander toward me. The female, her bill sweeping the grass in front of her, was unaware of the gentle protective eye of her male, who walked quietly behind her. I opened the container of food, and cast out a few handfuls, just as the man at the feed store had shown me. The water dish was already in place. I sat down, and picked up my camera. Slowly, the female moved toward the grain. She tasted a bit, and then headed for the water. She then alternated between picking up the grain and sipping the water. The whole time, the male just watched, silently, behind her. After a bit, she wandered to the edge of the lawn, and settled down. Again, he watched her, and then headed back to the grain. He tried some, and then drank. I named them Marilyn and Monroe.
My neighbor's dog, Lucky, barked as one of the neighborhood kids stepped out to head to the bus stop. Marilyn woke and quacked once. Monroe chirped back at her, not a real quack, more subdued than that, and headed toward her. When she saw him, she settled back down, and put her head back under her wing. He waited a few minutes, glanced at the water dish and the grain still on the grass, and then settled down next to her.
I watched them for quite a while that morning. My daughter was asleep in her crib and my older children were already at school. I took pictures and thought about duck life. I realized that my husband was very like Monroe. He watches me quietly a good portion of the time. He gives me first chance at whatever I see, and then when I am satisfied, he takes care of himself, but if I need him, he is right there to comfort me. I wondered to myself, are we that different from ducks?
It began one morning, as I sat on the front porch with my coffee and my laptop. I saw two mallards fly down the street and land at the edge of the lawn. I watched as they wandered in the grass, seeking bugs and seeds. The male followed quietly after the female while she searched, bill down, through my lawn. He never made a sound; he just followed her. After a while, she wandered to the side of the yard, lay down, and curled up to sleep. He watched her silently, and then he wandered back to the middle of the yard, and searched for his own breakfast. After a bit, he wandered to where she slept and curled up next to her.
Later that day, I did some research on Mallards and went out to pick up some food for them. I didn't want to fill their stomachs with something that wasn't suitable. I brought it home, put a portion in a tightly lidded container, and left it on the porch.
The next morning, again I sat on the porch, coffee in one hand, laptop beside me, watching the world wake up. Sure enough, after a long wait, and several cups of coffee, I saw them flying in low. They landed at the lower end of the lawn and began to wander toward me. The female, her bill sweeping the grass in front of her, was unaware of the gentle protective eye of her male, who walked quietly behind her. I opened the container of food, and cast out a few handfuls, just as the man at the feed store had shown me. The water dish was already in place. I sat down, and picked up my camera. Slowly, the female moved toward the grain. She tasted a bit, and then headed for the water. She then alternated between picking up the grain and sipping the water. The whole time, the male just watched, silently, behind her. After a bit, she wandered to the edge of the lawn, and settled down. Again, he watched her, and then headed back to the grain. He tried some, and then drank. I named them Marilyn and Monroe.
My neighbor's dog, Lucky, barked as one of the neighborhood kids stepped out to head to the bus stop. Marilyn woke and quacked once. Monroe chirped back at her, not a real quack, more subdued than that, and headed toward her. When she saw him, she settled back down, and put her head back under her wing. He waited a few minutes, glanced at the water dish and the grain still on the grass, and then settled down next to her.
I watched them for quite a while that morning. My daughter was asleep in her crib and my older children were already at school. I took pictures and thought about duck life. I realized that my husband was very like Monroe. He watches me quietly a good portion of the time. He gives me first chance at whatever I see, and then when I am satisfied, he takes care of himself, but if I need him, he is right there to comfort me. I wondered to myself, are we that different from ducks?
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