![[Meme]](http://www.christopherstreetjournal.com/topicons/meme.jpg)
Word Association: Week 69
From Luna Nina
Sunday Brunch: Rise and Shine!
Courtesy of Sunday Brunch dot org.
1. What time do you normally wake up? Most days, around 7. I don't leave for work till 9, though, so I do have an hour and a half available to me if I need it. But, if I sleep in, I don't get to play on the Internet, and then I just feel all wrong all day.
2. Do you wake with or without an alarm clock? With, most of the time. I find that the older I get, though, the less likely it is that I will sleep in. Even on my days off, I usually wake up about six hours after I go to bed.
3. Name the one thing you must have immediately to start your day. Internet.
4. How long after you wake up do you turn on your computer? Well, none of the computers are really ever off, but I am usually sitting in front of one within, say, 90 seconds of my feet hitting the floor.
5. Breakfast is considered the most important meal of the day. Do you eat breakfast every day? Rarely, and almost never at home (except on weekends). I sometimes make some toast once I get to work, or I have a Luna Bar or something if I am feeling peckish, but since I don't get to work till 9:45 and we, as a company, usually break for lunch around 12:30, breakfast frequently gets lost in the shuffle.
Word Association: Week 68
From Luna Nina
Now, I know that I cheated on Prom and Diploma, cause those are two words--but it's honestly what popped into my mind: I didn't go to prom, and I didn't go to my college graduation.
In the former case, I just thought that I was too cool to go and dance in a room decorated with toilet paper, for godsake, so my date and I stayed home and watched movies and then crashed the after-prom, a much swankier event--(a) held at a country club, with the toilet paper in the bathrooms rather than hanging from the ceiling, and (b) no prom dress required. I wore a pair of khaki linen capris and a cream and olive striped sleeveless sweater.
Re: graduation, there were just too. many. people. I went to a big school--I would have been graduating with literally thousands of people. It didn't seem like I wanted to end my education feeling like a piece of cattle. So I went and saw some of my friends graduate at a small local school (the one that I attended for a year and a half, actually, before I left for the BIG SCHOOL), and then I drove over to my school (only 20 minutes away) and hung out till they were ready to hand out the diplomas. They don't do that at the ceremony, see, making the ceremony further useless. I was first in line for the diploma, though.
I don't remember what I wore that day, but I do remember that my car blew a headgasket on the way home and had to call my ex- to come rescue me. Talk about an uncomfortable car ride!
Sunday Brunch: A Few of my Favorite Things
Courtesy of Sunday Brunch dot org.
1. What is your favorite color? I've always said white for this, although I am constantly reminded that it's not really a color. I love a big field of pure snow, though, or a wedding dress, or a big dollop of cool whip. So sue me. I like white.
My favorite, I think, though, is my Mariners/Ken Griffey Jersey. It's just the coolest piece of clothing that I own. And, even though Ken is a Red these days, I still wear it with pride.
3. Where is your favorite place to eat out? Copeland's. The steak. The red beans and rice. The biscuits. The Bananas Foster. Sigh.
4. What is your favorite meal? My Mom's creamed chicken and biscuits with raisin pudding for dessert.
5. What is your favorite sport or recreational game? To watch? Baseball. To play? Miniature Golf.
![[TV]](http://www.christopherstreetjournal.com/topicons/tv.gif)
Sad TV Times
The past 18 months have been hard for this TV Gal.
Firefly, Buffy, Angel--Gone. I'll deal with that in therapy someday, I'm sure.
And now, it's time to say sayonara to the West Wing.
In a lot of ways, this is the hardest loss to take. The rapid vanishing of the Jossverse has left me a little panicked, yes--not unlike an agoraphobic at a rock concert am I whenever I let myself think about it--but I know that Joss will pop up again someday. There will be the Firefly movie, for one, and I am sure that we will revisit the Buffster at some point, in some fashion.
But with West Wing, I'm the one doing the leaving. And I don't think that I am coming back.
I'm breaking up with the President.
I was not on the bandwagon early in the year--I was not one of the doomsayers that thought that the show wouldn't survive without Aaron Sorkin. I thought, you know, this is a rich tapestry, full of quirky characters that we care so much about. My cats could write for this show and it would be good TV.
And I was right, sort of. It is good TV. Every episode that I have watched this season, I have enjoyed. It's way better than, say, Everybody Loves Raymond (a real and true lie, since I don't love him) or what's left of the Practice.
The problem is that, while I recognize its quality, I just don't care anymore. I don't care about these people. I don't get all giddy when I realize that it's Wednesday--which used to mean "New West Wing!" Now it means, "Ooh! American Idol!" It used to take my breath away. Now, I sit and knit while it's on, breath firmly intact there in my lungs.
I didn't realize that we were through, though, till Monday night. I had much of the second half of the season green-dotted on my TiVo, just waiting for me when it hit me--I'm never going to watch those episodes. I'm going to practice my piano, I'm going to write in my journal, I'm going to sleep instead. So I deleted them, unwatched. And in so doing, said goodbye to an old friend.
I may still watch the finale--at least the last 10 minutes. I'd still like to know how it ends. Although, I guess for me, it's already ended.
![[General]](http://www.christopherstreetjournal.com/topicons/general.jpg)
Character-defining moment
A couple of months ago, a question was asked on a message board that I frequent: Have you had a character-defining monent? How did you react?
I answered the question there, but the other day I reread what I had written and decided that it was worthy of posting here as well. It's an important story--it changed me forever and it changed the way that I see the world.
Eight years ago, I got a phone call in the middle of the night from my best friend--his boyfriend of a year had been shot in the head during an aborted mugging attempt and was not expected to survive the night. I was long asleep when the call came, and didn't react the way I should have. I made comforting noises, I asked if I should come over and when he assured me that there was nothing that I could do, I went back to bed.
120 seconds later, I realized the gravity of the situation, hopped in the shower, put on a hideous pair of burgundy sweats and a matching sweatshirt (I will never forget that outfit--I think I wore it for 48 hours) and headed over to the apartment that they had just recently moved into together.
My friend was there when I arrived. He had apparently freaked out and fled the hospital, unable to process that Troy was dying. After I got there, he said, "I have to go back, don't I?" I told him that he did. "I have to say goodbye, right?" Again, I told him that he should. Then it came. My character-defining moment.
"Will you come with me? Will you help me say goodbye?"
Jesus. No, I wanted to scream, I will not do this. This is too big, too painful. I can not watch my dear friend of--at that time, 15 years--say goodbye to his lover, I can't. I can't. I can't.
It was the longest cab ride of my life. I became a grown-up in that cab. I learned that there is value in discomfort, that my needs--in this case, my need to not be the witness to this horrble event--are sometimes not important in the grand scheme. It was a hard lesson, but it has served me well.
He didn't die that night, though, or the next. Or the one after that. I went with my friend to the hospital every day before work and sat with him every evening. We held Troy's hand, stroked his wrist around the tubes, told him that we loved him. Every morning, my first task was to call the hospital and see if he made it through the night. I did that because my friend couldn't, couldn't face the possibility that the news would be grim. It rarely was, though, and as the days passed, it got positively blinding (you know, the opposite of grim? )
There is more to the story, but I will save that for another day. I will spoil the ending, though--he made it. He's fine. Except for some minor short-term memory problems, he is just the same delightful boy that he always was.
It's the rest of us who will never be the same.
Sunday Brunch
This week's Sunday Brunch is all about fashion: Head to Toe.
1. Is your hair its natural color right now and do you wear your hair long or short? My hair hasn't been its natural color in so long that I don't remember what color it should be. Right now, it's red, and a little below my shoulders.
2. Shirts: long sleeves or short? Both, either. Depends on my mood.
3. Do you wear a belt? Almost never.
4. Tell me about your favorite bottom wear (pants/jeans/shorts/skirts). Capris. Love them. Can't wear them enough.
5. How many pairs of shoes do you own? That I actually might wear? Hmmm. Maybe 15. Most of these are sandals. In the winter, I wear the same two pair of boots--one pair black and one brown. In the summer, my footwear is way more varied.
Fun with Word Association
From Luna Nina, a little fun with word association:
Me, at 18
Last night, I was talking about what it feels like, what it felt like, to be a teenager. I really don't remember all that well, or at least, I didn't remember all that well.
I do now.
I am leaving in scant moments to have breakfast with my friend John before he leaves for the Bahamas for a week. Because I actually have somewhere to *be* today, I got up earlier than I needed to, but to compensate, I awoke with a brilliant idea. I would dig out the diary that I kept inmy freshman year of college and share excerpts here. I would find the best 18-year-old me that I could and immortalize her in cyberspace.
Except, as I glanced through the diary, I was horrifed. There was nothing of any substance that I would feel comfortable sharing, lest you all think that I was a complete spaz.
OK, I might have been, but you don't need to know that.
I can summarize it for you, the entire thing, all 75 pages or so:
"I like (boy N). I wonder if he likes me? I think he likes me. He does like me! We had a fight. He is an ass. Ooh, I like (boy Y). I wonder if he likes me? He, too, is an ass. I have to write a paper. Writing papers is hard. I like (boy Z). I wonder if he likes me? Boy N is still an ass. My roomate had another fight with her boyfriend. He is an ass. Ooh--I'm in New York! New York is fun!"
I now remember what it was like to be a teenager.
Yeach.
Fun with Parking
OK, so yesterday, I needed to visit a client site to inspect an install. Since the client is also in Arlington, it took me about 10 minutes to get there, about 2 minutes to inspect the install and about 10 minutes to get back to my office. I was still gone from my office for an hour, though, due to the 30 minutes I spent navigating the parking garage in my client's building.
Having lived in a city for the last 16 years--and having spent the better part of three years in outside sales--I am no stranger to parking garages. Few are all that exciting, most are startlingly utilitarian. This one not so much. This one was more than a little, well, satanic is the word that springs to mind.
First, the outside entrance to the garage isn't on the bottom level or the top level as one typically expects. No, it's smack in the middle, which means that you need to go either all the way down or all the way up for your first pass. if there is no parking all the way down (or up) then you have to reverse direction, going back past all of the un-parking that you have just seen, to get back to the possibility of new parking. If there is no parking up (or down, depending on where you started), you must, once again, go back past all the parking that there wasn't before you get to square one.
OK, so in my case, I chose to start by going down and--of course--there was no parking at all in that direction. So, at the bottom, I did a 180 and headed back up toward the entrance. I was stopped enroute by a parking attendant who asked if there was no parking below. When I assured him that there wasn't, that I wasn't just practicing for some parking garage slalom exhibition for the 2004 games, he suggested that I "try up". Well, der. Glad that you suggested that, there, Parking Attendant Bob*. Without you, I might have just wandered the lower three levels for years. I might have moved in here, Bob, on these lower levels, were it not for your timely suggestion that I continue to look for spaces elsewhere.
So, up I went. I went from full level G3, to full level G2, to full level G1...and then proceeded, well,more up. Up to level 1. Up to level 2. Up to level 3. Up to level 4. Then the garage ended...rather abruptly, actually. There was no place to loop around to head back down. Level 4 was actually a room about the size of my bathroom with about 20 cars parked in it. That 180 was troublesome, especially given that there was someone behind me. But I made it and was on my way back down when I ran back into PABob , who asked if I had found a parking space.
Well, no, PABob. Cause, see, if I had found a space, my car would be in the space and I would be elsewhere. If I had found a space, I wouldn't be, you know, still looking for a space?
It is worth mentioning that 75% of the garage consisted of double-spaces, the sort where someone pulls in to a loooong space and then someone else parks behind them. If you are the behind parker, you surrender your keys, in case someone--Bob, likely--needs to unblock the person that you are blocking. There were a couple of these spaces available, but in all cases, the spaces weren't really deep enough to accomodate the existing car and my truck. So, I had bypassed them, hoping that I would get an actual space of the not blocking someone in variety.
At this point, Bob, apparently feeling that he should be useful, suggested that I park behind a couple of cars, perpendicular to them both. At least that is what I thought he suggested, but once I did that--an elegant solution to the too long car problem--Bob started waiving his arms and yelling that I couldn't park *there*, as I would be blocking both cars.
Again, I say, well derr.
Bob suggests that I just park behind the Volvo. I try to tell him that this won't work, that I will stick out too far but Bob is unswayed by my arguments. I park behind the Volvo. My car is sticking out too far. Bob scratches his head.
I mention that there might have been spaces farther down that were deeper and Bob, suddenly excited, encourages me to go look for one of those.
Thanks for your support, there Bob. I couldn't do it without you.
So, I venture back down a couple levels, wedge myself into a space that is about 12 inches too shallow, and head for the elevator. Whereupon I come across a sign instructing me to leave my keys with an attendant if I am blocking someone in. Now, I know that I am only going to be 10 minutes, but it's lunchtime and I would feel bad if I kept someone from lunch. So I go in search of PABob only to find that he has disappeared. Like witness program disappeared. OK. This is not a problem. I'll just leave the keys in the car. So I do that, leave the car open and head back for the elevator. En route, I spot a call box, marked for those who need the assistance of a Parking Attendant. Thinking that I will be a good person, I lean into the box and say that I have left my keys in my car, in case someone needs to move it.
They react as though I have told them that I have lit some cars on fire, in case someone wanted to toast marshmallows. The connection is bad and the accent coming out of the small box is heavy, but I am able to make out that I must! take! the! keys! somewhere! The implication is that I must take them somewhere besides the front seat of my car.
With the timimg that he is famous for, PABob picks now to make another appearance. Relieved that I don't have to figure out where to take the keys, i go to hand them over to him, only to have him recoil like I have just tried to hand him a leaking container of plutonium. I say, "My keys?" He tells me that I need to take them to the gate. "You know, where you get ticket?"
Christ. OK. I will take the flipping keys to the flipping gate. You know, where I get ticket? I might get a ticket for assault if this keeps up.
I get in the elevator and stare at the buttons. I have 1, 2, 3, 4, L, G3, G2, G1 to choose from. Remembering that I drove into the garage and then drove immediately down to G3, I pick lobby. Mistake. Lobby, in this case means, strangely, lobby. As in of the building. Marble floors and security guards and no ticket in sight.
Back in the elevator. I try G1. G2. G3. None of these is anywhere near where I think I need to be. Screw this, think I. I go back to the lobby, go out the front door, walk down the block, scoot under the gate and walk the keys to the attendent in the booth. I turn to go and am yelled at yet again. "Wait! Wait! We need ticket."
Ticket? What? Why?
Whatever. I reach in my bag, pull out my ticket and hand it to the attendant.
"No, no. You need ticket."
Now I am completely lost. But all clears up as he hands *me* a ticket, I guess such that I can retrieve my keys.
And so it goes. I head back out to the street, up the block, back into the building housing my client, up to the 6th floor, inspect the cabinet--for all of about 2 minutes--back to the lobby, out to the street, over to the booth, reclaim my keys, back to the street, up the block, back into the building, back up the parking elevator and back to my car.
The engine wasn't even cold. I had been away from my car for a total of 10 minutes--and that included the 8 that it took to negotiate the key-for-ticket swap.
In the end, it cost me $4 to park for the 10 minutes. What--you think that you can have this kind of fun for free?
* PABob's name has been changed to reflect the fact that I don't know his real name. :)