Gimme Air! *gasp*

Someone explain to me why, exactly, these beautiful large windows in my office don't open?

When I look outside I see a warm fall breeze rustling the trees that grow near the building. I'm only a few floors up, at a perfect height to take FULL advantage of a lovely breeze off the nearby water.

But like some Bubble Boy, I can only look. And yearn.

Recently, the Facilities team made the decision to switch the HVAC system over to heat. This decision was made despite the fact that this "crisp" October day is currently a balmy 65 degrees outside.

So today it's stuffy in here. Very, very stuffy.

To me, this is a perfect day to turn off all heating and cooling devices, throw open the windows and invite Indian Summer to come inside. We can have a glass of iced tea and talk over the affairs of the world in slow and languid tones.

But noooo. I have super double thick unbreakable can't get through 'em even if you throw a chair at them bird-poop-covered glass windows.

I mean...I'm glad that at least I get to see the outside. I could be in the center of the building with no view to the outside world.

But still. I yearn.

After lunch, when I was a bit hotted up after taking a walk, I switched on the fan in my office. It's under my desk.

I'm not going to lie to ya, the way that fan is pointed? It's blowing up my skirt.

Rather refreshing, but it's no substitute for a nice Fall breeze coming through an open window.

Photo by Lea Csontos from Stock Xchng free stock photo site.

I Believe...

If you've ever had occasion to see a "Blue Collar Comedy" live show, then you know they end each performance with a litany of items that each of the four comedians believes.

Here is my I Believe list for today. Subject to change. Some restrictions apply. Offer ends July 20, 2010. Not valid in all 50 states.

I Beeeelieve....

...that Costco stores, like casinos, pump some substance into their ventilation system that causes me to behave in odd ways. How else can you explain my hitting all the sample tables like a drunk at a buffet bar, then buying a two thousand pack of toilet paper?

...that the first Indiana Jones movie is the one true Indiana Jones movie, and all else are just weak riffs on the original. I rate the movies on likability in the order in which they were made.

That said...

I also beeelieve that the "Crystal Skull" movie was not quite as bad as everyone made it out to be.

...that green chile has curative powers that extend beyond just physical health. I think we can achieve world peace and fix the global economy over a plate of enchiladas. Sour cream and fried egg on top.

...that Paris Hilton did, indeed, inhale. Yea verily though she has been busted for possession twice and gotten off scott free twice, I believe the clock is ticking and she will soon be cellmates with Lindsey.

...that coffee is the work of dark, evil forces. For though I welcome coffee with both arms and hug it to my person like a long lost sibling, it does terrible things to my stomach causing pain and acid reflux and generally causing havoc. And yet, I can't seem to quit the dark beckoning brew.

...that red light cameras are patently unfair and unconstitutional and defy the Bill of Rights and upset the Code of Conduct and Robert's Rules of Order and some other stuff I can't think of right now. They don't allow me to face my accuser in court! It's bad! Real bad! Obviously, I'm still not over it.

...that AT&T is not quite as evil as we think (though they are still evil). Apple is not quite a cool as we think (though they are still cool). And that for some reason that I can't explain, I dreamt last night that I met Bill Gates. And he hit on me. : shudder :

...that the 1970's were weird and awkward during the 1970's, and somehow time has made us all forget that. Now we remember the decade as cool.

...that times have gotten a little tough when grownups are stealing girl scout cookies. And stealing their money. And stealing their cookies. What's next? Nun's stealing babies? Oh. Weird.

...that white chocolate is just as delicious as regular chocolate and should be afforded all rights pertaining thereto. Same goes for vanilla ice cream. Oh, and also that something must be done *immediately* regarding the vanilla shortage. Code Red, people.

...that by writing this list of I Believe items, I have successfully avoided doing any real work for an hour and a half.

Flash Fiction & Fables Finale - New Mexico Folklore

And so it is that we've come to the last day of this fun and different sort of week on the blog.

What a ride it's been!

My goal was to shake up my brain a little bit so I could get some fresh blog posts out of the ol' noodle.

Well, it worked. I already have a list of about ten fresh topics that will start coming your way next week.

For today, I have what I consider to be the grand prize for coming along with me on this ride.

Today is the Fables part of the week.

After scouring both books and the internet, I've selected an item from a book called Cuentos de Cuanto Hay. The subtitle is "Tales from Spanish New Mexico."

This story collection is published by University of New Mexico Press, and was edited and translated by Joe Hayes.

The stories were originally collected by J. Manuel Espinosa in the 1930's. He traveled around Northern New Mexico collecting verbal tales from the Spanish speaking residents, then transcribed and published them. That first published book was called Spanish Folk Tales from New Mexico.

Joe Hayes found a copy of the book and had loved it through the years, so in 1998 he worked with Dr. Espinosa to clean up many of the stories, added in a few more, and republished the collection.

It is charming, odd, and packed full of deep rooted stories from the Hispanic culture.

Just like New Mexico itself, many of the stories are a bit quirky.

Even the title of the book reflects the beautiful slow moving, "Land of Mañana" charm. Joe Hayes translates the phrase Cuentos de Cuanto Hay as "tales of olden times." Literally translated, it means "stories of whatever it is."

Which seems sort of New Mexico to me. "Eh, tales of whatever!" with a dismissive wave of the hand.

The story I've selected, "Juan Pelotero" also brings a lot of that New Mexico mischievous sense of humor. There is a line in the story where two characters agree to meet at "such and such a place." Details, feh, who needs 'em!

The name, Pelotero, is also symbolic. In today's vernacular, a pelotero is a ball player, usually baseball, but pelotero can also refer to futbol. The first line of the story gives you the clue to the more archaic use of the word: "Juanito Pelotero was a gambler." Pelotero back then meant a player, a rogue, a roustabout.

You'll also find the story tends to move fast in some parts, skipping over details. At just a few pages long, it packs a lot of story in there.

Since these tales were originally an oral legacy passed down from family member to family member, I'm going to bring "Juan Pelotero" (and maybe others) back to the verbal tradition.

Today, I've made a recording of the story and it's posted below for your listening pleasure. I suggest putting the story on in the background while you go about your work checking email or what have you.

As I converted the file to MP3 format, feel free to download the audio file and put it on your iTunes or iPod to listen later if you would like.

I recorded this using a podcast microphone and Garageband software.

Do not expect recording studio quality, please. The quality reflects my gear and my room. I've done my best to keep the sounds of The Feline and my iPhone out of the recording, but I live in a creaky house and it's windy today. You get the idea.

If listening to a story isn't your thing, but you'd still like to read it, I've posted a .pdf. Click here for that. (remember, this edition of the story is copyright the University of New Mexico Press, so don't run off doing anything naughty with it, you hear?)

______________________

The story of "Juan Pelotero" was told to Dr. Espinosa by Bonifacio Mestas of Chamita, NM.

Run time is just over nine minutes. File is just over 4MB, so it may take a few moments to load. Player opens in a new window.

Enjoy!

Karen Fayeth reading "Juan Pelotero"

Footnotes:

1. Sorry about the high-pitched whine behind the audio. I think it's from the internet router on my desk.

2. In case you are wondering what a sacristan is, click here. I had to look it up too.

3. Yes, I think the part about the talking spit is weird.

4. The dove sounds I'm making are read as written in the story. Cucurucú is how it's written. I did my best....:)

Flash Fiction - Day Two

Today's word from the random word generator is: disgust

Owen's First Hunt

by Karen Fayeth

Owen squinted his left eye in a perfect imitation of his father, and with his right eye, he looked down the sights of his brand new .30-30 Winchester rifle. He didn't see anything yet, but he wanted to be ready, just in case.

Holding the butt of the rifle to his shoulder then squinting down the scope didn't feel natural yet, and so he kept practicing the move.

He absolutely didn't want to mess this up.

His dad was lecturing him on how to spot deer, how to stay hidden, how to stay downwind and Owen was listening, but also practicing. He knew that his chance to shoot his first deer would come quick and he needed to be ready. His dad was counting on him and he was counting on himself to be that kind of guy. The man who can confidently get a shot off in a hurried situation.

At twelve, this was a key day in his life and he knew it.

Owen turned his head and looked at his dad, decked out from head to toe in camouflage, smelling of the doe urine he'd applied to cover up his human scent, breath reeking of Budweiser.

There was no one in the world Owen looked up to more than his dad. He wanted to be just like him when he grew up, from the day old stubble to the low rough voice.

Owen wasn't the only one who looked up to Hal who was a born leader and natural teacher. Hal was that guy everybody either wanted to be or be friends with.

"Ok, now, stay quiet and don't move," Hal instructed in a low voice. "We got what looks like a three-point buck headed into this meadow. Get ready, ok?"

Eyes wide, Owen looked where his dad pointed. Sure enough a tawny deer came into the clearing, foraging in the grass, oblivious to the fate that awaited him behind the brush.

"Real easy, son, make sure you look careful down that scope. What you are looking to do is drop that buck with one shot. Do you think you can do that?"

Owen nodded, yes.

His insides wobbled, no.

He couldn't stop his hands from shaking as they held his rifle, which now seemed impossibly heavy in his hands.

He braced the wooden butt of the gun up against his shoulder. Immediately his muscles tensed in anticipation of the kick that rifle would deliver when the trigger was pulled.

Owen took in a long quiet breath, willing his muscles to relax.

"You see it, son?" Hal asked quietly.

Owen nodded.

"Ok, now, you get it in your sights, right behind that front leg. You're aiming for the heart, got it?"

Owen whispered, "yeah."

He carefully found the area on that deer that he was pretty sure his dad was talking about. He tried desperately to keep his hands still and to focus.

"When you're ready," Hal whispered, "Just do it like we practiced. Take a breath in and then let it out slowly. Stay calm and squeeze that trigger."

Owen gave a small nod and focused. He drew in a breath and exhaled. About halfway through the out breath, he put his finger on the trigger, giving up a silent prayer that he did this right.

He imagined his dad congratulating him on his first deer. It was a rite of passage. Today he would go from little kid to a man.

Owen was ready. He couldn't be a man fast enough for his tastes.

The buck moved a little bit, turning his side more toward where Owen and Hal were well hidden. It was a perfect shot and both man and boy knew it.

Owen changed his aim to the left just a little bit, tried to relax, took in another quiet breath and began to let it out.

"Go Owen or he's gonna get away!" Hal said in a sharp whisper.

Startled, Owen pulled.

Then he pulled again, because nothing happened the first time.

The only sound was the click of an empty chamber.

"What the hell, son?" Hal whisper-shouted.

With knitted brows, Owen looked at his rifle. Suddenly he was scared to death the shell got caught in the chamber. That could be very dangerous.

"I don't know dad!" Owen wailed, holding out his rifle. The sounds of running hoof beats echoed down the canyon.

"Goddamnit!" Hal now shouted, a look of disgust washing over his face. He snatched the gun from his son's hands and pulled back the bolt to peek inside.

"Owen, why isn't there a shell in this rifle?" Hal asked not keeping the sarcastic tone out of the question.

The boy's face turned a hot red.

"Well ok, then give me one out of your pocket, let's get this loaded and try again."

Owen reached into the pocket of his Carhartt and found a used kleenix and a rock. His face turned even redder. The blush washed from down at the bottom of his feet up through his scalp.

He'd woken up early, before anyone else, and was so excited to go on his first hunt that he secured everything in the truck so they could head out. He packed everything carefully, including his box of shells, but completely forgot to put any in his gun. Or his pockets.

"So let me get this right, you left camp with a gun but no shells? What the hell were you thinking, boy?"

Owen paused. Then burst into tears.

The look of disgust quickly drained from Hal's face at the sight of his young son in complete meltdown.

"It's ok, Owen," he said, and wrapped his giant arms around the boy. "We'll get one tomorrow, ok? Let's get back to camp. Wanna go into town for an ice cream?"

Owen stopped crying and nodded.

The boy was not yet a man, but the man still remembered what it was like to be a boy.

"Owen's First Hunt" by Karen Fayeth is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.

Just Another Marble in the Brain Jar

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the nature of memory.

Mainly, because my own memory sucks.

What was I saying?

Oh yes.

Some of this memory loss is, I think, is a hazard of having put in a few years on this ol' planet. Over time, one tends to collect a few things in the closets like bottle tops, tattered paperback books, and stacks of memories, both good and bad.

I sometimes think of my brain as a big storage device. Lots and lots of space. Too many bits of memory get shoved in there, and it's time for an upgrade.

But maybe that's a little too Silicon Valley for my tastes.

Let's try another metaphor.

Maybe my brain is more like a big glass jar filled with marbles. Some are large, some small, some are in between. So as I go about living this crazy mixed up life, these marbles roll their way toward the jar and drop in. These new residents tend to push out the old when I've run out of space.

There is only so much room in the jar, of course, and once filled to capacity, something's gotta give.

As I was getting my hair cut last night, I spent the color "cook time" working over this particular visual metaphor. Unfortunately, I was thinking about it while also pouring over the pages of the current "People" magazine.

Without my consent, some fresh, small marbles found their way into my jar.

For example, I don't really need to know that one of the Jonas brothers broke up with his girlfriend. *plink*

Or that Jon and Kate plus 8 lady just celebrated the birthday of her sextuplets. *plink*

That some blonde chick named Heidi needs "time alone" from her overbearing husband. *plink*

And that weird Svengali-like husband of that sad, tiny, actress that recently died has now also shuffled off this mortal coil. *plink*

These are not vital memories. These don’t need to be kept in the jar. If they do manage to stay in the jar, then other, better, memories have to slip out.

Oops, there goes making Thanksgiving turkey drawings by tracing my hand onto the paper.

And there goes the name of my childhood friend who lived by the park, across from the swimming pool. We took gymnastics class together at the YMCA. What *was* her name?

Don't tell me a Jonas brother shoved my friend out of the brain jar!

I suppose the trick is to let those lightweight worthless marbles flow in for a moment and then find a way to shove them right back out.

If I get too many of the trivial marbles, there's no room left for the big meaningful marbles to find a permanent home.

Of course, some of those big marbles are so heavy, they can't possibly be washed out. My wedding day. Holding my oldest goddaughter for the first time (I cried). Cracking jokes with my pops while he was in the hospital.

The big ones stick around, no matter. The middlin' sized tend to go all floaty without my permission. They are the hardest to hold onto.

But I try. Oh I try.

Let's just hope that at the very least, I can manage to hang on to most of my important marbles.

Because I surely would hate to, you know...lose my marbles.

Photo from the KM&G-Morris public Flickr photostream.

Oh my mortality

I had a doctor's visit this morning. Nothing special, just a routine check up for blood pressure and all of that.

My doctor was running late so I had some time to sit and entertain myself.

When all my email was read on the iPhone and I'd caught up on Twitter, I started people watching. You know, people watching at a medical center is quite a thing. You see a lot...

Anyhow, pretty soon, a nurse came down the hall pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.

They came into our waiting area and the nurse helped the man to get up onto his feet, and he then took a few steps with the aid of a cane.

As he shakily got to his feet, he said to the young nurse, "Who would have thought it would come to this, eh?"

He said it in a wry way, but it carried a deep note of sadness.

The man was, by all appearances, pretty healthy. He was probably in his late seventies and from what I could see, was suffering a very bad hip.

The nurse helped the man get settled into the seat, with a groan.

He gave me a weary smile and I smiled back.

The nurse said to the man, as she departed, "one of my patients told me that his best advice was simply this: just don't get old."

"Yes, certainly," said the man, with a sigh.

The whole exchange made me a bit melancholy. I remember when my dad struggled with rapidly advancing lung disease. His mind was fine but his body crapped out on him way too early.

How angry that must make a person, your legs, your lungs, your eyes, your whatever body part you want to name just doesn't work like you know it should.

Ugh.

And me. Still fairly young but full of the knowledge that I'm not taking care of myself as well as I should. Now is the time to tend to these things.

Time marches on, whether I'm keeping step with it or not.

And even now, I know some parts of this ol' rig don't work like they should. But I still have time.

Time to remember to enjoy my legs that still carry me easily, a heart that still beats strong. Lungs that take in air without coughing.

Yes. It was just a nice reminder, a needed wake up call.

Because one day I might be uttering to a kindly young nurse, "who would have thought it would come to this?"

Sorry for the sort of down post today. The rain and the doctor's waiting room has me in a very thoughtful place.

The things that matter

I had a really great time being in southern New Mexico over the weekend. I got to spend time with many of my old Ag College friends who still rely on the weather and the earth to make a good part of their living.

I got back to my rural roots. It was a fresh reminder.

While I whine and complain about all the rain we got this year in Northern California, I was reminded, plenty reminded, that water is still the heart of life in a town like Las Cruces.

Simple water. Yet not so simple.

As we drove out to my best friend's house, which is well and gone north of Las Cruces, my old senses kicked in. I smelled the water before I saw it. We rounded a corner and could see that the main irrigation ditch was running high.

"Someone must have ordered water," I said aloud to no one in particular.

"That looks like almond trees going in," I pointed out to my husband.

"Whoa, that used to be a cotton field...looks like they put in chile," I commented.

I greeted each pasture and expanse of farmland like an old friend.

"Chickens!" I exclaimed when we came to a traffic jam on the road (us and another car). The Good Man had asked, "um, why are we stopped?" and I had the better view around the car ahead.

There was a bantam rooster doing his strut on the warm asphalt of that rural New Mexico state road. We all waited for him to go by. He took his time.

Once at the party, The Good Man and I at one point talked with my best friend's dad. He said that they were having trouble with a neighbor up the road diverting their water. They'd order and not enough would show up.

I've been reading a lot of Louis L'Amour stories lately. In those books, diverting someone's water is a killing sort of offense.

I said to my dad-by-proxy, "you oughta weld that guy's gate shut" and he laughed. Don't think he hadn't already considered it. (and by gate, I meant irrigation gate, not the entry to his driveway)

As the night wore on, it got to be about two o'clock in the morning. The evening dew, such that it was, was starting to settle. I said to my husband, "this is good hay cutting weather." He asked why, and I said, "the dew makes the stalks wet and they bend instead of break."

I used to date a guy in college who had to end our dates fairly early because he had to get home and cut hay. I learned to recognize that smell. It meant it was time for him to scoot on home. Time to work when the water is in the air....

The next day, out at my friend's place, I learned the water in the irrigation ditch was running so high because it was a "free day" for the community. They got to water as needed.

I was wearing flip-flops and I tromped around the soggy yard helping my god-dog look for his favorite ball. The water made the air smell sweet. It also made the frogs come out and sing their sexy mating songs rather loudly.

We ate dinner outside with a chorus of humping frogs to accompany our meal.

All because of water.

Living in the city like I do, I take water for granted. I turn on the tap, and there it is. It falls from the sky and I curse the nuisance.

Yesterday, I was shopping at Nordstrom for a nice outfit to wear for a very important meeting today.

While I shopped in luxury, I looked down at my flip-flops. They still bore the dried mud from my friend's home. I tossed back my head and laughed at the beautiful, grounding irony of it all.

May I never forget the land and the people who rely daily on the value of pure, simple water.

Rather out of focus photo of my cranky god-cat and the gate at my friend's place.

A bit sad

I'm sad to have to convey that last night, just past 11:00, my little fish Frank passed along.

It seems he succumbed to an internal bacterial infection, which was hard to diagnose, and the antibiotics we put in the water weren't enough or in time.

He was only my little fish for eight days, but he was a good fish and a member of our family.

Last evening at the grocery store, I ran into a longtime friend and when I confessed I was sad because I thought my fish would die, she said, "ah, no matter. Flush him and get another one."

I appreciate that many folks would feel that way. It's just a small thing, a $5.00 fish from the pet store.

And that's fine. We all go about life our own way.

For me, I'm not ashamed to actually feel very sad and even cry a little for my fish, who had to struggle so much for life so much there at the end.

I knew when I bought him that he might not be 100% healthy. The Good Man and I agreed to foster him at home so he would either recover, or if he succumbed, he would do so in a big tank with humans around to protect him.

And so we did.

I pimped out a nice matchbox coffin for my friend and gave him a proper goodbye in the side garden of our house.

He was just a fish, but he was my fish, and he was well loved.

By the by, Margaret, the female betta who came home with us the same day as Frank is doing fine. She's happy and does a little fish dance when we walk up to the tank. I never before thought I could find a fish cute, but I have to say, she's an adorable little fish.

Checking in on my coolness quotient

Ok. It's time for my annual check in. I'm fast approaching a birthday, and now that I'm over 40, it's a good time to check to see just how wide that ol' generational gap has become.

We'll start with trending topics on Twitter. I've eliminated all the hashtag items that are Twitter specific funning around like #DontBeShocked and #Musicmonday.

So here's what we have as of 10:50 Pacific Standard Time.

Hekla
This Is Apple's Next
#ashtag
Icelandic

Ok, well. Hekla. I pretty much figured it was a new R&B artist. I was wrong. It's a volcano that may or may not be ready to blow its lid. Bad me.

"This is Apple's Next" is a topic I'm all over. I read the Gawker item this morning about a supposed "found" iPhone 4. We'll see. Apple always seems to have crafty moves...

But ok, score one for me, I'm on the board.

And #ashtag and Icelandinc are all about that fun, wacky volcano called Eyjafjallajokull.

Good, good. Three of four on that. Rock on.

Let's try Yahoo! trending topics. Here we go, as of 10:55 PST.

Boston Marathon
Conan O'Brien
Christina Hendricks
Kelsey Grammer
Timothy McVeigh
Alyssa Milano
Lady Antebellum
Joakim Noah
Space Shuttle Discovery
Eyjafjallajokull

Ok, let's run through the list. Let's see....Boston Marathon. I know what that is, didn't know it was being run today. Half point for me.

Conan O'Brien. Yup, know who he is. Heard he was getting a new cable show. There are a couple news items about he and George Lopez that I'm out of the loop on. Half point for me.

Christina Hendricks. I have no idea who that is. Hoookay, she's evidently been chosen America's best looking woman. She stars on "Mad Men" a show I haven't watched as I don’t have cable. Big fat fail for me.

Kelsey Grammer. I used to watch Frasier and Cheers, so I'm up on Kelsey. I also know he's super conservative. Ok. Evidently he's starting his own right-wing network. Fair enough. Half point for me.

Timothy McVeigh. I know who he is. I wish I didn't. Evidently there is some new project using his recorded voice. I probably don't wish to hear it. I'll take a zero points on this one.

Alyssa Milano. I know who she is. She is a $%#@ing Dodger fan. I don't give a tiny rat's ass about her. That said, I did read an article about her this morning and her new show "Romantically Challenged" (I didn't say I was proud of it). Go me. Score one for the good guys.

Lady Antebellum. Know 'em. Love 'em. Love that they won a whole slew of Academy of Country Music awards last night. Whoo! Score one for me!

Joakim Noah. Er, uh. No idea. Ya got me here. Ah, basketball player. Chicago Bulls. Apparently people are pissed off at him. I don't know why. I don't watch basketball, sorry. Zero points for me.

Space Shuttle Discovery. Heard of it. Knew it was up. Didn't know it was trying to land today. Bad weather causes delays. What's new for the shuttle? Half point for me.

And finally, there's my ol' friend Eyjafjallajokull. Point goes to me!

Ok, let me add up the points...do the math here...carry the one...

Seems that I'm hip to 8 of 14 trending topics. That's a resounding 57%.

Better than half, but not by much.

I'm not completely irrelevant, but I'm definitely trending down.

This year I will try to throw a rope over this generational chasm and hold on tight.

Image via the New York Times.

Edit: in the half hour or so it took to write this, the trending topics changed. Ah well, so goes the internets.

Come tip a glass with me!

Yes, tis time to celebrate St. Paddy's Day again. The wearin' of the green. The drinking, and the pinching (not necessarily in that order).

But St. Paddy's Day means something different here on ol' Oh Fair New Mexico.

Twas St. Paddy's Day 2007 that my little blog was begun.

Three years and 860 posts later, it's still going strong.

Look, three years ago, I didn't know if I had a year's worth of content in me, but I was willing to try. It was The Good Man's idea to start a blog and damnit, I guess I have to admit he was right.

He really is, you know, a good man. Smart too. Dashing, handsome...but I digress.

My meager three years don't come anywhere near the longevity and volume of blog friend, NewMexiKen. He just celebrated six years at his own url and is closer to seven years blogging and still getting ten to fifteen posts a day. I am humbled in his sheer blogging presence.

But my three years still beats the heck out of a lot of blogs I've seen rise and fall since I got my start.

Cheers! To Oh Fair New Mexico and another year of random acts of bloggery.

And Happy St. Patrick's Day! To celebrate I took my new (to me) camera and snapped the prolific clover in the backyard.

I think it's beautiful. My landlord curses at it.

And so goes the ways of my world.

(I don't see any four leafers in there, do you?)

Romeo, Romeo, I’m calling 911

So there you are, at home alone in your second story apartment doing whatever it is single ladies do at home at night. (I'm thinking eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough, but that's just me.)

You hear a rattle, rattle outside on your fire escape and realize someone is climbing onto your balcony.

What do you do?

Well you call the damn police, that's what.

And that's what a German woman did in this situation.

Problem was, the assumed burglar was her boyfriend, bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine in hand, trying to do something romantic.

Ah, ok, no harm no foul, right?

The police all have a good laugh and let the young lovers have their peace.

Whoops, seems the boyfriend had an outstanding warrant.

So when the police arrived, he jumped down from the balcony and tried to flee, only to be tackled by the officers on the scene.

Star crossed lovers, or something....

Bonus points to the guy for giving the arresting officers the bottle of wine.

Hopefully his Juliet has a good sense of humor.

I'm thinking chocolate chip cookie dough and a Netflix movie is one heck of a lot nicer way to spend the night than bailing your boyfriend out of jail...but that's just me.

Source.

I suppose "they" are right sometimes

You know what "they" say?

They say when you have a blister filled with water, you shouldn't pop it.

They say that water is protective. Keeps it from getting infected.

BAH! I say to they.

It's no big deal. I pop my blisters all the time. I hate that poofy skin feeling.

I used to take ballet lessons (on toe) as a kid. I have worn many a cheap shoe in my life. I've had a lot of blisters.

I pop 'em all.

No big whoop.

On Sunday The Good Man and I went for a long walk out at a nearby nature preserve. I was wearing new shoes. I got a pretty big blister on my left ring toe. I popped it. Whatev.

It now has refilled itself. With gray-green pus.

Gross!

I hate it when "they" are right....

(Channeling my inner Russian grandmother. Betcha didn't know I had one of those? But I do.)

"Why? Why, bubbie? Why did you pop that blister? You know what they say, don't you? They say don't pop blisters. Now they are going to have to cut your toe off! And put on a jacket!"

Karen go *bonk*

I have this nasty little problem.

I fall down.

I'm a faller.

'Tis true. I don't know why this is, I just seem to have a propensity for one moment standing, next moment I'm a tornado of arms and legs and I'm startled to be laying on the ground.

I've had times in my life when it was really, really bad. Especially right after I'd first moved to California.

I am a sensitive kid, and I do tend to get a little sensory overloaded. Moving to California all by my little lonesome could quite handily be filed under "a skosh overwhelming".

In the first six months I lived here, almost daily I either locked my keys in the car or fell down, or both.

It usually happens when I’m a little too much up in my head, not feeling grounded, not paying attention.

The last big fall I took was last December. So see, I'm doing pretty good! I mean, I hardly ever fall down anymore.

I had a really smokin' No Fall streak going...until Saturday.

There I was at the day field trip for my photography class. I was feeling *so* great because I was getting some amazing shots, feeling all artistic, and yes, I'll say it, a little smug and self-satisfied with myself.

And so as I was leaving the Rodin Sculpture garden to scale the concrete steps leading into the Cantor Arts Center, I was smiling to myself, feeling happy, folding up my tripod, bopping along and then, as fate will do, I missed the top step, bobbled, and fell.

My tripod went clattering. My knee hit first, then my elbow, then my chin (oooh, took it on the chin!).

Then, somehow, gravity took over from its old friend momentum, and my legs were then flung askew and above me.

As The Good Man says, "When you can see the sky between your shoes, it's not going to be a good day."

I had the definite sensation that I was going to go clank-clanking down all the stairs. And I knew that would be a bad thing.

So I'm not sure what I did, but I was able to clench, or grab or lean or something, but I stopped my downward thunking progression.

*sigh*

I got myself upright again, and sat on that step, midway down the approximately fifteen-stair set of steps, and just...stopped.

I gazed out on the Rodin Sculpture Garden and shook my head.

And sighed.

My tripod was several feet away, my backpack was laying in the opposite direction, and the camera around my neck was still there, but the telephoto part of my very nice lens was stuck at an odd angle.

If I were skiing, they refer to that as a "yard sale."

Thankfully, only my pride was seriously hurt.

Sorry for the angle up the ol' double cannons there. At least I don’t have crazy nose hair!

"My life is like watching the Three Stooges in Spanish"

A fave quote from the movie Untamed Heart. A now *coff* sixteen year old movie.

Gad.

Ok, so maybe my life isn't like The Three Stooges in Spanish. Maybe more like The Three Stooges with the sound off.

Lot's of running and jumping. Quite a few people getting smacked around. Zany faces. Screwball circumstances.

But without the volume, it's hard to understand why all the commotion.

That's me. Sometimes I don't understand why all the commotion.

I think the answer is, simply, "that's life."

This week, I watched an episode of "No Reservations." You know, the show with Anthony Bourdain? It was a rerun from last season, I think.

It was a "lost episode" from when they were filming in Beirut in 2006. There they were, clubbing, eating, sunning, and within the blink of an eye, things went bad. The country became unstable, they were surrounded by gunfire and air strikes. They had a terrible time getting out, eventually, they were rescued by US Marines.

Now that's a hell of a commotion.

Look, I'm just fighting the forces of corporate confusion, middle age weary-induced crisis, and changing seasons.

You know, I have it pretty good.

Sometimes The Three Stooges in Spanish is a lot of fun. Despite all the commotion.

(That's me in the center)

Funky Tut*

*With all due homage to the Steve Martin classic. "He gave his life for tourism."

This past weekend, while my best girlfriend was in town, the three of us (The Good Man, The Friend, and me) went over to San Francisco's De Young museum to see the King Tut exhibition.

This marked a 30-year anniversary for the De Young, as they also showed King Tut artifacts back in 1979. I remember the hubbub about Tut back in the day (and listened to the Steve Martin song on the album owned by my big brother).

Of course, the Tut traveling show never made it anywhere near New Mexico, so I was pretty psyched to see it this go 'round.

In short, it was amazing. I would love you show you photographs, a drawing, a pencil sketch, my notes or ANYTHING from that visit, but all of that is prohibited. *sigh*

After the exhibit, the three of us headed over to the historic Japanese Tea Garden located next door to the De Young, and while sipping tea in quiet surroundings, we talked about the Tut exhibit and our impressions.

Here's where my train of thought was headed.....

Ok, so this whole funerary thing...they create these surroundings to make it nice for the person in the afterlife. There are chairs and other furniture, cosmetics, hair care items (gotta look good), and clothing. Favored toys, games, and pets also included.

Basically, all the stuff the deceased liked so they would have a happy, restful afterlife.

And so, with this in mind, I determined my tomb would be, on the inner sanctum, a replica of the red couch, with a fine yet tubby statute of my Feline at my side, or rather, on my legs.

And cheesy poofs. Lots and lots of cheesy poofs (I'm thinking they can use carnelian to properly capture the vibrant orange cheesiness).

My friend pointed out that we had to work out my regal name. As the Egyptian royalty ascended to leadership, their name was changed.

As we learned in the exhibit, the naming convention is something like:

A personal identifier + a word like "life" or "peace" or whatever + name of your preferred god

Thus:

Tut + Ankh (means "life") + Amun (the diety)

Tutankhamun

And so my name would have to be something like:

Ka + Ankh + Cheesy Poof (cuz I revere the Cheeto)

Kaankhcheesypoof

And yet, we also realized that sometimes, on the cartouche, the name is actually represented in the other direction.

Thus making my name

Poofcheeseyankhka

Ok.

Now we're cooking.

Also, in the funerary tomb, there are these little figurines placed about. They are called shabti, and their whole gig is to be the servants for the deceased in the afterlife. So, like, if there is manual labor to be done, the shabti have to step up.

Well, I thought on it, and then was all like, "you know, I think my shabti should be all my bad bosses through the years....put those b*stards to work for ME!"

Like opening fresh bags of cheesy poofs and going on beer runs. Stuff like that.

The Good Man and The Friend were *way* in favor of this idea.

However, the more I thought on it, the more I realized I don't really want all of those bad bosses to hang out with me for all eternity. The good bosses (there have been plenty) are welcome, but why would I want the yuck around? We want a happy afterlife.

So what I need instead is a jar like this one (that we saw at the exhibit).

See, the tiger on top represents Tut...so on mine it would be...uh...a sloth. Anyhow, so there the sloth lays, all smug looking, and then at the bottom would be carved heads of my former oppressors managers (see the photo, heads of Tut's enemies are found at the foot of the jar).

Instead, my shabti can just be really cool but hardworking people who, like, want to shag glasses of lemonade and make guacamole and are willing to get up a game of softball every now and again.

Ok, so we've got a good start on this whole afterlife plan....

Now I need to find someone to begin carving images of me. I need to be depicted throughout the years. I'm thinking all this carving and painting and gilding might take a while.

That's ok, I can wait. Also, I'd like them not to take my brain out through my nose if we can at all avoid it, mmmkay?

From a salad to the wayback machine

In two easy steps.

Today, I was at my work's cafeteria, and there I am, standing in line, waiting on the lady in front of me as she crafted her salad.

I personally think how someone makes their salad bar salad speaks volumes about personality, but that's another study for another day.

This lady in front of me had taken a small container, and was packing, shoving, and cramming salad items in there.

I've noticed this a lot lately, not just at work. The general need to take an itty-bitty container. It's a guilt thing. You convince yourself you are saving money and calories with a "small" salad, then you shove a "large" amount of salad in there.

We pay for salad by the pound, but whatever.

So while I watched this fabulous bit of engineering, I thought to myself, "Wow, this lady needs a geometry lesson."

Which is really ironic for *me* to say.

Because I personally *suck* at geometry.

And why is that?

Come, step with me into the wayback machine.

: cue wavy lines and hazy focus :

The year was 1986...or maybe 1985...I can't recall.

At that time, I was matriculating at good ol' Del Norte High School. Yup.

That year, I was taking a geometry class that was going fairly well. I was learning, it was coming along, I was carrying a high B...until that fateful day.

Oh yes, that day...when our regular teacher introduced our (cue dramatic music...dun dun DUUUUUN):
Student Teacher.

But, not just any student teacher, no.

This gentleman was a student at UNM. But not just that...he was a basketball player.

Ok, now this goes back a lotta years. You have to be a Lobo fan or at least an Albuquerque resident from way back to remember these names...

This guy played under Gary Colson, who was the UNM savior after the misdeeds by our ol' friend Stormin' Norman Ellenberger.

(god, this is going back, NM style....bonus points if you ever ate or had a drink at Stormin' Norman's restaurant)

So, recovering from the scandal, UNM ended up having a *really* good team. The main players were pretty well known, kind of local celebrities.

There in my very classroom, next to my portly, middle-aged math teacher, stood none other than Alan Dolensky, UNM basketball player, that guy I saw on the news, Adonis.

Let's be clear...in the vernacular...this guy was *foine* I'm not gonna lie to ya, I'd had a bit of a crush on him anyway, and then he shows up as my teacher.

All youthful, he had to be what? 20? 21? athletic, tall. Wow.

Well. It wasn't long before that high B in geometry dipped to a low C.

I would *love* to blame the poor teaching skills of Mr. Dolensky (and did for many years), but that would be highly unfair.

I'll just agree to two things...I *might* have been a bit....uh...distracted (c'mon, I had hormones!)....and I might also never have really owned a good math gene (much to the dismay of my engineer father).

So I spent a semester with languishing grades and an emphatic crush. Which *obviously* was never returned.

When report cards came out, I was *mad*.

My C got me flak from my folks, but it was enough to pass, and on I moved to the next course.

But...and I have to be honest, I have never really grasped the foundation of geometry, and it shows. I can't mentally gauge spatial items very well. I am terrible at packing a full truck (thank GOD for The Good Man. He rocks this department!)

And the worst of it came when I had to take the Graduate Management Admission Test for graduate school. It was *heavily* weighted toward geometry (a fact I understand was later acknowledged and fixed...too late for me, however).

So, I'd done ok grade-wise in high school, but in college, I rocked the house. I got my undergrad with a *smokin'* GPA.

Desperate to get out of New Mexico, I appealed to my parents, who said they'd spring for in-state school. Out of state, I'd have to get a scholarship or a grant that would wave out of state tuition.

(Let me aside here to give it up for my parents paying for my edjumacation. I'm a lucky soul.)

Admission to a university is based on GPA and GMAT score.

So, obviously, a lot was riding on my GMAT score.

On which I scored terribly.

I mean, really, just above "who is this idiot?"

Undeterred and against the advice of the Dean of the Business College, I took the GMAT again. And scored even lower.

Still undeterred, I made an appeal to an out of state school, got a "provisional" admission based on my GPA and a good word from the president of NMSU, but "provisional" meant no scholarships, grants, or ability to wave out of state.

Deflated, I surrendered. Goddamn geometry.

I ended up staying on at New Mexico State to complete my MBA.

Which, honestly, in hindsight, has been fine. I really got a great education in Las Cruces and wouldn't trade it for the world.

But I often wonder where I would have ended up if my schlumpy but effective math teacher had continued to educate me rather than that awfully distracting virile young man.

DAMN YOU ALAN DOLENSKY! : shakes fists :

There you go, from a salad to an angst.

By the by, I can manage to fit an appropriate amount of salad in a small container...and I can also park straight in a parking space...so I have that going for me.

In other news...I'm also hopeless at chemistry. In the course of my entire education, I was never once required to take a chem. class.

Isn't THAT something.

Or not.

Oh well, back to my management job at a Fortune 500 company, because, you know, things turned out so poorly....:)

Photo by Khadejeh and found on Flickr.

Stages: Circling the Drain

If you've worked in a corporate environment, you've no doubt had the opportunity to watch one of your coworkers go through the progress of becoming ever more disenchanted and eventually leaving.

Things are pretty wacky around my own employer these days. Times are strange since the merger, so we're seeing a lot of bad behavior.

There is the coworker who, on Friday, was in the employee directory, and on Monday, wasn't. No one knows what happened. After sixteen years at this company, he was just...gone.

There was also the senior manager guy with a whole set of direct reports who suddenly no longer has direct reports. He is listed as a peer to the people he once managed.

Weird.

Right now, I have a good friend, mentor and coworker who is going through the "stages"...he's on the path toward "I've had enough!"

So with that in mind, here's my unofficial, opinion oriented, based on experience, stages of the descent of a corporate minion.

Stage One: Grumbling.

"This place is so strange, I don't understand why (boss) has to manage like that." This stage is characterized by a slight uptick in the complaining about the job. I mean, we ALL complain about the job, but this is taking it to a new, higher level, with some unconvincing, "I should find a new job" statements thrown in.

Basically, the disenchanted is still in the game, still meeting deadlines, still doing the work, but is starting to think about doing something different. This is like picking at the edge of a scab, really. Just picking and picking but not serious about it. The grumbling stage includes a lot of thinking, "Can I make this work?" and "I've been here a long time" and "Maybe things will improve."

Stage Two: Misbehaving.

If the grumbling progress continues, things ratchet up and become tinged with a bit more emotion. Anger, frustration and acting out become obvious. Could be an, "I can't believe he said that" comment from a meeting where the disgruntled shot their mouth off on something, could be missing a "mandatory" all hands event, could be missing a deadline. Enough to get noticed, but not enough to get fired.

At this stage, the disgruntled begins thinking seriously about looking for another job. They usually start by looking at other open jobs within the same company. May even go so far as to navigate over to Monster.com and Craig's List to see if there is even anything interesting outside the company.

At this stage, the disgruntled usually stops just short of actually updating their resume and, usually, aren’t happy with job opportunities found elsewhere, so they decide to hang in there a bit longer to see if things improve.

Stage Three: Actively acting out.

Characterized by coming in late consistently, leaving early, disappearing for large parts of the day, distracted in meetings, more impassioned discussion of looking for another job, and complaints about "this place," followed by mentions of actual job openings at other companies.

Resume has been pulled up in Word, updates are being made, daily searching the job sites. Asking friends for leads. Making rumblings among close coworkers that he's looking. Trying to find allies that are also looking, or trying to convince others to join him in the job search.

Pretty serious, but yet, could be convinced to stay with a little management intervention, a little love, a little promise of something more.

This is usually where the disgruntled invites a trusted friend to lunch offsite and runs down a list of grievances and confesses they have had it. They are looking for a job. The case is laid out, discussed, asked "do you think it will get better?" Lots of "this is ridiculous" statements issued.

Sometimes, this is where the disgruntled will receive a surprise bonus or promotion or similar, and this puts them back at state one or less...at least for a while.

So this is the stage where my friend is hovering. Actively looking, actively disgruntled, been to several offsite lunches, discussing the merits of job opportunities at other companies. Then again, we are actually due for a mid-year review and bonus, so we'll see.....

Stage Four: Stealth.

The disgruntled is not only actively looking, he's got a few leads. Maybe even calling in sick here and so they can go interview. Something may be happening, so it's time to pipe down. Many people (especially boss-type people) often confuse stealth with a move back to stage one. Easily confused, certainly.

The disenchanted person may be coming in on time again, but if you look close, they aren't really working that hard, aren't volunteering to take on new projects, may be handing off work to coworkers. They want to leave on a good note and are feeling optimistic that something is about to change. Mood has improved. Complaining a bit less. Laughing at all the boss' jokes.

Stage Five: Poking the Tiger.

Not everyone gets to stage five. Many people get to stage four, find another job, and leave. They leave on good terms, shake hands with the boss and go off to a new gig with a fresh look of optimism in their eyes.

Those that can't find another job or aren't motivated enough to find another job move into the phase where they start stirring the sh*t. Oh yes, they are too timid to actually *do* something themselves, they want someone to do it for them. Passive aggressive.

So they start actively missing deadlines and meetings and coming in late and not even pretending like they care about the work. They may even speak insultingly or say stuff that's not cool. They openly challenge people to say something. They aren't just picking away at the scab, they are making new wounds.

At this point, the boss may actually realize they have a performance problem on their hands, and put the disgruntled on a performance action plan. This either spurs the disgruntled to find another job...or, bad attitude continues until the end of the performance plan and the inevitable happens.

Or, some powerless bosses still won't take action, and they let the employee keep flailing away.

Often the employee will finally just up and quit. Sometimes in a blaze of glory "this is part of company folklore" kind of way.

Sometimes, the disgruntled poking-the-tiger guy gets weary, still lacking any self-starting behavior, becomes stuck in place, and they just pipe down and keep doing the job. These people become the "retired in place" completely useless employee, the guy who just can't get fired and just won't quit, so he sucks down company resources until retirement.

We've all known one of those, haven't we?

: twitch, twitch :

You know what it's like, careening down a country road.

Driving faster than your headlights, as your driving instructor (Mr. McGinnis if you are an Albuquerque kid) might say.

And you see those two little glistening black eyes under two long ears, nose twitching by the side of the road.

That goddamn jackrabbit is making a decision. Here comes two tons of steel traveling just north of 90 mph.

Do I leap or do I stay still?

Stay still and stay safe. You know this side of the road, you don't get to see anything new, no challenges.

Leap fast enough and you make it to the other side, a whole new world awaits. Fresh experiences, more room to grow.

Leap not quite fast enough and you are a hood ornament.

What do you do?

Don't ask me, I'm just another conejo by the side of the road blinking into the approaching highbeams.

This morning I met a man outside of my manager's office. He's from the company that just bought my employer. He's the counterpart to my boss. Odds are good he'll be my next boss.

Later I walked down to the area where all the high level managers sit. My boss and four other directors are jam packed into a senior director's office. A sudden impromptu meeting.

What the *hell* is going on?

Do I still have a job?

: twitch, twitch :

These are a few of my perturbing things

No raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens.

No, I'm all kinds of cranky today and need to, you know, just vent.

You know how it goes, you have other friends like me. You are having a perfectly nice day, then they come along and dump their misery. They feel great and you feel bad.

That's me today.

Here we go.

I'm not cranky about anything in particular, just all the little things are wearing down my last nerve until it's just a slick spot. I have, what The Good Man calls "bent whiskers."

So here we go, a few of my most annoying things.




• People who pour the top couple fingers of coffee out into the trash can at the local coffee place. Yes, I know they need room for cream, and there is nowhere else to deposit the excess java, but for some reason this seriously bugs me. I always think "that will melt the can liner and *can't* be fun for the employee that has to come clean that out." I dunno, maybe my former S'bucks friend (that's you, Nat) can assure me this is not such a bad thing?



• People who drive itty bitty cars and STILL can't manage to make it between the white lines in the parking lot. Especially when they are using up a full sized space (versus a compact spot). I always want to door ding the %$#@ out of them, but refrain because...



• ...I also really hate people who door ding other cars. Are you NOT in command of your own car door?



• Microsoft Excel. It's totally user error, but like most folks, I choose to point the finger outward for my own personal inadequacies. : shrug :




• That my manicure lasted less than a week. Grr. I want the heavy-duty shellac put on there! The kind they lay on thick like on a basketball court, with all the gleam. It should be super nuclear attached to my nails! One week!!?!?



• That my frappin' iPhone can't seem to hold a battery charge for more than a day. Remember when mobile phones were only used for making calls? I could make a battery charge last a week on those things. Now with phone, text, email, twitter, web surfing, etc, etc, I wear out that stupid battery in the blink of an eye. Damn you Apple for bringing all of my life onto one tiny energy sucking device!!!!



• That they only buy the cheapest possible pens at work, but will spring for $400 worth of food for a lunchtime meeting, leaving scads of leftovers. Money down the drain as I scribble with a crap pen. Whatever.



• That I'm turning forty in a week.

Ok, that last one may be the main perturber...not sure. Either way, I'm massively cranky....

Yanking. My. Chain.

(Written last night, posted today)

The universe is yanking my chain. Messing with my head. Freaking me out, man.

Because tonight, I might actually kinda sorta believe in the goodness of humanity.

That's so not me. No, I think people are mean, and mean people suck. But tonight...I have a softer spot in my heart for the world.

I was on my way to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. I waited in a left turn bay for the light to go my way. Out of the corner of my eye in the rearview mirror, I saw a small white pickup stomp to a halt at an odd diagonal to the left turn bay. Then the driver was out of the car and weaving around on foot in the opposite-side lane.

"Oh crap," I thought, eyeing him in my rearview, "this guy's messed up." I immediately reached for my phone to call the police, and as I did I turned to look out my window to see what the guy was doing. Was he going to hurt himself?

Then I realized why he was making a weaving wavy line in the oncoming lane. Leading the parade was a Mama Duck and three little chicks tailing her every move, the guy madly following behind, making classic herding motions with his hands.

Obviously, the duck and young 'uns had wandered into traffic and this guy was chasing them, trying to get them to safety, and waving off oncoming traffic at the same time.

Finally, Mama D got over to the curb and she hopped up. Three babies hopped and jumped in vain, unable to make the distance. The guy reached down, cupped his hands, and gently scooped up each baby and placed them on the sidewalk. When all were safe, he trotted to his truck and jumped back in.

This wasn't a Teva wearing, hola granola, tree hugging guy, either. He was a tradesman, driving a worktruck and clearly had put in a hard day's work on a freaking hot day.

And at the end of that day, he saved four lives.

I was stunned, and my heart felt warmth.

Then, while in the grocery, I went over to the bakery to pick up a few of my favorite cookies. They are baked on site and tantalize behind a glass case. A bakery employee has to help you get to the good stuff.

I stood by the glass and waited. The bakery employee was alone back there, on the phone, taking an intricate cake order. No worry, I got time. I can wait for delicious almond horns.

So I waited. I didn't even feel impatient. It allowed me the chance to oogle all the other tasty cookies on display.

Finally, she hung up the phone and turned to me. She said, "Thank you so much for waiting, I'm so sorry!"

"No problem," I said and ordered the horns.

She put a couple in a box then added one more. "One extra for having to wait," she said, smiled, and sealed up the box.

I was stunned. I got rewarded for patience? Me, the least patient person I know?

Then on the way home, I arrived at a four way stop at the same time as another car. I was the car on the right, and thus supposed to be the first to go. That never happens according to the law in California, so as usual, I paused. The other driver, a teenage girl, gave me the wave. I smiled and waved back and turned left through the intersection.

At the next intersection, I arrived the same time as a huge SUV. I was on the left this time. I paid it forward, gave him the wave, got a smile and wave in return.

With a goofy grin on my face, I then made my way the final few blocks to home.

Sure, it's a Monday, hotter than the hinges of hell, The Good Man is violently sick (Norovirus is the main suspect), Mom-in-Law got roughed up at her doctor, and the cat is hot and lethargic. By all accounts, it's a sad day where I live.

But right now I feel...dare I say...optimistic about my fellow man.