How do you know when its time to check into rehab? I mean, outside of a court order or an intervention hosted by Courtney Love, when does a sane person look at their life and say, yes, I have a problem? I only ask because I think I may have a teeny little problem.
I helped my friend Camie move today, and after all of her truckload(s) of junk had been safely deposited in her new apartment and I'd eaten my fill of McDonalds I made to leave. Ever the smartass, Camie said, "Yes, because you've probably got reading to do." And we all had a good laugh and I gave her the finger.
For your information, I only had three things to do today, and reading wasn't necessarily included. 1) I needed to help Camie move. (Successfully completed). 2) I desperately needed to go to the grocery store. All I have left in my house to eat is some leftover water crackers, and if I didn't go to the store today it would be water crackers all weekend long. 3)And since the gym is right next door to the grocery store it only makes sense to go to the gym too. All pretty normal Saturday activities, and all completely do-able.
But here's where my fatal mistake came in. When I got home from Camie's I decided I'd pour myself a big glass of water to rehydrate (moving in June is sweaty work) and while I'm doing that, why not do a bit of reading? It's probably no surprise to anyone that I never made it to the grocery store let alone the gym. It's also probably no surprise that I never even made it off of the couch. Instead I ate those crackers and finished off a book. A book that I'd started last night. A book that I'd started after finishing another book earlier in the evening. Two books. Two days.
I should probably have realized that it was possible that I might have a problem a few weeks ago when I was traveling to Phoenix. I started a book just before boarding in Washington, and by the time I landed in Minneapolis for my connection I was deeply immersed. I stumbled up the jetway, (trying to simultaneously read and walk) and out to the monitors. I was pretty bleary-eyed and thought that it said "Phoenix G9". So off I went to G9, where I plunked myself down to keep reading; nevermind that the gate information at G9 said Atlanta. I figured they were just running late, and my flight to Phoenix would be coming right up. So I resumed reading. And I kept on reading, and kept on reading, and kept on reading. Finally it occurred to me that my layover was really only supposed to be 25 minutes or something, and since I'd been sitting there for about an hour maybe I should check that they didn't change the gate. Turns out that I shouldn't have been waiting at gate G9 at all, I should have been at G19. And no, they didn't change it, I should have always been at gate G19. But I was too interested in getting back to my book to bother focusing my eyes when checking the monitor. By the time I arrived gasping at G19, the gate agent took one look at me and before I could even squeak out a word said with mixture of disdain and exasperation, "Gretchen Hanson? It's long gone. You're not getting out of here until tomorrow." And he grinned an evil grin.
The saddest part of this story is that I then proceeded to the nearest La Quinta Inn, where I was secretly glad (despite not having any toothpaste or clean underwear) to have some peace and quite to finish my book.
Is that rock bottom? Is missing a flight or dooming yourself to a weekend of eating crackers because you're too busy reading a sign that things have gone too far? That perhaps this isn't a healthy hobby any longer?
I sort of wish I was addicted to something that gave some clearer warning signs. Like if I were lohaning all over the place or drinking rubbing alcohol. At least then people would look at me and say, "Dude, lay off the smack! You've got a problem. Here's a nice brochure we think you should read." No one is ever going to haul me into an intervention for hanging outside of a Borders waiting for it to open. (Unless I'm rifling through the trash or something. But I think that's a different issue). People aren't going to look at my bloodshot eyes and whisper to each other, "Poor thing, obviously too much Dickens. Doesn't she realize she's killing herself with that stuff?" Nor do they say, "Reading? That's a disgusting habit." It just doesn't happen.
And that's the problem, essentially it's not a morally crippling addiction. It's not like I'm slipping Gothic novels to kids on the playground. Or hanging outside the library trying to score some free books. (Although, I guess now that I think about it I did go to that miserable library conference for the sole purpose of getting free books.) But, like all addictions, it appears to be getting in the way of normal activity. There's no chance that I'll give up reading cold turkey (since technically that's called illiteracy), but I need to find a pastime that will help dilute the reading time to a normal level.
So here it is, my cry for help. I need a new hobby. If you've got hobby suggestions ... let me hear them. And just so you know, I can't garden because I live in a balcony-less apartment; Cooking's out too; I'm a little worried about photography because I'll feel like a voyeur/tourist; I'm pretty uncoordinated so dancing or sports isn't a good option; and I'm not very crafty. About the only thing I've been able to come up with is getting a job that requires me to work 80+ hours a week, and I'm not sure I'm prepared to do that. You see my predicament. Help? Please??
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Book Club a Chez Moi
~Menu~
Fresh Strawberries
Figs
White Stilton with Lemon Peel cheese
Wensleydale with Cranberries cheese
Swedish Meatballs
Lemonade
Sparkling Conversation
Fortunately, no one bothered to read the book.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
One good thing
By all rights, I should be completely disgusted by the media coverage of Paris Hilton's release from jail. And I am. Of course I am. ..... But then I found out that Michael Moore got bumped from Larry King Live to make way for Paris.
And that made me smile.
I don't like muckrakers (which is the category I firmly place Michael Moore into). I work very hard to make sure that I don't get riled up about things that I neither know anything about or can do anything about. So to have him cheated out of some portion of his LKL slot by such a patently ridiculous interviewee makes up, in a very pleasing way, for the minutes of my life he stole while ranting during his Academy Award acceptance speech in 2003. You take some of my minutes, my man Larry will take some of yours. HA! Maybe karma works after all.
And that made me smile.
I don't like muckrakers (which is the category I firmly place Michael Moore into). I work very hard to make sure that I don't get riled up about things that I neither know anything about or can do anything about. So to have him cheated out of some portion of his LKL slot by such a patently ridiculous interviewee makes up, in a very pleasing way, for the minutes of my life he stole while ranting during his Academy Award acceptance speech in 2003. You take some of my minutes, my man Larry will take some of yours. HA! Maybe karma works after all.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Librarians are Coming! The Librarians are Coming!
The American Library Association held it's Annual Conference in Washington, DC this weekend. As a card-carrying librarian I had to make an appearance. But I went kicking and screaming all the way.
My first conference was mildly exciting as I ran around to every booth picking up worthless swag. But now the magic is gone. I've got as many crappy pens, obnoxious flashing buttons, and unidentifiable plastic bobbles as one girl can really handle. These days less is definitely more.
As I drove past the Convention Center, I saw my first pack waddling across the crosswalk and into the building, "Look kids! Librarians in the wild!"
Spotting Librarians outside of their native habitat is pretty simple, especially when you know what you're looking for. Notice the extra-extra-EXTRA large bags. This is indicative of The Librarian. Generally it has a decorative cat motif on it, but really the size is the main give away. If you want to avoid being mistaken for a librarian (as I do) you should never have a bag that is larger than your ass.
Another classic indicator: The Rolley Bag. Akin to the extra-extra-EXTRA large bag, the rolley bag serves the dual purpose of providing more room for all of the excessive amounts of crap they pick up, and to avoid having to actually bear the weight of all of that crap.
This librarian is also exhibiting two other traits: A matchy-matchy outfit (notice trimming on pants and jacket match) and SENSIBLE SHOES! Never leave home without them, as she would say!
These two specimens are of the Funky Fresh variety of Librarian. Funky Fresh librarians can be tricky because their somewhat normal sense of style keeps them from looking too far out of place. But if you look closely there is a sure indicator: The Funky Librarian Glasses. Funky glasses, and ideally a funky glasses chain, are essential. No librarian should be with out them.
Here is your classic Librarian out on the town. Notice the matchy-matchy outfit? (Extra marks for finding sensible lime green shoes!) Her extra-extra-EXTRA large bag is hidden on the other side of her - but believe me, it's bulging with swag. Sporty hair scrunchy, perusing the conference guide - this Librarian is putting the Rarin back into librarianship! But watch out - looks like her wrist has had a nasty sprain. Most likely from over-firm stamping of due dates.
Ideally I would have skipped the conference all together. But since it was in town I felt compelled to make an appearance. Consequently, I did everything in my power to make sure that even though I was in the same place, and technically speaking I am a librarian, it should be abundantly clear that These Are Not My People.
My first conference was mildly exciting as I ran around to every booth picking up worthless swag. But now the magic is gone. I've got as many crappy pens, obnoxious flashing buttons, and unidentifiable plastic bobbles as one girl can really handle. These days less is definitely more.
As I drove past the Convention Center, I saw my first pack waddling across the crosswalk and into the building, "Look kids! Librarians in the wild!"
Spotting Librarians outside of their native habitat is pretty simple, especially when you know what you're looking for. Notice the extra-extra-EXTRA large bags. This is indicative of The Librarian. Generally it has a decorative cat motif on it, but really the size is the main give away. If you want to avoid being mistaken for a librarian (as I do) you should never have a bag that is larger than your ass.
Another classic indicator: The Rolley Bag. Akin to the extra-extra-EXTRA large bag, the rolley bag serves the dual purpose of providing more room for all of the excessive amounts of crap they pick up, and to avoid having to actually bear the weight of all of that crap.
This librarian is also exhibiting two other traits: A matchy-matchy outfit (notice trimming on pants and jacket match) and SENSIBLE SHOES! Never leave home without them, as she would say!
These two specimens are of the Funky Fresh variety of Librarian. Funky Fresh librarians can be tricky because their somewhat normal sense of style keeps them from looking too far out of place. But if you look closely there is a sure indicator: The Funky Librarian Glasses. Funky glasses, and ideally a funky glasses chain, are essential. No librarian should be with out them.
Here is your classic Librarian out on the town. Notice the matchy-matchy outfit? (Extra marks for finding sensible lime green shoes!) Her extra-extra-EXTRA large bag is hidden on the other side of her - but believe me, it's bulging with swag. Sporty hair scrunchy, perusing the conference guide - this Librarian is putting the Rarin back into librarianship! But watch out - looks like her wrist has had a nasty sprain. Most likely from over-firm stamping of due dates.
Ideally I would have skipped the conference all together. But since it was in town I felt compelled to make an appearance. Consequently, I did everything in my power to make sure that even though I was in the same place, and technically speaking I am a librarian, it should be abundantly clear that These Are Not My People.
Friday, June 22, 2007
MINI(ature) Love
I've been commuting all week to a Product Manager Training Seminar in Reston, Virginia. MapQuest and I agree that it should only take about 35 minutes to go from my house in Silver Spring to the seminar hotel in Reston. Not too bad. Of course, that only applies to the morning commute, the return trip, on the other hand is a disaster. That half-hour trip goes a lot slower when your car doesn't get out of first gear.
At about the point where my road rage was really starting to percolate, I encountered my arch nemesis the DC Taxi driver. I won't digress into a scathing discourse on why taxis are the bane of my existence -- but in case you didn't get the Taxi Manifesto in which it states that the laws of the land do not apply to taxis, let me do my bit to help the revolution by letting you know that any taxi, at any time, can do whatever the hell it wants, without respect to any of the other cars or pedestrians within a five mile radius. I don't want you accidentally thinking that these fellows are outside the bounds of proper driving etiquette. Hah! The very idea!
Anyway, two hours into my drive this jackass taxi decided it was a perfect time to cut across four lanes of traffic in order to make a left turn. While he was blocking all of us, a little red MINI snuck out from a side street and got in front of me. I got pimped! and I hate getting pimped. It was only The Code of the MINI that kept me from being truly incensed.
The Code of the MINI is one of my favorite things about owning a MINI. Owning a MINI is like being in a secret society, such as the Skull and Bones (but without the naked butt paddling or the political intrigue). MINI owners are encouraged to always wave or smile knowingly at each other in passing. We've all promised to never eat at chain restaurants, to call driving "motoring", and name our first child Cooper. It's impossible to hate another MINI owner.
And so, I pulled up next to the red MINI and gave him a look that said, "You're a cheeky fellow! Good thing The Code has protected you. Now, let's see what features you have on your car." MINIs are the only cars I know anything about, so I feel very manly when I can look at one and say, "I can't be-lieve you chose those rims! Those were the worst ones!" or "Interesting use of the luggage rack, my friend!"
While I was checking out his car (Chili Red, white top, no bonnet stripes - poor choice there) I noticed that the driver was a bit of a dish. Lanky, sandy blond hair, glasses, driving a MINI - just my type. Hmmmm.....
Would Chili Red/No Bonnet Stripes like British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes? If they got married, with their red and green MINIs parked outside of their swanky townhouse, would the neighbors call them The MINIs, instead of The Johnsons? Would their curio cabinets be full of model MINIs and English car memorabilia? When the first child came, would he in fact be named Cooper? And more importantly, as more children came, whose car would go from MINI to Minivan? Gulp. Certainly not British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes.
How could Chili Red/No Bonnet Stripes even think of asking British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes to sacrifice herself so completely when everything she ever does is for the sake of this family? If he thinks that she's going to be seen driving around town in a minivan, well he's got another thing coming Mister! Besides, if one of our cars has to go - it will be yours, Mr. NO Bonnet Stripes!
At this point Chili Red/No Bonnet Stripes escapes by turning left abruptly.
British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes rolls her eyes and mutters, "It's a damn good thing you're covered by The Code and I can't hate you." And motors off to finish the last leg of one hellishly long and emotionally charged commute home.
At about the point where my road rage was really starting to percolate, I encountered my arch nemesis the DC Taxi driver. I won't digress into a scathing discourse on why taxis are the bane of my existence -- but in case you didn't get the Taxi Manifesto in which it states that the laws of the land do not apply to taxis, let me do my bit to help the revolution by letting you know that any taxi, at any time, can do whatever the hell it wants, without respect to any of the other cars or pedestrians within a five mile radius. I don't want you accidentally thinking that these fellows are outside the bounds of proper driving etiquette. Hah! The very idea!
Anyway, two hours into my drive this jackass taxi decided it was a perfect time to cut across four lanes of traffic in order to make a left turn. While he was blocking all of us, a little red MINI snuck out from a side street and got in front of me. I got pimped! and I hate getting pimped. It was only The Code of the MINI that kept me from being truly incensed.
The Code of the MINI is one of my favorite things about owning a MINI. Owning a MINI is like being in a secret society, such as the Skull and Bones (but without the naked butt paddling or the political intrigue). MINI owners are encouraged to always wave or smile knowingly at each other in passing. We've all promised to never eat at chain restaurants, to call driving "motoring", and name our first child Cooper. It's impossible to hate another MINI owner.
And so, I pulled up next to the red MINI and gave him a look that said, "You're a cheeky fellow! Good thing The Code has protected you. Now, let's see what features you have on your car." MINIs are the only cars I know anything about, so I feel very manly when I can look at one and say, "I can't be-lieve you chose those rims! Those were the worst ones!" or "Interesting use of the luggage rack, my friend!"
While I was checking out his car (Chili Red, white top, no bonnet stripes - poor choice there) I noticed that the driver was a bit of a dish. Lanky, sandy blond hair, glasses, driving a MINI - just my type. Hmmmm.....
Would Chili Red/No Bonnet Stripes like British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes? If they got married, with their red and green MINIs parked outside of their swanky townhouse, would the neighbors call them The MINIs, instead of The Johnsons? Would their curio cabinets be full of model MINIs and English car memorabilia? When the first child came, would he in fact be named Cooper? And more importantly, as more children came, whose car would go from MINI to Minivan? Gulp. Certainly not British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes.
How could Chili Red/No Bonnet Stripes even think of asking British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes to sacrifice herself so completely when everything she ever does is for the sake of this family? If he thinks that she's going to be seen driving around town in a minivan, well he's got another thing coming Mister! Besides, if one of our cars has to go - it will be yours, Mr. NO Bonnet Stripes!
At this point Chili Red/No Bonnet Stripes escapes by turning left abruptly.
British Racing Green/White Bonnet Stripes rolls her eyes and mutters, "It's a damn good thing you're covered by The Code and I can't hate you." And motors off to finish the last leg of one hellishly long and emotionally charged commute home.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The Product Management Training Follies
"You know who calls Technical Support? Power users and losers."
"In the word 'users' the L is silent."
"Your opinion, while interesting, is irrelevant."
My instructor/stand-up comedian will be down at the Improv later this week if you're after more.
"In the word 'users' the L is silent."
"Your opinion, while interesting, is irrelevant."
My instructor/stand-up comedian will be down at the Improv later this week if you're after more.
The Perfect Man. (Revised)
The other week I had to teach a lesson on Journaling to my Young Women. Now, I'm a very accomplished journalist having kept one since I was 14, so I was very excited to impart my wisdom on this topic. I pulled out every journal I had lurking around and took a long and leisurely stroll down memory lane. To my surprise/delight/embarrassment, tucked into the back of my mission journal (a particularly action packed volume what with violent mood swings and all) I found a list labeled: "The Perfect Man!"
And here it is, for your amusement: The Perfect Man!
Fortunately, I'm scads wiser now thanks to ten years of countless dates and one TOOL of a would-be fiance. One or two dates with a clown (costume included) will teach you pretty quickly that it doesn't do any good to have a checklist of features in mind. Believe me, he'll only disappoint - how could he not? So in my aged wisdom I've changed my tack a bit and am abandoning the feature list and focusing on these carefully selected baseline requirements:
The Perfect Man (revised)
And here it is, for your amusement: The Perfect Man!
- The Givens (aka a Returned Missionary)
- Successful
- Smart - really smart - book and street
- Funny - witty, clever
- Creative
- Self-motivated
- Good style
- Great with children/teens
- Romantic
- Loves me sooooo much
- Tells me how much he loves me
- Good health - good looking
- Traveled
- A good people person
- Comfortable at a rock concert or the opera
- Simple pleasures - but with style
Fortunately, I'm scads wiser now thanks to ten years of countless dates and one TOOL of a would-be fiance. One or two dates with a clown (costume included) will teach you pretty quickly that it doesn't do any good to have a checklist of features in mind. Believe me, he'll only disappoint - how could he not? So in my aged wisdom I've changed my tack a bit and am abandoning the feature list and focusing on these carefully selected baseline requirements:
The Perfect Man (revised)
- Heterosexual.
- Enough initiative to ask me out.
- Can initiate and carry on their fair share of conversations
- Conversation topics range outside of X-Box scores/maneuvers or Body Mass Index percentiles
- Doesn't tuck his shirt into his underwear
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