Shamrocketship

It Goes On

"In three words, I can sum up everything I know about life:  It goes on." - Robert Frost

If I correctly set the timer for publishing this post, it's my birthday today. I think I've reached a transformational stage of life that women frequently encounter at around this point.  It's a tipping point of sorts.  A realization that there is a lot yet to be done, and time is not unlimited, and I can accomplish much if I set my mind to it.  I'm in a hurry to do it all and very much looking forward. 

It's probably no coincidence that along with all the new things I want to do, there are some old things that I've outgrown.  My long hair.  Smoking.  And this website.

This is my final post on Shamrocketship, and I will miss it, but it's time to move on to new and exciting things.    

Slainte!

TGTomorrow'sF

I was in a class all day today.  A class on data.   I love data, mind you, but I'd rather work with it than sit and listen to someone talking about it.

As if that wasn't painful enough, late in the afternoon we had to break into groups to do a case study "team exercise." 

Anyone who's ever been part of corporate America knows what that is like.  You have to plunge yourself into a group of other people you barely know who become "your" group just because they were sitting nearby.  You wait for one person to volunteer as "scribe" or maybe just take that job yourself because it kind of absolves you of the next part - thinking.  Where everyone in your group appears to have read a different set of instructions and either blurts out nonsense as a "solution" or seems to have gone mute.  You have an hour to complete this assignment, but your group is totally done and has moved onto idle chatter after 20 minutes.  At the end of the hour, the instructors start calling on the groups to present their results, and if you are not the one who scribed, you find yourself listening to all the ideas you didn't agree with. 

Please remind me of all this the next time I sign up for a class, OK?

TGTF.

Tartan Day and btw I hate Typepad right now . . .

There's a photo album over there to the right called "Tartan Day 2008" with all* my photos from the event.  I just can't see it.  Can you?   It took me over two hours to narrow down** the list of photos, resize them, and upload them and now TypePad is sucking BIG TIME and . . . I'm a wee bit cranky over the whole thing.

The day was fun, if a little cold and windy.  I'll possibly give more details when TypePad gets over its problems, but for now I just want to mention this one thing:  There was a special exhibit inside the Main Hall, on the first floor, devoted to Tartan Day.  They had someone performing at the moment I was there so I couldn't take pictures (imagine that - something I did NOT get a picture of), but I really wanted to document the fact that in this exhibit, at Ellis Island, Gateway to the US, which is run/managed by the US Government, they had the US Flag hanging bass-ackwards and dragging on the floor.  The display was vertical and I know a lot of people get confused and think you are supposed to just rotate the flag and the stars and stripes 90 degrees to the right, but that ain't the case.  The "field," or blue starry part, is ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS displayed at the upper left regardless of the orientation.  And there is NEVER NEVER NEVER an occasion where it is acceptable for the flag to be draped on the ground, as this one was.

I managed to locate the guy responsible for the exhibit and pointed out the errors to him, and his reaction was "Gee, thanks for clarifying that. We heard a few different opinions but we thought we were consulting with experts."

Next time?  Try Google.

If you're having difficulty seeing the photo album, please let me know.  I was too lazy to (also) upload them to Flickr, but maybe I'll try tomorrow. 

* No, not "all."  I took at least 350 pictures.

** I was using a half-gig card and before we were there for two hours, I ran out of room.   Deleted about 125 pictures I had previously uploaded to PC, and ran out of room again a while later.  The rest of the day was constant edit mode.  Do I want to keep this one?  No.  Delete.  Do I want to keep this one?  Yes.  Save.  And so on.  I ended up keeping about 250.

 

Job Market 2009

Hope it doesn't come to this . . . Job Market 2009

True Terror

Well for the inquiring minds, yes, daughter passed the driving test.  With flying colors.  And now I know what true terror is.  I mean, I thought was scared sitting in the passenger seat the last six months while she learned - really, those 90-degree- angle lane changes scared the daylights out of me.  But that was nothing compared to the terror of watching her bounce out the kitchen door that first morning, keys in hand, setting off for school.  Alone.  Without me next to her correcting her every third move. 

Actually, my insurance premium is pretty terrifying now, too. 

But my job is done.  I've taught her as well as I could, gave her more practice in tough situations than I've ever seen another kid get on a permit, and I've drilled into her that there are NO second chances.  If she's caught breaking any rules, she loses the car for a very long time. 

And I'm not just leaving it up to the cops to keep an eye on her; I've offered to pay her younger brother $250 if he gets a picture showing more than one other kid in her car (NJ's provisional driver's license limit).   And I don't care if it's parked. 

Fools Rush In

About a month ago, Sparky and I took a chance on a new Japanese restaurant.  We were very fond of our regular place, but had heard great things about the new establishment nearby.

It was awesome.  Unbelieveably awesome. 

I loved the look of the place, the sound, the feel, the vibe.  And the food was even better than we expected.  Service got off to a slow start, but was fine after that. 

There was only one tiny little thing that detracted from the whole experience, and it was nothing the restaurant could control:  there was a customer sitting at a nearby table who was doing Elvis impersonations and seemd to think everyone else in the restaurant would enjoy listening.  He was laughing a lot and joking with the servers in his Elvis voice, and the people at his table were laughing, but from what I could tell, everyone else in the place was trying very hard to ignore him.  I know that's what we were doing; I figured he'd had a little too much sake.

So this past Friday night, Sparky and I went back to the same place.  And you know where this is going, right?

We were seated in a booth and had just started eating our appetizer when I looked over Sparky's shoulder towards the front entrance area.  I had to blink a few times before I was sure, and then I said "I don't believe what I'm seeing."  It was the same guy from last week, but this time dressed up as Elvis, and he was setting up a microphone.  We quickly hailed our server. 

"What's up with the Elvis?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, kind of rolling her eyes.  "We're trying something new."

"This is not a good idea," we pleaded, and she was sympathetic.  I didn't need to explain to her that we come to a Japanese restaurant for a particular experience that Elvis completely shatters the minute he walks in the door.  She looked to be about twenty years old and not a fan of Elvis' under any circumstances. 

"I can leave you some comment cards so you can express your opinion to the management."

And it got worse, because this Elvis couldn't sing.  He was awful, and we had to sit through at least a half dozen "songs" before we were done eating and could settle up and get out.  It was painful, and it seemed the tables nearby to us were of a similar mind.  Unfortunately, though, the server informed us that "it's running about 50/50" opinion-wise. 

Hard to believe anyone thought this was a good idea, and I really hope that was the one and only time they try to mix Blue Suede Shoes and sushi.  Next time we have a hankering, we'll be calling ahead.  If Elvis will be appearing, we'll stay away!

Life is but a dream . . .

I really can't say why that phrase has been row-row-rowing through my head all day, but it got stuck there around 10:00 this morning and hasn't left since.  Hmmmm.

On tap for the weekend?  Well, there is an eye doctor checkup for me and the daughter, then a hair appointment for me, then the gang of us is heading out to hear (and see, I suppose) the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. Then Saturday will be over and before you know it, Sunday we'll be helping Emma Liar pack the last of her things into her Trusty Travel Trailer.  She's hitting the road Monday, starting the long drive back to her beloved St. Joe, MO, neighborhood. She's excited to get back and I'm excited for her, but sad that she'll no longer be the "mouse in the attic" as she put it. 

For anyone who doesn't read one or the other of us enough to know the back story, Emma and I met on line a couple-three years ago.  We found and easy friendship with each other, and when she suggested a St. Patrick's Day meet up in New Orleans, I was game.  So was Bekah. 

A very good time was had by all; we laissez-ed les bon temps roulez, fer sure.  And then five months later NO got destroyed by Katrina so I guess it's good we went when we did, eh? 

Not long after that, Emma and her hubby moved all the way to Georgia to be near his family.  And then in the spring of last year, hubby decided he didn't really like marriage all that much and pulled the rug out from under Emma.  Mightily.  She spent some time wondering what to do, where to go, etc., and somewhere in the middle of her wondering, I suggested she come to NJ.  I was serious about the offer - I had the space upstairs in the spare apartment - but doubted she'd take me up on it.

Who the hell in their right mind voluntarily comes to NJ to live?  Ahhhh, yes, "right mind" was the key phrase there.  And Emma sure wasn't in hers, I thought, when she accepted the offer rather quickly.

A few weeks later, Emma and her Trailer and her two pups pulled up on a hot Saturday morning.  She was exhausted, physically and mentally, so we helped her unpack a bit of stuff and get the trailer hid on the side of the house, and then got her good and drunk outside by the fire that night. 

It was the beginning of her six months of purgatory, meaning she gets a free ticket to Heaven at the end, OK?  You listening up there?  She's earned it.

Not a few people thought I was crazy when I told them I'd invited her to live here.  Most everyone I know is from NJ, and the attitude was typically NJ:  Whattya wanna go and do THAT for?  It's crazy.  You barely know her.  Yadda yadda.  My landlord, in particular, gave me a hard time, not believing that I wasn't actually subletting the place to her for money.  I told him the truth:  I didn't feel put out at all, it won't inconvenience me, and I hoped that someday, if I ever needed help, I'd receive it.  Simple enough concept, I thought.  He saw it as an excuse to raise the rent and charge me for the water bill.   Hahaha on him:  he'll get that back in kind some day.  I just know it.   

Really, though, it was not entirely altruistic of me.  I had all kinds of fun visions about what it would be like to live with a friend in the house.  I knew we got along well, and I liked the idea of having a female brain around to bounce things off of from time to time.  Plus, I was going to show her the beach, the mountains, the flea markets and NYC, take her to the Statue of Liberty, be a regular tour guide, if you will.  And indeed, the very next day I threw her in my car and drove her - poor thing still exhausted from her trip - all over tarnation.  Well, all over our neck of tarnation, anyway. 

"Here's where your job is." 

"Here's a good park for the dogs."

"Here's the lighthouse."

"Here's a good place for coffee and cigs."

"Here's a bank."

"Here's a laundromat."

It started off well.  But not long after that, a couple things happened to make my life a whole lot busier than it's ever been before.  I was working later, driving longer, no time for anything but errands on the weekends. And before long, it wasn't unusual for a week to go by without me seeing her at all. 

We still had regular Thursday night "Grey's Anatomy" viewings (sometimes upstairs in "her" place, sometimes downstairs in "mine") and shared Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, but as the months ticked by I felt increasingly guilty that I had invited her here and promised all sorts of fun, and hadn't followed through. When she announced a few weeks ago that her job would be able to transfer her to her home state in late January, I was happy for her.  But sad that time had run out, and still the most fun thing we'd ever done together was the trip we took to NO when we lived 1200 miles apart.  Go figure.

Anyway, I told her yesterday that I suppose it was meant to be like that after all.  Because fate may have dumped her here, but once she was here and on her own, she took off like a rocket.  She learned to navigate around the area, found her way to work and back home, to grocery stores and movies and to WaWa where she could buy her daily crap-puccino.  She started working towards becoming a dog groomer and, 100 dogs later, she became certified last week.  She has made some near and dear friends, advanced her career, lost weight, gained confidence and inner strength, and I am so, so, so very thankful that I was able to help her, even if it was by NOT always being there.

Emma, we will miss you very much around here. But since you've already started to fly, it's now your time to really soar. 

Safe traveling, Godspeed.

P.S.  Shoot.  How the hell am I gonna tell Max? 

Checking in

Well first, life has thrown us a few curve-balls lately, and getting around to posting has been difficult.  Hell - breathing, sleeping and eating have been difficult, but it's no use complaining. 

Second, just because I feel like saying it, I am sick and tired of babysitting adults who shouldn't have to be told what to do every waking or working moment.  'Nuff said.

Third, having a Halfway to St. Patrick's Day Party is a smash-up idea.  I'm glad someone thought of it so we could attend this past weekend.  Lo.

It's Friday, so I'm giving this week the boot

I haven't given out any Effin' Eeejit awards lately.  It's not that there haven't been any persons/things/events that warranted it, it's just that it's pretty much always the same things that get me riled up enough to go to the trouble.  Bad drivers, people who throw garbage or butts out the car window, rude/slow/stupid salespeople or servers, and the people who wait until all their stuff is bagged at the supermarket before remembering:  "Duh! Silly me! I have to write a check for all this . . . now where's my checkbook . . . do you have a pen I can borrow? What's today's date?"  Today was typical in that I witnessed the grand slam of all those events.  Arrrrghhhh. Enough said.

Wait, it's not enough said.  This was truly a spectacularly awful week in a lot of ways.  I am not going into details because I've already lived through it once.  Instead, I am giving this week THE BOOT.

This BOOT image shall, from now on, be the symbol I will use when I just have had enough of something, OK?  THE BOOT.

Do you like THE BOOT?  I kind of do.  I'm not sure how I feel about someone actually having left it on that tree stump in the front yard, but I have grown fond of THE BOOT and so I took pictures of it the other day.  It's a nice BOOT, and I feel a little bad that it's alone out there (where's its mate? where's its owner?) but doesn't it look kind of awesome?  I think so.

And now, I've got a thought-worm running around the noggin' wondering why BOOT looks like such a weird word. 

It's Friday.  I'm glad. 

I'm going to find that bottle of Bombay Sapphire in the kitchen and bond with it.   

Peeking at the Ending

It's kind of weird to see how your name (last, anyway) will look on a tombstone.

I never thought I wanted one of those.  When I'm gone, I mean.  Why take up valuable real estate?  There just seems no reason.  Especially since I feel strongly that I'd rather be cremated and ashes tossed to the wind somewhere.  Whatever.  At that point, I'm not going to be aware of anything let alone care about it. 

I was in the cemetery pictured above this weekend.  Went to visit Grandma on a whim, while driving home from running some errands.  I hadn't been there since her memorial service over two years ago and was surprised that I was able to find my way directly to her location right away.  The place is pretty big, and it's got all kinds of twisty old broken-up roads through it.  But I focused on the landscape looking for the place where the trees and topography seemed familiar and as soon as it did, I looked up and saw the plot. 

That happened to me once before, when I was a teenager.  I'd ridden my bike there for some odd reason - it was probably five miles away from home - and rode directly to the plot where my Grandmother's "people" were. At that time, her mother was still living, and I probably had been to the plot a few times before, but not often and definitely not for many years.  Something about the earliest visits must have implanted on my memory well enough that I home right in on the spot on the rare occasions I go.

I'm not a gravesite visitor, generally.  I mean, what's to visit?  Whoever it is isn't really there, so what's the point?  If I am in a cemetery, it is more likely to be for the photography than to visit anyone. But Saturday, I went specifically to see Grandma's stone, which had been laid after my last time there. 

There was nothing spectacular there.   It was sunny, and hot, and I got a little teary, and then felt a little guilty that I hadn't brought flowers or something.  Which, if you generally ask me, is stupid because they're just going to die there, or the caretakers are going to gather them up and toss them in a mulch pile at the end of the week anyway.  But this was my Grandma, and suddenly, it was more than just a little guilty feeling. It was something I had to do, so I hopped in the car and headed across the highway to Whole Foods where I was sure I would find something floral that perfectly balanced my need to do something without forgetting that whatever I got would be pretty much money thrown out the window.  Yeah, mulched Hamiltons, baby. 

The floral department at Whole Foods let me down, I gotta admit.  There were gorgeous, fat, pink peonies, but I fretted that they would wilt under the day's sun within minutes.  There were pots of lilies trumpeting their stuff, but I feared someone would walk off with anything so portable.  The roses were wilty looking even without being in the sun.  Finally, I settled on some Sweet Williams but was far from happy with this being the only choice remotely suitable.  Paid, left, drove back to the cemetery.

And could NOT find my way back to the plot.

Up and down the broken macadam roads I drove, looking for the particular view of landscape that zeroed me right in a half hour earlier.  Around the little gravel circles, past the same granite hearts, weeping angels, and obelisks over and over and over again.  I was starting to get a little freaked out, talking to the headstones I passed:  "McCarthy!  You again?"  or "You Daley's are everywhere, aren't you?"  After 45 minutes, I was near tears, and said out loud: "Grandma, where the heck are you?"  She didn't answer.  I finally, stubbornly, gave up on my inner radar and headed back to the start where the cemetery office was, embarrassed that I would have to ask someone where my Grandmother's stone was.  Bu I was spared that red-faced moment.  They'd been closed since noon, hours and hours ago.

I headed back and decided to try one more time, and "told" Grandma that if she didn't speak up now, I was going to leave the Sweet Williams with some stranger.  Well, I'm relatively sure she didn't speak up, but I did manage to find her again that time.  Finally.

I got out of the car, laid the flowers on the stone, arranged and re-arranged them about six times too often given my unhappiness with the blossoms, and stood up to go.  In spite of all the frustration of the past hour, I felt oddly comforted that I had been there.  To that place with the stone bearing her name, where my head realizes she is not, but my heart felt like I had just been able to hug her.

I guess that's reason enough.