As the year draws to a close, the inevitable reflections occur on what has been, what might have been, and what soon may come. In my ideal world, this post would be occurring in a steady and regular stream of blog posts that occurred from the moment I reached Connecticut soil. The unfortunate reality – as so many of you know – is that I haven’t devoted the time to my blog that I would have liked. There are a variety of reasons for this: time, energy, and a feeling like there is a ‘lack of material’ for a Connecticut blog. You just don’t have the opportunity to flash the distinguished Ambassador from Japan in New Haven; or rather, if you do, I certainly don’t run in those circles.
I realize that this post comes in a string of repentant posts, asking communal forgiveness for the sin of a lack of writing. In truth I do this partly for myself. When I reflect upon 2007, one of the things that shines out for me has been the experience of writing this and the Vienna blog. In my heart of hearts, what I have always wanted to be is a writer. For financial reasons, and (let’s face it) a little bit of cowardice, it’s a dream I’ve never pursued. I like the romantic ideal of the Bohemian writer who subsists on nothing more than bread and a dream, but I like to have a roof over my head too. And I’ve been afraid of taking the risk of living on pennies a day in pursuit of a dream. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I think it’s something most people can understand.
I do find it a little ironic then that my love of writing found its voice because, in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, I quit my well-paying job and moved 6,000 miles away from the family and friends we love, all in pursuit of another dream. It started as an easy way to update our loved ones on our lives. It transformed into the creative outlet I’ve always longed for, and has become the closest thing I’ve ever had to my dream of being published.
And so, as I count my blessings this year, I’d like to thank you, blog reader. I know I haven’t been the most reliable, but I can’t begin to tell you how much it has meant to me to have an audience for my ideas. The quality of material has varied I know, but I appreciate your taking a few minutes each week to listen to my self-indulgent rants and ravings.
There are so very many things for which I am thankful this year, and in no particular order, I’d like to highlight just a quick few:
1) I am grateful for good snow boots. By extension, I am grateful to my cousin David and Aunt Chris for recommending I buy a good pair, and telling me where to buy them at a great price. When I slip-slide my way to work each morning, I think of both of them, and am grateful that I have yet to fall flat on my face. I may look like Nanook of the North (clearly demonstrating that “I’m not from these parts”) but at least I don’t have injury to go with the insult.
2) I am grateful for having the sort of loving and supporting family that never once told me how insane I was for leaving said well-paying job to work at the UN for a song. And I should take this opportunity to say if “me be funny one day,” they all played an instrumental part in it.
3) When my Grandparents Ogdon passed away in late 2004 and early 2005, my father gave each of us kids $8,000 from them. I used a chunk of my money to pay off part of my student loans. I then went and bought a fabulous dress at Anthropologie. After that I put the remainder of the money in my savings account, waiting for the day that I could use it to do something that would make my Grandparents proud. I like to think that I have. I also know that I couldn’t have done all of this without the $5,000 ‘seed money’ from them, and for that I am eternally grateful.
4) I am grateful for the amazing Tetris skills of a certain Colleen Carlson, who by the grace of God got more things to fit into the trunk of my Tercel than I thought humanly possible. More importantly, I am grateful to have the sort of friend who has been beside me for the past 15 years, and who offers to drive four hours from Fresno for a day, just to help me pack for our cross country move. In the process she not only saved my sanity, but showed me the truest and deepest meaning of friendship.
5) Joining the ranks with Colleen are the good friends we left behind, who made me feel like Todd and I weren’t alone in Wien, and aren't alone in Connecticut. If friends are the family you choose, then I’ve chosen some of the best around.
6) I am grateful for my health, and for the health of my loved ones. So simple, but so very, very important. If there is one thing I took away from my years at ACS, it’s this.
7) Waking up each morning next to the person who truly understands you, makes you laugh, brings out your goofy side, challenges you to be a better person, and loves you – warts and all – is one of the best feelings on Earth.
There are so many people and things that I am grateful for that I didn’t mention, but know that you all mean the world to me. Thanks for taking this journey with me, and I look forward to more merry misadventures with you in 2008.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A Pictorial Update on Life
I apologize for being so remiss in posting to my blog. Since my last post, we've had a visit by Todd's Mom Linda and her Mom's friend Diane, as well as my birthday, three trips to NYC, Thanksgiving, and Justin arriving tonight for a two-week stay. I've found it hard to find the time to post, and I apologize. As a sorry substitute, I thought I would post a link to a pictorial journal of sorts from the past month.
You'll see that new words like "puffer coat," "wellies," and "Noreaster" have entered my vernacular -- and my wardrobe. The pictures come from our two weekends in New York, as well as our day trip to Mystic Seaport, CT (home of Mystic Pizza), and our first foray into making a full Thanksgiving dinner. It was an adventure to say the least.
I hope you enjoy, and I promise to write soon!
Here's the link to the photo album:
http://www.kristenogdon.shutterfly.com
You'll see that new words like "puffer coat," "wellies," and "Noreaster" have entered my vernacular -- and my wardrobe. The pictures come from our two weekends in New York, as well as our day trip to Mystic Seaport, CT (home of Mystic Pizza), and our first foray into making a full Thanksgiving dinner. It was an adventure to say the least.
I hope you enjoy, and I promise to write soon!
Here's the link to the photo album:
http://www.kristenogdon.shutterfly.com
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Requiem for Rocket
For most, today is a day of costumes and candy, jack-o-lanterns and things that go bump in the night. For me, All Hallow’s Eve marks another occasion – one that still makes me wistful and sad a few years later. On October 31, 2005, the world said goodbye to one of the greatest musical groups to ever grace the stage: Rocket from the Crypt.
I realize that it is strange to mourn the loss of a musical group, especially one that had only minor commercial success in spite of its overwhelming critical acclaim. I fear I’ll come off like one of those slightly crazed John Lennon fans still roaming the streets of Berkeley, espousing the virtues of his music while simultaneously decrying the acts of the current political administration. To me, the end of Rocket from the Crypt signaled not only the demise of an incredibly talented group, but more broadly, the death of local music, and the loss of so many bands who – like them – were exceedingly talented but underplayed on the radio. If a band as talented as Rocket from the Crypt met its end for no reason other than having given it a good run for 16 years and never finding commercial success, it’s a sad time for music indeed.
If you have never lived in San Diego (where they are music icons), chances are Rocket from the Crypt (RFTC) is unknown to you. Their blend of high energy alt-rock and horns suffered from radio station’s constantly saying they “didn’t know how to market them.” Radio execs apparently felt that listeners couldn’t ‘get’ a band with a horn section that wasn’t ska or swing. It’s such an incredible shame, because anyone who went to one of their live shows was instantly won over by them – for life. One of the best articles written about RFTC appeared in the bible of music magazines, Rolling Stone, when they named RFTC one of the best live bands in the history of rock ‘n roll. Too bad so few people had heard about them.
Indeed, Rocket’s live shows were legendary. In addition to the rotating selection of costumes/uniforms, Rocket made sure they put on a show instead of a mere selection of songs. They encouraged people to dance, let loose, and experience the “unconditional love of Rocket from the Crypt.” At one show I attended in San Francisco shortly after 9/11, lead singer John “Speedo” Reis encouraged the crowd to take a moment, turn to the person behind them, and shake their hand or give them a hug. To my surprise, the person dancing behind me was none other than crooner Chris Isaak. For the record, he’s just as handsome and charming in person. He’s also surprisingly hairy.
In fact, over time I found out that Rocket did have its fair share of high profile fans. I remember sitting on my couch in 2002, watching music videos on VH1 (they did show some videos on VH1 and MTV then…but that’s a whole other blog post). I was sick as a dog with a mighty cold. In between videos they showed a segment where they asked famous musicians what was in their CD player. Peter Buck of REM said, “I’ve been listening to Rocket from the Crypt’s “Group Sounds.” He spent the next minute praising it, and while I started muttering “Oh my God, oh my God,” wishing someone was home for me to share this moment with, they played a video on Rocket’s. In it’s entirety. The next few minutes are a blur. I think I called Jared and Todd, since they could appreciate the enormity of this moment. But I felt such a sense of pride and joy, because the band who met so much to me had a few minutes of well-deserved fame.
Rocket from the Crypt also provided me with some of the funnier awkward moments in my life. My freshman year of college Rocket came to San Francisco to play at Bottom of the Hill, an aptly named music venue located at the – you guessed it -- bottom of a hill in the SOMA warehouse district. I went to the show with the person I was dating at the time. To the side of the venue I could see several members of the band chatting with other people, so I sucked up my courage and decided to walk over and say hi. Wait. Let me back up for a moment. During my senior year of high school, while Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper, I received one of the best surprises of my life. Our school’s computer teacher, Joe Austin, knew I was a fan of RFTC, and he was friends with the band. He arranged for two of the band members to come and surprise me on campus and have an interview. I spent over two hours talking with them about Rocket, and needless to say, interviewing them was one of the highlights of my high school experience, and I was forever in love with Paul (aka “Apollo”) and Jason (“JC”). So back to Bottom of the Hill. Paul was leaning beside the tour bus, and I walked up to him and started to say, “Paul, I don’t know if you remember me, but --.” He interrupted me, leaned in and coyly smiled, to say, “Did we make love together?” I started laughing, and told him that we hadn’t. He replied, “Are you sure?” I looked over to my date, who clearly didn’t find this funny, and had to convince Paul that our relationship had purely been ‘professional,’ and assure my date that I wasn’t conducting late-night trysts with members of my favorite band. Paul responded with, “Bummer,” which I found a strange sort of compliment, but my date definitely didn’t appreciate it.
Fast forward to Rocket’s farewell concert at the Westin on Halloween night 2005. I was attending their final farewell with a group that included Todd, Jared, and Brenda, and being that Rocket’s Halloween bashes were known for being fabulous costume events, we donned our costumes too. The costumes of Rocket fans did not disappoint – we’re talking seriously impressive, elaborate stuff. Inspired by our recent rental of Seasons 1-3 of Alias, I decided to dress as CIA Agent Sydney Bristow, in her iconic costume of a bright red wig and head-to-toe, skin tight leather. This was the exact moment in time that Valerie Plame was ‘outed’ by Scooter Libby, so to add a sardonic twist I made a sign affixed to my back that read, “Outed by Scooter Libby.” It got a few laughs, and since I had been working out, I was feeling pretty good in this outfit.
I left the group at one point to get a drink at the bar, and I noticed among the multitude of elaborate costumes the back of a tall man dressed in an enormous banana costume. I laughed and turned away to order my drink. Once I had my drink, I turned around to go back into the ballroom. At that moment I made eye contact with the banana man. Mr. Chiquita was none other than Joe Austin, the former computers teacher at my high school, whom I had heard through the grapevine was now the Vice Principal at San Diego High School. There’s always something a little awkward about unexpectedly meeting someone you knew as a youth once you’re an adult. Factor in that he’s a former teacher and you a former student, and he’s a giant banana and you’re in skin tight leather and a red wig, and you can imagine the awkwardness of the reunion. We both sort of looked down sheepishly and laughed, and proceeded to catch up with the more ‘adult’ versions of one another.
Rocket will forever be for me the music that gets me up, gets me moving, and makes me happy. I’m grateful that I found music that I connected with so deeply in my life – some people never will. For years now I’ve even been toying with getting a tattoo of Rocket’s insignia on me and officially joining “Speedo’s Army,” the surprising large group of fans who have permanently inked themselves in support of the band. Google it sometime to check out pages and pages of Rocket tattoos (you’ll even find Joe Austin’s bicep there). In return for this act, Rocket promised fans free admission into all their shows for life. Even though the group is now disbanded and I can never utilize the perks of being a member of the Army, I still feel the urge to pay homage to them, and say thank you for giving me so many amazing memories.
I’m trying to find out more about the local music scene here in Connecticut so that I too can support local music in the place where I’m now local. And for my Rocket fix, I can still turn to KEXP (http://www.kexp.org/), whom Sarah turned me onto and for which I am forever grateful. John, the Morning Show host, is also a fan of RFTC, and I think he and I have an unspoken thing going on now, because ever since I sent an email thanking the station for playing Rocket, he’s played them more -- I like to think just for me. Because Rocket clearly made a difference in his life too.
I realize that it is strange to mourn the loss of a musical group, especially one that had only minor commercial success in spite of its overwhelming critical acclaim. I fear I’ll come off like one of those slightly crazed John Lennon fans still roaming the streets of Berkeley, espousing the virtues of his music while simultaneously decrying the acts of the current political administration. To me, the end of Rocket from the Crypt signaled not only the demise of an incredibly talented group, but more broadly, the death of local music, and the loss of so many bands who – like them – were exceedingly talented but underplayed on the radio. If a band as talented as Rocket from the Crypt met its end for no reason other than having given it a good run for 16 years and never finding commercial success, it’s a sad time for music indeed.
If you have never lived in San Diego (where they are music icons), chances are Rocket from the Crypt (RFTC) is unknown to you. Their blend of high energy alt-rock and horns suffered from radio station’s constantly saying they “didn’t know how to market them.” Radio execs apparently felt that listeners couldn’t ‘get’ a band with a horn section that wasn’t ska or swing. It’s such an incredible shame, because anyone who went to one of their live shows was instantly won over by them – for life. One of the best articles written about RFTC appeared in the bible of music magazines, Rolling Stone, when they named RFTC one of the best live bands in the history of rock ‘n roll. Too bad so few people had heard about them.
Indeed, Rocket’s live shows were legendary. In addition to the rotating selection of costumes/uniforms, Rocket made sure they put on a show instead of a mere selection of songs. They encouraged people to dance, let loose, and experience the “unconditional love of Rocket from the Crypt.” At one show I attended in San Francisco shortly after 9/11, lead singer John “Speedo” Reis encouraged the crowd to take a moment, turn to the person behind them, and shake their hand or give them a hug. To my surprise, the person dancing behind me was none other than crooner Chris Isaak. For the record, he’s just as handsome and charming in person. He’s also surprisingly hairy.
In fact, over time I found out that Rocket did have its fair share of high profile fans. I remember sitting on my couch in 2002, watching music videos on VH1 (they did show some videos on VH1 and MTV then…but that’s a whole other blog post). I was sick as a dog with a mighty cold. In between videos they showed a segment where they asked famous musicians what was in their CD player. Peter Buck of REM said, “I’ve been listening to Rocket from the Crypt’s “Group Sounds.” He spent the next minute praising it, and while I started muttering “Oh my God, oh my God,” wishing someone was home for me to share this moment with, they played a video on Rocket’s. In it’s entirety. The next few minutes are a blur. I think I called Jared and Todd, since they could appreciate the enormity of this moment. But I felt such a sense of pride and joy, because the band who met so much to me had a few minutes of well-deserved fame.
Rocket from the Crypt also provided me with some of the funnier awkward moments in my life. My freshman year of college Rocket came to San Francisco to play at Bottom of the Hill, an aptly named music venue located at the – you guessed it -- bottom of a hill in the SOMA warehouse district. I went to the show with the person I was dating at the time. To the side of the venue I could see several members of the band chatting with other people, so I sucked up my courage and decided to walk over and say hi. Wait. Let me back up for a moment. During my senior year of high school, while Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper, I received one of the best surprises of my life. Our school’s computer teacher, Joe Austin, knew I was a fan of RFTC, and he was friends with the band. He arranged for two of the band members to come and surprise me on campus and have an interview. I spent over two hours talking with them about Rocket, and needless to say, interviewing them was one of the highlights of my high school experience, and I was forever in love with Paul (aka “Apollo”) and Jason (“JC”). So back to Bottom of the Hill. Paul was leaning beside the tour bus, and I walked up to him and started to say, “Paul, I don’t know if you remember me, but --.” He interrupted me, leaned in and coyly smiled, to say, “Did we make love together?” I started laughing, and told him that we hadn’t. He replied, “Are you sure?” I looked over to my date, who clearly didn’t find this funny, and had to convince Paul that our relationship had purely been ‘professional,’ and assure my date that I wasn’t conducting late-night trysts with members of my favorite band. Paul responded with, “Bummer,” which I found a strange sort of compliment, but my date definitely didn’t appreciate it.
Fast forward to Rocket’s farewell concert at the Westin on Halloween night 2005. I was attending their final farewell with a group that included Todd, Jared, and Brenda, and being that Rocket’s Halloween bashes were known for being fabulous costume events, we donned our costumes too. The costumes of Rocket fans did not disappoint – we’re talking seriously impressive, elaborate stuff. Inspired by our recent rental of Seasons 1-3 of Alias, I decided to dress as CIA Agent Sydney Bristow, in her iconic costume of a bright red wig and head-to-toe, skin tight leather. This was the exact moment in time that Valerie Plame was ‘outed’ by Scooter Libby, so to add a sardonic twist I made a sign affixed to my back that read, “Outed by Scooter Libby.” It got a few laughs, and since I had been working out, I was feeling pretty good in this outfit.
I left the group at one point to get a drink at the bar, and I noticed among the multitude of elaborate costumes the back of a tall man dressed in an enormous banana costume. I laughed and turned away to order my drink. Once I had my drink, I turned around to go back into the ballroom. At that moment I made eye contact with the banana man. Mr. Chiquita was none other than Joe Austin, the former computers teacher at my high school, whom I had heard through the grapevine was now the Vice Principal at San Diego High School. There’s always something a little awkward about unexpectedly meeting someone you knew as a youth once you’re an adult. Factor in that he’s a former teacher and you a former student, and he’s a giant banana and you’re in skin tight leather and a red wig, and you can imagine the awkwardness of the reunion. We both sort of looked down sheepishly and laughed, and proceeded to catch up with the more ‘adult’ versions of one another.
Rocket will forever be for me the music that gets me up, gets me moving, and makes me happy. I’m grateful that I found music that I connected with so deeply in my life – some people never will. For years now I’ve even been toying with getting a tattoo of Rocket’s insignia on me and officially joining “Speedo’s Army,” the surprising large group of fans who have permanently inked themselves in support of the band. Google it sometime to check out pages and pages of Rocket tattoos (you’ll even find Joe Austin’s bicep there). In return for this act, Rocket promised fans free admission into all their shows for life. Even though the group is now disbanded and I can never utilize the perks of being a member of the Army, I still feel the urge to pay homage to them, and say thank you for giving me so many amazing memories.
I’m trying to find out more about the local music scene here in Connecticut so that I too can support local music in the place where I’m now local. And for my Rocket fix, I can still turn to KEXP (http://www.kexp.org/), whom Sarah turned me onto and for which I am forever grateful. John, the Morning Show host, is also a fan of RFTC, and I think he and I have an unspoken thing going on now, because ever since I sent an email thanking the station for playing Rocket, he’s played them more -- I like to think just for me. Because Rocket clearly made a difference in his life too.
So thank you John, Ned, Paul, Petey, JC, Adam, and Mario, and RIP RFTC. And for those of you not familiar with Rocket, Google them. Go on YouTube and type them in. Get a slice of the soulful brand of Rocket rock and roll. Hell, kick your pants off, dance around in your underwear, and feel the unconditional love of RFTC.
PS: I've fixed the settings so that anyone can post a comment to the blog -- even if you don't have a Gmail account. Google changed the settings and didn't notify me. Sorry!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The state of my heart is on fire
There are three times in my life that I have prayed to God to have my home spared from a fire. The first was in 1991, when a brush fire swept through the canyon that our home stood by. I remember Dad, Jason, and Jared, standing on the rooftop, hosing the house and yard down, doing everything they could to stop the fire from leaping across the narrow divide and onto our house. While they did this, my Mom and I packed up the valuables into the family minivan. Let me rephrase that. My Mom packed most of the 'real' household valuables, as well as the pets, and I was responsible for putting in the van what my brothers and I deemed the most important things to us. I recall packing Jared's baseball cards, and Jason's tapes and records. I can also recall the exact contents of my bag: some clothes, my photo albums, a hair brush, my stuffed rabbit Anne, and the book I had checked out from the library. Apparently even as a kid I was worried about late fees.
That day was also one of the few days I can ever recall my Mom getting really angry with a complete stranger -- in this case, the local TV news reporter who shoved a microphone in her face and said, "How does it feel to have to evacuate your family from your house because your home may burn down?" If looks could kill, that reporter would have keeled over onto her overinflated shoulder pads right there. But just as the fire came to our house and the tree in our yard caught fire, the wind changed, and our luck was our neighbor's misfortune, as is so often the case in these sorts of events. We lost a tree to that fire. They lost most of their roof.
The second time was, of course, the fires of 2003 -- the fires to end all fires, I thought., and the one to haunt my nightmares. The fires began the day of our Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk in San Francisco, and while I should have been rejoicing in our record-setting results, Justin, Todd, Steph, and I were huddled together, frantically calling our loved ones as they were hurriedly forced to evacuate. Unlike in 1991, my mother was out of town while the fires happened, and like the current fires, the situation wasn't anything more than local news, so she hadn't heard anything. I had to be the one to tell her that the house was in real danger, and that she may not even be able to fly home early because of the fire conditions. We had nothing prepared in the house for this sort of thing -- no clearly labeled box saying, "Please take in the event of a fire." She and I could run through a mental list of things to get, but getting them was the near impossible challenge. It was the first time, though certainly not the last, that I would feel the gut-wrenching sensation of complete and total impotence.
I called my father, who though my parents are divorced agreed to try to drive to Mom's house to get the important documents out. When they blocked off the Tierrasanta exits on the freeway and he couldn't go any further, he called me with such disappointment, because he knew how much it meant to me to get there. I then called Steph's parents, asking them if they would stop at my Mom's house while they were evacuating out of Tierrasanta. They too ended up being turned away. Finally I called Jason, who in his law enforcement position could get behind barricades without a problem. For those of you who don't know my brother Jason, he's the physical embodiment of a 'tough guy' -- big muscles, tattoos, you get the picture. When I asked him what the situation was like, his voice choked as he said, "Kris, it's like Armageddon."
While Tierrasanta lost many homes in the 2003 fire, it was nothing compared to the complete and utter destruction in Todd's neighborhood of Scripps Ranch. It made the national headlines, just like this fire, but for most of the world it didn't mean much, which I guess is to be expected. It's a not a part of 'your world.' When you see the devastation of a tornado, for example, it looks just like the ruins of a home to an outsider. But to the person who lives in that community, those ruins represent the family that would go out of their way with Christmas decorations for the holidays. It's the home of the nice retired couple who could be seen out tending to their garden every morning. And now it's gone.
We drove down to San Diego immediately after the fires in 2003, and I'll never forget entering Scripps Ranch at 3:00am. There was no life. Of course there were hardly any people around, but there were no animals, no birds, not even insects. Silence. All that remained was the charred remnants of trees and bushes -- and of course ash. If you've not smelled a brush fire before, consider yourself lucky. It's the sort of smell that scars your senses, and for the rest of your life, when you smell that aroma -- a mixture of smoke, ash, and decay -- you'll get a knot in the pit of your stomach, because you fear what might be coming. Driving to Todd's house felt like entering a war zone. Entire streets were leveled, with only chimneys remaining of the homes that once stood there.
I don't think there is a single person in San Diego who didn't have a friend or loved one who lost their home in the fire. It may be why this week's fire hits such a raw cord in me. It's hard to imagine that only four years later that same sort of destruction has happened again. And for me, the feeling of helplessness I had four years ago has only magnified. I can't get in my car and drive down to help friends sift through the ashes of their home. I can't be there to make sandwiches for evacuees. Three thousand miles has never felt so far away as it does in this moment.
I feel grateful and blessed that most of my loved ones have been spared by this fire -- even if there were some close scares. Everyone is safe, which is the most important thing. I find myself wondering if there is a quota for prayers of these sort, and if one day my fire prayer will go unanswered because I've met my quota. San Diego is my roots. It is the place I grew up in, and where most of my family and so many of my friends still live. If I left my heart in San Francisco, then I left my soul in San Diego, in the good stead of those family members and friends. And this week it has felt like my soul's been ripped from me.
While walking to work yesterday I found myself inadvertently creating a San Diego playlist on my Ipod. I felt like if I was listening to Rocket from the Crypt, No Knife, or Nada Surf, I wasn't entirely disconnected from San Diego. Maybe -- just maybe -- if I just played the music loud enough and clicked my heels three times, I'd open my eyes to find myself back in my hometown. Needless to say, I'm still in Connecticut, which isn't bad, but it's not where I want to be. I heart you San Diego, and golly I wish I was home.
That day was also one of the few days I can ever recall my Mom getting really angry with a complete stranger -- in this case, the local TV news reporter who shoved a microphone in her face and said, "How does it feel to have to evacuate your family from your house because your home may burn down?" If looks could kill, that reporter would have keeled over onto her overinflated shoulder pads right there. But just as the fire came to our house and the tree in our yard caught fire, the wind changed, and our luck was our neighbor's misfortune, as is so often the case in these sorts of events. We lost a tree to that fire. They lost most of their roof.
The second time was, of course, the fires of 2003 -- the fires to end all fires, I thought., and the one to haunt my nightmares. The fires began the day of our Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk in San Francisco, and while I should have been rejoicing in our record-setting results, Justin, Todd, Steph, and I were huddled together, frantically calling our loved ones as they were hurriedly forced to evacuate. Unlike in 1991, my mother was out of town while the fires happened, and like the current fires, the situation wasn't anything more than local news, so she hadn't heard anything. I had to be the one to tell her that the house was in real danger, and that she may not even be able to fly home early because of the fire conditions. We had nothing prepared in the house for this sort of thing -- no clearly labeled box saying, "Please take in the event of a fire." She and I could run through a mental list of things to get, but getting them was the near impossible challenge. It was the first time, though certainly not the last, that I would feel the gut-wrenching sensation of complete and total impotence.
I called my father, who though my parents are divorced agreed to try to drive to Mom's house to get the important documents out. When they blocked off the Tierrasanta exits on the freeway and he couldn't go any further, he called me with such disappointment, because he knew how much it meant to me to get there. I then called Steph's parents, asking them if they would stop at my Mom's house while they were evacuating out of Tierrasanta. They too ended up being turned away. Finally I called Jason, who in his law enforcement position could get behind barricades without a problem. For those of you who don't know my brother Jason, he's the physical embodiment of a 'tough guy' -- big muscles, tattoos, you get the picture. When I asked him what the situation was like, his voice choked as he said, "Kris, it's like Armageddon."
While Tierrasanta lost many homes in the 2003 fire, it was nothing compared to the complete and utter destruction in Todd's neighborhood of Scripps Ranch. It made the national headlines, just like this fire, but for most of the world it didn't mean much, which I guess is to be expected. It's a not a part of 'your world.' When you see the devastation of a tornado, for example, it looks just like the ruins of a home to an outsider. But to the person who lives in that community, those ruins represent the family that would go out of their way with Christmas decorations for the holidays. It's the home of the nice retired couple who could be seen out tending to their garden every morning. And now it's gone.
We drove down to San Diego immediately after the fires in 2003, and I'll never forget entering Scripps Ranch at 3:00am. There was no life. Of course there were hardly any people around, but there were no animals, no birds, not even insects. Silence. All that remained was the charred remnants of trees and bushes -- and of course ash. If you've not smelled a brush fire before, consider yourself lucky. It's the sort of smell that scars your senses, and for the rest of your life, when you smell that aroma -- a mixture of smoke, ash, and decay -- you'll get a knot in the pit of your stomach, because you fear what might be coming. Driving to Todd's house felt like entering a war zone. Entire streets were leveled, with only chimneys remaining of the homes that once stood there.
I don't think there is a single person in San Diego who didn't have a friend or loved one who lost their home in the fire. It may be why this week's fire hits such a raw cord in me. It's hard to imagine that only four years later that same sort of destruction has happened again. And for me, the feeling of helplessness I had four years ago has only magnified. I can't get in my car and drive down to help friends sift through the ashes of their home. I can't be there to make sandwiches for evacuees. Three thousand miles has never felt so far away as it does in this moment.
I feel grateful and blessed that most of my loved ones have been spared by this fire -- even if there were some close scares. Everyone is safe, which is the most important thing. I find myself wondering if there is a quota for prayers of these sort, and if one day my fire prayer will go unanswered because I've met my quota. San Diego is my roots. It is the place I grew up in, and where most of my family and so many of my friends still live. If I left my heart in San Francisco, then I left my soul in San Diego, in the good stead of those family members and friends. And this week it has felt like my soul's been ripped from me.
While walking to work yesterday I found myself inadvertently creating a San Diego playlist on my Ipod. I felt like if I was listening to Rocket from the Crypt, No Knife, or Nada Surf, I wasn't entirely disconnected from San Diego. Maybe -- just maybe -- if I just played the music loud enough and clicked my heels three times, I'd open my eyes to find myself back in my hometown. Needless to say, I'm still in Connecticut, which isn't bad, but it's not where I want to be. I heart you San Diego, and golly I wish I was home.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Adventures in Footwear (The humid, soggy weather edition)
First and foremost, I have to apologize profusely for not posting in such a long time. I started my new job almost three weeks ago, and I’ve hit the ground running, which I actually love. The downside to it is that I haven’t been able to muster up the energy to spend more time in front of the computer when I get home. It’s not a great excuse, I know. But I hope the few readers that remain will forgive me, and I’ll make more of an effort in the future – I promise.
Over the past few weeks I’ve frequently been asked by the folks back home what autumn is like in New England. The sad reality is that I can’t tell you anything about it…because it hasn’t happened yet. I can’t begin to tell you how sad this makes me, because I’ve been carrying around this picture-perfect image of fall in New Haven for months now. I pictured myself walking under a shower of crimson and golden leaves, handing out candy to little ghosts and goblins on a crisp Halloween night, and fulfilling all my Martha Stewart fantasies by pulling a fresh-baked pie from the oven, stuffed with the apples I picked myself from the orchards of Connecticut (Alice Waters would be so proud). And while I have gone apple picking in Connecticut, I did it on a mild, sunny, 73 degree day – not the sort of day I would ever complain about, but it certainly didn’t fit my image of crisp New England weather.
And so it seems that Todd and I's global warming tour of the world has continued here in New England, where today it is 76 degrees, humid, and rainy, when it should be crisp, clear, and well…fall like. Normally on a Friday a rainy or misty day isn’t such a big deal, since I can pull on a pair of jeans and more water-resistant shoes and be good to go. Unfortunately, one glaring downside to my new job is the dress code – no jeans on Friday (or ever, for that matter), and most people wear suits every single day. Needless to say when I get my first paycheck (which only comes once a month… another, albeit minor downside), I’ll be out buying more suits. But I digress. Since I can’t wear jeans today, and the air is warm and thick, I decide I’ll wear a skirt, and being my mother’s daughter, I’ve decided what shoes I want to wear first, and then I construct an outfit around them. The shoes of choice today were my red leather Steve Madden moccasin flats – a blessed relief after a week running around New Haven and Manhattan in pointy-toe boots and pumps. Plus, since they’re leather, they’ll be good to wear in the light mist, right?
Needless to say, my flats probably would have been just fine if in fact I had been walking through a light mist. Instead, the heavens decided to open – 1 minute after I stepped out our office building to run an errand on my lunch break. Since I only had three blocks to go at this point, I decided to keep walking and hope it would lighten up. It didn’t – until I reached one of the large Gothic churches that dot New Haven. Just as I walked past the church doors, a man stepped out, and began cheerfully singing “Zip a dee doo dah.” Not being a song you hear everyday, I glanced at him, and right as he got to the line “plenty of sunshine heading my way,” it stopped raining. Literally. I think to myself, “Well, if that isn’t a direct connection to God, I don’t know what is.” I continue walking behind him until I reach my destination, and the sun does indeed poke through the clouds.
After picking up what I need, I step back outside and am relieved to find that the break in the rain is still there. I begin to walk quickly back to the office, and just as I round the corner next to the church, the heavens break once again, and it pours in the sort of fierce sheets I haven’t seen since Austria. Zip a dee doo dah my ass. I don’t know whether I should take this as a personal f-you from God, or just that I’m that Care Bear who always has a rain cloud hanging over his head. At this point, my shoes are already damp, but by the time I get back to the office they are soaked through and a completely different shade of red – burgundy, almost. Once I sit back at my desk I look down and think, “Did I cut myself?” because a blotch of red is now creeping up from my shoe. I pull my shoe off and gasp, because my entire foot is covered in red dye. I pull my left foot out and see it’s fared no better.
I go into the women’s restroom (whose mere four stalls are shared by all the women on my large floor), and try to scrub the dye off with a paper towel. It’s at this point that two of my co-workers walk into the bathroom and discover me rubbing at a foot that looks like someone’s supply of fake blood has exploded all over it. Perfect. Oh, and I did mention that I’m humming Zip a Dee Doo Dah when they come in, because now the song is stuck in my head and I can’t get it out? I look like a bloody sociopath, scrubbing with a fervor that would make Lady MacBeth proud, AND I’m a walking Disney ride. Nice. I try to laugh it off and explain it to them, but I think to them I will forever be THAT girl. On top of all of this, the dye isn’t coming off. At all. Todd’s promised he’ll only make fun of me for one week, which is nice…I guess. Until then, I’ll just have to stick to closed-toed shoes – or strut my horror film feet around the block, whistling a merry tune. I’ll let you know which I decide.
Over the past few weeks I’ve frequently been asked by the folks back home what autumn is like in New England. The sad reality is that I can’t tell you anything about it…because it hasn’t happened yet. I can’t begin to tell you how sad this makes me, because I’ve been carrying around this picture-perfect image of fall in New Haven for months now. I pictured myself walking under a shower of crimson and golden leaves, handing out candy to little ghosts and goblins on a crisp Halloween night, and fulfilling all my Martha Stewart fantasies by pulling a fresh-baked pie from the oven, stuffed with the apples I picked myself from the orchards of Connecticut (Alice Waters would be so proud). And while I have gone apple picking in Connecticut, I did it on a mild, sunny, 73 degree day – not the sort of day I would ever complain about, but it certainly didn’t fit my image of crisp New England weather.
And so it seems that Todd and I's global warming tour of the world has continued here in New England, where today it is 76 degrees, humid, and rainy, when it should be crisp, clear, and well…fall like. Normally on a Friday a rainy or misty day isn’t such a big deal, since I can pull on a pair of jeans and more water-resistant shoes and be good to go. Unfortunately, one glaring downside to my new job is the dress code – no jeans on Friday (or ever, for that matter), and most people wear suits every single day. Needless to say when I get my first paycheck (which only comes once a month… another, albeit minor downside), I’ll be out buying more suits. But I digress. Since I can’t wear jeans today, and the air is warm and thick, I decide I’ll wear a skirt, and being my mother’s daughter, I’ve decided what shoes I want to wear first, and then I construct an outfit around them. The shoes of choice today were my red leather Steve Madden moccasin flats – a blessed relief after a week running around New Haven and Manhattan in pointy-toe boots and pumps. Plus, since they’re leather, they’ll be good to wear in the light mist, right?
Needless to say, my flats probably would have been just fine if in fact I had been walking through a light mist. Instead, the heavens decided to open – 1 minute after I stepped out our office building to run an errand on my lunch break. Since I only had three blocks to go at this point, I decided to keep walking and hope it would lighten up. It didn’t – until I reached one of the large Gothic churches that dot New Haven. Just as I walked past the church doors, a man stepped out, and began cheerfully singing “Zip a dee doo dah.” Not being a song you hear everyday, I glanced at him, and right as he got to the line “plenty of sunshine heading my way,” it stopped raining. Literally. I think to myself, “Well, if that isn’t a direct connection to God, I don’t know what is.” I continue walking behind him until I reach my destination, and the sun does indeed poke through the clouds.
After picking up what I need, I step back outside and am relieved to find that the break in the rain is still there. I begin to walk quickly back to the office, and just as I round the corner next to the church, the heavens break once again, and it pours in the sort of fierce sheets I haven’t seen since Austria. Zip a dee doo dah my ass. I don’t know whether I should take this as a personal f-you from God, or just that I’m that Care Bear who always has a rain cloud hanging over his head. At this point, my shoes are already damp, but by the time I get back to the office they are soaked through and a completely different shade of red – burgundy, almost. Once I sit back at my desk I look down and think, “Did I cut myself?” because a blotch of red is now creeping up from my shoe. I pull my shoe off and gasp, because my entire foot is covered in red dye. I pull my left foot out and see it’s fared no better.
I go into the women’s restroom (whose mere four stalls are shared by all the women on my large floor), and try to scrub the dye off with a paper towel. It’s at this point that two of my co-workers walk into the bathroom and discover me rubbing at a foot that looks like someone’s supply of fake blood has exploded all over it. Perfect. Oh, and I did mention that I’m humming Zip a Dee Doo Dah when they come in, because now the song is stuck in my head and I can’t get it out? I look like a bloody sociopath, scrubbing with a fervor that would make Lady MacBeth proud, AND I’m a walking Disney ride. Nice. I try to laugh it off and explain it to them, but I think to them I will forever be THAT girl. On top of all of this, the dye isn’t coming off. At all. Todd’s promised he’ll only make fun of me for one week, which is nice…I guess. Until then, I’ll just have to stick to closed-toed shoes – or strut my horror film feet around the block, whistling a merry tune. I’ll let you know which I decide.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
What Constitutes the Constitution State
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve never been the best at Revolutionary War history. Sure, I remember the significance of the Boston Tea Party, and that Paul Revere is more than just a song by the Beastie Boys. But when thinking back on our nation’s founding, I sure as hell wouldn’t have picked Connecticut as the ‘Constitution State.’ Pennsylvania, perhaps, or even Massachusetts, but Connecticut? No way. But indeed, every Connecticut license plate proudly proclaims that this is the Constitution State, while Massachusetts is merely ‘The Spirit of America.’ If the Boston Tea Party is the seminal Colonial moment in Massachusetts, that must mean that the spirit of America is disguising ourselves as the people we’ve been oppressing and then blaming our actions on them. Nice.
So, in a very Carrie Bradshaw-esque way, I’ve been asking myself just what are some of the things that define Connecticut. And oh, what a long, strange trip it’s been. Here are a few of the highlights and observations from the past two weeks:
1) Tonight we’re going to party like it’s 1899. When it comes to alcohol, Connecticut is a damn strange state. Not only can you not purchase alcohol on Sundays (unless you go to a proper bar), you can’t purchase it after 9:00pm Monday- Saturday. Grocery stores go into lockdown at 9:01pm, putting the alcohol behind bars. And don’t even think of trying to purchase wine at a grocery store – they aren’t allowed to sell it. Major chains like Stop ‘n Shop can sell beer but no wine or liquor, and smaller chains like Trader Joe’s don’t even have a liquor license, so there’s no Two Buck Chuck to be found anywhere in this great state. If you do wish to purchase wine or liquor, you have to visit a ‘package store,’ an innocuous-sounding euphemism for a liquor store. Honestly, for the first couple of weeks I was here I thought that people in Connecticut just liked to ship goods regularly, and that Bud Light was the proud sponsor of their packaging needs. Yes, that’s right – I went to Berkeley, ladies and gentleman.
2) But the wind does great things for my pores. Connecticut is one of the growing number of states who have made it illegal to drive without a hands-free set for your cell phone. I understand the rationale for a hands-free law, but anyone who’s ever used one knows that trying to find your phone, plug the set in and answer a call before it goes to voicemail, all while driving a car, is actually more dangerous than just picking up the damn phone the old-fashioned way. I guess you could put your ear piece in and plug the set into your phone every time before you drive just in case you get a call, but frankly it’s a little too 1-800 Dentist for me, and not exactly comfortable. And while you can receive a heavy fine for using your phone without a hands-free while driving, it is perfectly legal to ride a motorcycle without a helmet – and EVERYONE does it. I guess one could argue that by not wearing a helmet you’re causing the most harm to yourself rather than others, but honestly it’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Even our landlord does it.
3) Dude, where’s my car? Unlike in the Bay Area, where failure to move your car for street sweeping results in a $30 fine, in the fair town of New Haven they will straight up tow your car. On street sweeping days it’s like Christmas morning for the tow truck companies, as they gleefully bound down the street and pick up the cars of any poor schmuck who forgot which day of the week to park on different sides of the street. Between the two sides of our street (which get swept on the 2nd and 4th Tuesday on one side, and the 2nd and 4th Wednesday on the other), you have four opportunities per month to have your car taken away – and returned for a mere $90 fee.
4) Radio Free Connecticut. New Haven is just far enough from NYC and Boston to have no good radio stations. And I mean NO good radio stations, particularly alternative music. I feel like I’m in some musical time warp, and nothing that came out after 1987 is played. Ever wonder what happened to John Tesh after Entertainment Tonight and his Yanni impersonation phase? He hosts a radio show in Connecticut. That’s right. It’s me and John Tesh, out in the middle of this musical dead zone. I’m going to need all of your help in finding and hearing new music. Please help.
5) Proud Hooker Mom. I will say that the folks of New Haven have a sense of humor. All throughout town you’ll see Volvos and station wagons adorned with bumper stickers that say, “PROUD HOOKER MOM,” with small lettering beneath saying ‘Douglas Hooker School.’
6) I'm sorry, we don't have pizza, just apizza. Pizza in New Haven is called 'Apizza,' as in 'Amato's Apizza,' and 'Modern Apizza.' Locals have told me that the name comes from the New England accent, with people coming in to order 'a pizza,' but they often joined the two words together. Voila! You have apizza, and the abolishment of the word pizzeria forever.
In spite of these strange things, Connecticut does seem like a nice place to live. I guess if Katie Couric calls Connecticut home, it’s good enough for me. The leaves should start to change soon, and given just how densely wooded (and often rural) Connecticut can be, it should be a pretty amazing sight. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m going apple picking this coming weekend, and I’m damn excited. Wild person that I am, I may even get a pumpkin. I know, I know, contain yourself.
So, in a very Carrie Bradshaw-esque way, I’ve been asking myself just what are some of the things that define Connecticut. And oh, what a long, strange trip it’s been. Here are a few of the highlights and observations from the past two weeks:
1) Tonight we’re going to party like it’s 1899. When it comes to alcohol, Connecticut is a damn strange state. Not only can you not purchase alcohol on Sundays (unless you go to a proper bar), you can’t purchase it after 9:00pm Monday- Saturday. Grocery stores go into lockdown at 9:01pm, putting the alcohol behind bars. And don’t even think of trying to purchase wine at a grocery store – they aren’t allowed to sell it. Major chains like Stop ‘n Shop can sell beer but no wine or liquor, and smaller chains like Trader Joe’s don’t even have a liquor license, so there’s no Two Buck Chuck to be found anywhere in this great state. If you do wish to purchase wine or liquor, you have to visit a ‘package store,’ an innocuous-sounding euphemism for a liquor store. Honestly, for the first couple of weeks I was here I thought that people in Connecticut just liked to ship goods regularly, and that Bud Light was the proud sponsor of their packaging needs. Yes, that’s right – I went to Berkeley, ladies and gentleman.
2) But the wind does great things for my pores. Connecticut is one of the growing number of states who have made it illegal to drive without a hands-free set for your cell phone. I understand the rationale for a hands-free law, but anyone who’s ever used one knows that trying to find your phone, plug the set in and answer a call before it goes to voicemail, all while driving a car, is actually more dangerous than just picking up the damn phone the old-fashioned way. I guess you could put your ear piece in and plug the set into your phone every time before you drive just in case you get a call, but frankly it’s a little too 1-800 Dentist for me, and not exactly comfortable. And while you can receive a heavy fine for using your phone without a hands-free while driving, it is perfectly legal to ride a motorcycle without a helmet – and EVERYONE does it. I guess one could argue that by not wearing a helmet you’re causing the most harm to yourself rather than others, but honestly it’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Even our landlord does it.
3) Dude, where’s my car? Unlike in the Bay Area, where failure to move your car for street sweeping results in a $30 fine, in the fair town of New Haven they will straight up tow your car. On street sweeping days it’s like Christmas morning for the tow truck companies, as they gleefully bound down the street and pick up the cars of any poor schmuck who forgot which day of the week to park on different sides of the street. Between the two sides of our street (which get swept on the 2nd and 4th Tuesday on one side, and the 2nd and 4th Wednesday on the other), you have four opportunities per month to have your car taken away – and returned for a mere $90 fee.
4) Radio Free Connecticut. New Haven is just far enough from NYC and Boston to have no good radio stations. And I mean NO good radio stations, particularly alternative music. I feel like I’m in some musical time warp, and nothing that came out after 1987 is played. Ever wonder what happened to John Tesh after Entertainment Tonight and his Yanni impersonation phase? He hosts a radio show in Connecticut. That’s right. It’s me and John Tesh, out in the middle of this musical dead zone. I’m going to need all of your help in finding and hearing new music. Please help.
5) Proud Hooker Mom. I will say that the folks of New Haven have a sense of humor. All throughout town you’ll see Volvos and station wagons adorned with bumper stickers that say, “PROUD HOOKER MOM,” with small lettering beneath saying ‘Douglas Hooker School.’
6) I'm sorry, we don't have pizza, just apizza. Pizza in New Haven is called 'Apizza,' as in 'Amato's Apizza,' and 'Modern Apizza.' Locals have told me that the name comes from the New England accent, with people coming in to order 'a pizza,' but they often joined the two words together. Voila! You have apizza, and the abolishment of the word pizzeria forever.
In spite of these strange things, Connecticut does seem like a nice place to live. I guess if Katie Couric calls Connecticut home, it’s good enough for me. The leaves should start to change soon, and given just how densely wooded (and often rural) Connecticut can be, it should be a pretty amazing sight. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m going apple picking this coming weekend, and I’m damn excited. Wild person that I am, I may even get a pumpkin. I know, I know, contain yourself.
Friday, September 14, 2007
This post brought to you by the letter 'O'
As most of you know, it has been a lifelong dream of mine to one day work for or simply be involved with the Henson Company and/or the Sesame Workshop (which produces Sesame Street). However, with Disney’s requisition of the ‘Muppet Show’ characters a few years ago – which is why you see Miss Piggy promoting Pizza Hut and Kermit the Frog doing Ford commercials – it seemed like the magical world created by Jim Henson was slowly deteriorating. But just yesterday I got an incredible opportunity to visit the Sesame Workshop, and see that the magic and creativity of the Muppet characters is still alive and well.
This entire opportunity is due to the fact that Todd’s mom Linda seems to know just about everyone on the planet – no joke. You can play ‘Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon’ with her and she’s connected (in six degrees or less) to everyone from John F. Kennedy to Jason Bateman. It’s a testament to her warm and caring personality that she’s built relationships with so many people through the years, and it’s because of her that I had lunch with another Kristin – who just so happens to work in the toy department of the Sesame Workshop.
It’s hard to describe the feelings that began to run through me Wednesday as I prepared to go to the Sesame Workshop on Thursday. It’s always been firmly rooted in the ‘dreams’ section of my life and psyche, and so when confronted with the reality that I was actually going to go there and meet someone (which is huge in and of itself because it’s a bit of an employment fortress – e.g. once people get a job with Sesame Workshop, they seldom leave), slight panic ensued. Actually, panic perhaps isn’t the right word. More like all my Type-A quirks decide to rear their ugly head, and I became the dreaded Overthinker.
It all started innocently enough. On Wednesday I sent an email to Kristin confirming our lunch meeting, and asked for the address of the building and any protocols I need to be aware of to enter. It wasn’t until I sent the email that I realized I had, in short, sent her an email that said, “Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?” All I needed were some smiling kids in bellbottoms standing beside Mr. Hooper and the effect would have been complete. Nice. Slapping my hand against my forehead, I start wondering how often she gets that line on a daily basis. All I can do from that point is hope that she didn’t notice or care.
As Wednesday night rolls on, I try to decide what I should wear for my meeting with Kristin. Since it isn’t a job interview, a suit doesn’t feel appropriate. On the other hand, neither do jeans. However, the folks at Sesame Workshop seem like a fairly creative and artistic bunch, so maybe a more casual dress code is in order, and I shouldn’t overdress. I finally decide on a well-tailored, green empire waist blouse that Todd says only slightly reminds him of Kermit the Frog, as well as a pair of crisp white slacks -- hoping to strike the right blend of office appropriate and effortless style. I go to put the pants on (which I have not worn in several months) and start to get nervous. This is the first – and only – time in my life that I have been unhappy about losing weight. Because of the extensive walking we did while in Europe, I dropped a few pounds, which was the source of much jubilation and dancing around in my underwear. However, I realized that now only one pair of pants still fits me properly – the suit pants I have been wearing in interviews, which six months ago I could barely fit into.
Normally losing weight gives one the perfect excuse to go out and buy new clothes…except I have that whole unemployed problem. Looks like I’ll have to make do for a while longer and try to get creative. As fate would have it, in our move cross-country I felt the need to shed myself of most things I do not regularly wear. This meant I donated all but three of my belts – two of which are casual at best, and more appropriate for a rock concert than a lunch meeting. I try using my remaining belt to cinch the white pants up, only to find in doing so I have recreated the much maligned ‘hammer pant.’ The whiteness of the pants also seems to evoke a certain Don Johnson, ‘Miami Vice’ look that I am not too sure I want to resurrect – even if this is a more ‘creative’ office. Ultimately I tell myself “Screw it,” try to stop this over-thinking nonsense, and hope she merely thinks the pants are my version of fall’s wide-leg trouser.
Upon arriving in Manhattan on Thursday, I am reminded of one of the many reasons I love New York. It’s a beautiful day with no humidity, and I can walk the 25 blocks from Grand Central Station to the Sesame Workshop quite comfortably. And when I arrive at the Sesame Workshop, it is everything I imagined it would be – colorful, lively, and even a little furry. With its mounds of toys, large play areas, and even a few ‘rides,’ I imagine that for the children of the staff of the Sesame Workshop it is nothing short of paradise. Even the wall sconces are done in the shapes of Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, Grover, and Elmo. Kristin is a friendly and delightful person, and we had a wonderful time talking over lunch and then touring the workshop, which even though it doesn’t house the film studio (which is in Queens), is pretty darn cool nonetheless. I found my inner three year-old fulfilled. And while I’m not looking to make a two-hour commute (each way) to NYC now, it’s nice to know that I have finally met someone from the Sesame Workshop and finally have experienced a slice of my dream.
This entire opportunity is due to the fact that Todd’s mom Linda seems to know just about everyone on the planet – no joke. You can play ‘Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon’ with her and she’s connected (in six degrees or less) to everyone from John F. Kennedy to Jason Bateman. It’s a testament to her warm and caring personality that she’s built relationships with so many people through the years, and it’s because of her that I had lunch with another Kristin – who just so happens to work in the toy department of the Sesame Workshop.
It’s hard to describe the feelings that began to run through me Wednesday as I prepared to go to the Sesame Workshop on Thursday. It’s always been firmly rooted in the ‘dreams’ section of my life and psyche, and so when confronted with the reality that I was actually going to go there and meet someone (which is huge in and of itself because it’s a bit of an employment fortress – e.g. once people get a job with Sesame Workshop, they seldom leave), slight panic ensued. Actually, panic perhaps isn’t the right word. More like all my Type-A quirks decide to rear their ugly head, and I became the dreaded Overthinker.
It all started innocently enough. On Wednesday I sent an email to Kristin confirming our lunch meeting, and asked for the address of the building and any protocols I need to be aware of to enter. It wasn’t until I sent the email that I realized I had, in short, sent her an email that said, “Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?” All I needed were some smiling kids in bellbottoms standing beside Mr. Hooper and the effect would have been complete. Nice. Slapping my hand against my forehead, I start wondering how often she gets that line on a daily basis. All I can do from that point is hope that she didn’t notice or care.
As Wednesday night rolls on, I try to decide what I should wear for my meeting with Kristin. Since it isn’t a job interview, a suit doesn’t feel appropriate. On the other hand, neither do jeans. However, the folks at Sesame Workshop seem like a fairly creative and artistic bunch, so maybe a more casual dress code is in order, and I shouldn’t overdress. I finally decide on a well-tailored, green empire waist blouse that Todd says only slightly reminds him of Kermit the Frog, as well as a pair of crisp white slacks -- hoping to strike the right blend of office appropriate and effortless style. I go to put the pants on (which I have not worn in several months) and start to get nervous. This is the first – and only – time in my life that I have been unhappy about losing weight. Because of the extensive walking we did while in Europe, I dropped a few pounds, which was the source of much jubilation and dancing around in my underwear. However, I realized that now only one pair of pants still fits me properly – the suit pants I have been wearing in interviews, which six months ago I could barely fit into.
Normally losing weight gives one the perfect excuse to go out and buy new clothes…except I have that whole unemployed problem. Looks like I’ll have to make do for a while longer and try to get creative. As fate would have it, in our move cross-country I felt the need to shed myself of most things I do not regularly wear. This meant I donated all but three of my belts – two of which are casual at best, and more appropriate for a rock concert than a lunch meeting. I try using my remaining belt to cinch the white pants up, only to find in doing so I have recreated the much maligned ‘hammer pant.’ The whiteness of the pants also seems to evoke a certain Don Johnson, ‘Miami Vice’ look that I am not too sure I want to resurrect – even if this is a more ‘creative’ office. Ultimately I tell myself “Screw it,” try to stop this over-thinking nonsense, and hope she merely thinks the pants are my version of fall’s wide-leg trouser.
Upon arriving in Manhattan on Thursday, I am reminded of one of the many reasons I love New York. It’s a beautiful day with no humidity, and I can walk the 25 blocks from Grand Central Station to the Sesame Workshop quite comfortably. And when I arrive at the Sesame Workshop, it is everything I imagined it would be – colorful, lively, and even a little furry. With its mounds of toys, large play areas, and even a few ‘rides,’ I imagine that for the children of the staff of the Sesame Workshop it is nothing short of paradise. Even the wall sconces are done in the shapes of Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, Grover, and Elmo. Kristin is a friendly and delightful person, and we had a wonderful time talking over lunch and then touring the workshop, which even though it doesn’t house the film studio (which is in Queens), is pretty darn cool nonetheless. I found my inner three year-old fulfilled. And while I’m not looking to make a two-hour commute (each way) to NYC now, it’s nice to know that I have finally met someone from the Sesame Workshop and finally have experienced a slice of my dream.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Don't Call it a Comeback
I've been debating about whether or not to continue my blog here in Connecticut, wondering if there would be enough 'material' about the change for a decent blog. I guess I never thought moving across the country was such a big thing....until I did it. Plus, when I told people on the West Coast that I was moving from California to Connecticut, it often illicited the sort of wide-eyed stare one might expect to receive if you told someone you were relocating to the Arctic tundra.
Perhaps leaving the mild weather of California for Connecticut is tantamount to moving to the Arctic. Add to this the fact that many people couldn't place Connecticut on a US map with any certainty, and if they could they would say, "Isn't it that funny little state by New York? What the hell are you doing there?," and I started thinking that maybe there is something worthwhile to blog about during this new adventure in our lives.
I've been in New Haven for just about one week now, and most of my time has been spent unpacking, getting the apartment somewhat situated, and literally spending seven hours in job interviews -- for only TWO jobs. I have another four-hour interview tomorrow. I may devote a post to the interview process, but in short, despite being very lengthy, the interviews seem to have gone well so far. I'm hoping to be in a position and working by October 1, which due to background checks and red tape is probably the earliest I can be working.
I'm not good at being unemployed. I know, I know, when you're working all you can think is, "God I would love to have some time off to relax." Well, I'm relaxed. The reality is that with the limited funds of unemployment, you can't go out and have a wild time every day. Instead, I spend most of my days going for walks around New Haven, reading, taking care of errands (like having to deal with changing banks, trying to get estimates on the damage done to my car in cross-country transit), and generally trying to avoid cabin fever. It's not terrible, but I am ready to start contributing something to the world instead of sitting on my ass watching marathons of "Top Chef."
We've made some friends here, but it's also a bit like dating...I'm afraid to call too often and smother them. I don't know the right time to wait to call and see if they want to hang out again. Long story short, I'm excited to get settled into a job, make some more friends, get out of the house, and start feeling like I am living a 'normal' life. And though I am a little embarrassed to admit it, I'm looking forward to blogging again. Through the blog in Vienna I realized that I have always had a kind of voiceover running through my head, commentating on life. I never vocalized it before, but now that I have, I find it hard to stop. It's one of my favorite creative outlets in my life so....here's hoping this new blog doesn't entirely stink. Love to you all!
Perhaps leaving the mild weather of California for Connecticut is tantamount to moving to the Arctic. Add to this the fact that many people couldn't place Connecticut on a US map with any certainty, and if they could they would say, "Isn't it that funny little state by New York? What the hell are you doing there?," and I started thinking that maybe there is something worthwhile to blog about during this new adventure in our lives.
I've been in New Haven for just about one week now, and most of my time has been spent unpacking, getting the apartment somewhat situated, and literally spending seven hours in job interviews -- for only TWO jobs. I have another four-hour interview tomorrow. I may devote a post to the interview process, but in short, despite being very lengthy, the interviews seem to have gone well so far. I'm hoping to be in a position and working by October 1, which due to background checks and red tape is probably the earliest I can be working.
I'm not good at being unemployed. I know, I know, when you're working all you can think is, "God I would love to have some time off to relax." Well, I'm relaxed. The reality is that with the limited funds of unemployment, you can't go out and have a wild time every day. Instead, I spend most of my days going for walks around New Haven, reading, taking care of errands (like having to deal with changing banks, trying to get estimates on the damage done to my car in cross-country transit), and generally trying to avoid cabin fever. It's not terrible, but I am ready to start contributing something to the world instead of sitting on my ass watching marathons of "Top Chef."
We've made some friends here, but it's also a bit like dating...I'm afraid to call too often and smother them. I don't know the right time to wait to call and see if they want to hang out again. Long story short, I'm excited to get settled into a job, make some more friends, get out of the house, and start feeling like I am living a 'normal' life. And though I am a little embarrassed to admit it, I'm looking forward to blogging again. Through the blog in Vienna I realized that I have always had a kind of voiceover running through my head, commentating on life. I never vocalized it before, but now that I have, I find it hard to stop. It's one of my favorite creative outlets in my life so....here's hoping this new blog doesn't entirely stink. Love to you all!
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