Having grown up in suburbia, I'd always wanted to live that "city" life--you know, staying in some highrise and taking public transport everywhere and carting my groceries home in a little metal cart on wheels. It seemed so exotic and fancy. But over the years as I've hung out with cc in her hood, I realized that its neighborhoody vibe is much more my style. In Lincoln Square, they can walk to good restaurants and interesting shops, the El is nearby, friends don't have to spend 40 minutes trolling for parking (and when they do, it's free). The bumping nightlife isn't too far away, but the area is quiet with a lot of families. It has cute cafes, parks where kids play little league and martial artists practice on Sunday mornings, and its home to the Old Town School of Folk Music, which, despite it's hippie-ish name, offers classes in everything from Flamenco Dance to Capoeira.
This last week, I spent several more days at cc's barren digs. Even though we both had to work, we went to comedy shows, a friend's book release party, and stayed up watching all the premiere-week shows. It was a blast, as usual.
But as I was packing up my air mattress and saying good-bye, I was also getting my last look around her place. I've been coming over there for tea and great conversation for almost five years. I can't count how many times I've sat on her green-and-gray stripedy couch, gossiping until the sun peeked in through the blinds, the birds began chirping and her husband stumbled in half-asleep asking, "you guys are STILL TALKING?" Or how many times her son, b, came tearing down their long front hallway wearing some sort of superhero getup. I've crashed over there so much, and always got great sleep in that oh-so-comfy Spiderman sheet--covered bed.
It was hard to recognize the place without all the signs of the family who'd lived there: no framed black-and-white baby pictures on the walls; no wall-to-wall bursting cases of books; no viney-plant that I'd given them on the kitchen windowsill. (It touched my heart that her husband, P, took it to San Diego as a carry-on item). And there wasn't a Power Ranger in sight.
I know it's going to break cc's heart to hand over the keys today. Even though she was born and raised in New York, she appreciates how great this city is more than anyone else I've ever met. And while I'm lucky that she's going to be here for a while longer yet, saying goodbye to her place is just another reminder that soon I might be saying goodbye to her.
Lincoln Square is just never going to be the same.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
it's people who make the difference
I'm the only one in the office today; everyone else is out or traveling for work. From the moment I walked in, it's been a battle to stay focused and get stuff done, but then when I got an e-mail addressed to the entire company about the merits of social media, all that productivity went out the window. Attached were some YouTube clips: Ask a Ninja (which is just awesome in general), and this.
I can't even explain why, but suddenly I was sitting here all alone, and crying.
I can't even explain why, but suddenly I was sitting here all alone, and crying.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
what sucks about being a story collector
is having to throw a good one back.
Despite asking permission before posting, changing all identifiers that didn't destroy the story and purposely making the item extremely hard to stumble upon via google, I've removed "The ballad of Craigslist's 'Missed Connections,' " because my friend is having second thoughts about it being out there.
For those of you who missed it, I apologize. There's nothing more irritating than a post that goes up and then suddenly disappears. Here's the gist: Basically, a person that I may or may not know was sitting in an undisclosed location and made eye contact with someone very attractive. A post on Craigslist and a few e-mails later, they may or may not be talking on the phone/meeting up/destined for each other.
Sweet story; I'm sad to let it go.
Despite asking permission before posting, changing all identifiers that didn't destroy the story and purposely making the item extremely hard to stumble upon via google, I've removed "The ballad of Craigslist's 'Missed Connections,' " because my friend is having second thoughts about it being out there.
For those of you who missed it, I apologize. There's nothing more irritating than a post that goes up and then suddenly disappears. Here's the gist: Basically, a person that I may or may not know was sitting in an undisclosed location and made eye contact with someone very attractive. A post on Craigslist and a few e-mails later, they may or may not be talking on the phone/meeting up/destined for each other.
Sweet story; I'm sad to let it go.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Three Indians and a White Guy walk into a steakhouse...
When H came to visit in July, my parents took us out to dinner. My mom chose Sullivan's, because she had been there before with some colleagues and thought H might appreciate a hella good steak.
He did. As did my father. My slab of tuna was just okay and I believe my mom liked what she had, whatever it was. But of course, everybody knows that when you're sharing a meal with the DNA shareholders of your significant other--until you've achieved that certain level of comfortability--what you're consuming has little to do with how the evening goes, save for being the object you concentrate on to keep from thinking about what the other people at the table are thinking about what you might be thinking they're thinking about. Um, awkward.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't even close to the first time H had hung out with my parents; it was important to me that they all met each other straightaway, mostly because he lives so far away and I wanted them to know he wasn't a serial killer or someone who couldn't appreciate the virtues of a good chapati. And I was actually proud, because that time around, the three of them started to behave a little less oddly and more like their regular selves. Which was a lot less stressful on me.
I really thought we were all acting close to natural and that it went very well. Sullivan's has a '40s, sort of swanky decor, and it was pretty dimly lit. We were all seated toward the back, but that didn't stop three separate people from coming over and asking us how things were going. The fancysuited manager type guy even came by to ask if we were celebrating a special occasion. I simply replied "no," without any further detail and looked at my dinnermates with confusion. They didn't ask the people at adjacent tables any questions.
At the end of the night, a hostess came over with what I assumed was a satisfaction survey, which we thought was odd for a place that is considerably more fancy than Chili's (nothing against Chili's, but babyback ribs were not on the menu, to say the least). It was a card to fill out so Sullivan's could thank us for spending an evening with them. I filled out all of H's California information, and didn't think twice about it.
A few days later, he received this in the mail:
This note is undoctored, save for a tiny bit of PhotoShop trickery by H on his name.
He did. As did my father. My slab of tuna was just okay and I believe my mom liked what she had, whatever it was. But of course, everybody knows that when you're sharing a meal with the DNA shareholders of your significant other--until you've achieved that certain level of comfortability--what you're consuming has little to do with how the evening goes, save for being the object you concentrate on to keep from thinking about what the other people at the table are thinking about what you might be thinking they're thinking about. Um, awkward.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't even close to the first time H had hung out with my parents; it was important to me that they all met each other straightaway, mostly because he lives so far away and I wanted them to know he wasn't a serial killer or someone who couldn't appreciate the virtues of a good chapati. And I was actually proud, because that time around, the three of them started to behave a little less oddly and more like their regular selves. Which was a lot less stressful on me.
I really thought we were all acting close to natural and that it went very well. Sullivan's has a '40s, sort of swanky decor, and it was pretty dimly lit. We were all seated toward the back, but that didn't stop three separate people from coming over and asking us how things were going. The fancysuited manager type guy even came by to ask if we were celebrating a special occasion. I simply replied "no," without any further detail and looked at my dinnermates with confusion. They didn't ask the people at adjacent tables any questions.
At the end of the night, a hostess came over with what I assumed was a satisfaction survey, which we thought was odd for a place that is considerably more fancy than Chili's (nothing against Chili's, but babyback ribs were not on the menu, to say the least). It was a card to fill out so Sullivan's could thank us for spending an evening with them. I filled out all of H's California information, and didn't think twice about it.
A few days later, he received this in the mail:
This note is undoctored, save for a tiny bit of PhotoShop trickery by H on his name.You both? HER PARENTS? Our server, Jennifer, must have been working overtime--on making assumptions, because our conversations were very innocuous. It doesn't matter that she assumed correctly. I purposely told the manager nothing, so for all they knew the Indian people could have been the White guy's parents. Geez, it's 2007, for God's sake. Needless to say, that note freaked me the hell out.
My peeps aren't restaurant types anyway. So this past visit, H came over to the house and my mother cooked an eight-course meal in the comfort of her own kitchen. And for someone whose only experience with Indian food has been Cadiz-made chicken curry and undercooked rice (What!? I was nervous!), H did extremely well and said he enjoyed the food. I was much more relaxed and everyone was acting like themselves. For once.
My peeps aren't restaurant types anyway. So this past visit, H came over to the house and my mother cooked an eight-course meal in the comfort of her own kitchen. And for someone whose only experience with Indian food has been Cadiz-made chicken curry and undercooked rice (What!? I was nervous!), H did extremely well and said he enjoyed the food. I was much more relaxed and everyone was acting like themselves. For once.
Friday, September 21, 2007
too close to home
I haven't had a lot of time for books lately, but cc gave me one to read during my recent travels that was quick and extremely engaging. The Chicago Way is a private-eye noir that appealed to me for several reasons, but the thing that kept me turning pages was the dead-on description of the city. I was all ooh and ah-ha about places I recognized until the detective went to meet some acquaintances. River North gallery district? Hey, that's where I work! A double-dip from Mr. Beef on Orleans? Hey, I walk past that place every day! An unassuming little eatery with a red awning under the Brownline El tracks? Now hang on just a clock-punching second!
In the book, Brett's Kitchen is the setting for the detective's meeting with a mob connection, a place where they get cannoli and arrange a rendezvous with the big boss. Brett's also happens to be located across the street from my office (we can see it from the window), and sometimes I go there for both breakfast and lunch. The wry waitress has a new hair color every few weeks and reminisces about life back in Mexico, where she'd get her morning glass of milk straight out of a cow. However, the place is often bumping and people sit at the tile-topped tables to enjoy oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins with the newspaper. Or even for a meeting. And in the refrigerated case, next to the banana bread and frozen Snickers, is usually a whole tray of cannoli.
Normally, I'd chalk that kind of description up to artistic license and not think too much about it, but after I found out that the author was a journalist, I thought twice. Because if there's anything I know about good journos, it's that they do their homework. And not only was this guy an investigative reporter and one of the only ones to interview serial killer John Wayne Gacy, he's also behind A&E's Cold Case Files, which resolves real-life (and sometimes bizarre) murders.
So now every time I go to Brett's, I reevaluate the suited guys wrangling messy Mexican Chicken Sandwiches out of the corner of my eye and hope that I haven't done anything to piss them off.
In the book, Brett's Kitchen is the setting for the detective's meeting with a mob connection, a place where they get cannoli and arrange a rendezvous with the big boss. Brett's also happens to be located across the street from my office (we can see it from the window), and sometimes I go there for both breakfast and lunch. The wry waitress has a new hair color every few weeks and reminisces about life back in Mexico, where she'd get her morning glass of milk straight out of a cow. However, the place is often bumping and people sit at the tile-topped tables to enjoy oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins with the newspaper. Or even for a meeting. And in the refrigerated case, next to the banana bread and frozen Snickers, is usually a whole tray of cannoli.
Normally, I'd chalk that kind of description up to artistic license and not think too much about it, but after I found out that the author was a journalist, I thought twice. Because if there's anything I know about good journos, it's that they do their homework. And not only was this guy an investigative reporter and one of the only ones to interview serial killer John Wayne Gacy, he's also behind A&E's Cold Case Files, which resolves real-life (and sometimes bizarre) murders.
So now every time I go to Brett's, I reevaluate the suited guys wrangling messy Mexican Chicken Sandwiches out of the corner of my eye and hope that I haven't done anything to piss them off.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
pay more, sleep more
"I just can't understand how you sleep so much."
"Mom, I hardly think six hours of sleep is too much."
"I know, but I get to see you for two minutes and then suddenly you're snoring on the couch. And I wake up earlier than you do!"
"Whatever, I'm tired!"
"There might be something wrong with you. Have you been taking vitamins?"
"Not really."
"Maybe I'll pick some up for you at Wal-Mart."
"WAL-MART?! Don't you know that the only reason they can keep prices that low is by advising their employees to go on government assistance and forcing people in the Third World to work for like 0.002 cents an hour? I can't believe you can still go there."
"Cadiz, face the truth: people are not going to stop shopping there just because you watched some movie."
"I think it's worth the extra I have to pay to be able to sleep at night."
"So that's your secret: Don't shop at Wal-Mart, and you'll fall asleep in a matter of seconds."
"Mom, I hardly think six hours of sleep is too much."
"I know, but I get to see you for two minutes and then suddenly you're snoring on the couch. And I wake up earlier than you do!"
"Whatever, I'm tired!"
"There might be something wrong with you. Have you been taking vitamins?"
"Not really."
"Maybe I'll pick some up for you at Wal-Mart."
"WAL-MART?! Don't you know that the only reason they can keep prices that low is by advising their employees to go on government assistance and forcing people in the Third World to work for like 0.002 cents an hour? I can't believe you can still go there."
"Cadiz, face the truth: people are not going to stop shopping there just because you watched some movie."
"I think it's worth the extra I have to pay to be able to sleep at night."
"So that's your secret: Don't shop at Wal-Mart, and you'll fall asleep in a matter of seconds."
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
25
I can't believe you've been around for a full quarter of a century. But I'd like to think I had something to do with how well you've turned out. Happy Birthday, little brother. I love you more than you know.
Monday, September 10, 2007
my dance card's filling up
I've managed to cram enough into the next couple months to justify why I may not have a job by the time our office closes. This week, I'll be in Connecticut with the colleagues to tie up some business stuff, and when I get back to Chicago on Thursday, H will be flying in from L.A. (cue the cheesy music and slow-motion running), which will be nice because I haven't been able to see him since the Fourth of July.
In October, I'll be making another collegiate trip to cc's house and one to Mobile, Alabama to see how the actual college students get by. (Word on the street is that it's with HD-tv, an Xbox 360 and lots of outdoor grilling and beer). Then off to L.A., where H and I might take a road trip to San Diego to see his sisters and also so I can decide if the place is worthy of cc. If I don't deem it suitable, her husband may have to think of another plan because I won't let her go.
I will likely carve out enough time to post just as usual, but I thought you'd appreciate a head's up. When I whine about not having a job come November, at least you'll know I had an excuse.
In October, I'll be making another collegiate trip to cc's house and one to Mobile, Alabama to see how the actual college students get by. (Word on the street is that it's with HD-tv, an Xbox 360 and lots of outdoor grilling and beer). Then off to L.A., where H and I might take a road trip to San Diego to see his sisters and also so I can decide if the place is worthy of cc. If I don't deem it suitable, her husband may have to think of another plan because I won't let her go.
I will likely carve out enough time to post just as usual, but I thought you'd appreciate a head's up. When I whine about not having a job come November, at least you'll know I had an excuse.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
everything but the Ramen
Last week I spent a few days with cc in her nearly empty apartment. Her husband accepted a professorship in San Diego and has taken everything but the couch, tv, old computer and one pot to California. CC is looking for a gig out there, but nothing seems to compare with the awesome one she has now. So for the time being, she's staying here in Chicago and living like a college student.
Very much like a college student myself for a few days, I brought over an overnight bag and an air mattress and crashed at her place. We had pizza, ice cream, takeout kung pao chicken, movies and some company on the El ride into work (our offices are a stop away from one another on the Brown Line). On Friday night, we took in some hot dogs at Murphy's and a preview production of 'Night, Mother, a very thought-provoking story about suicide that was also a 1986 movie starring Cissy Spacek. After tears were running all the way down my neck, somehow dodging feather-capped drunks at OktoberFest didn't seem appropriate anymore. Instead, we swapped stories about family and commiserated about how much life sucks over appetizers and alcohol.
I love hanging out with cc. Few people understand me the way she does, and even fewer know exactly what I'm thinking about a situation even before they turn to look at my face. Which is why she got me this mug (and some awesome graphic novels) for my birthday:
The back says "Pessimist's mug."
Very much like a college student myself for a few days, I brought over an overnight bag and an air mattress and crashed at her place. We had pizza, ice cream, takeout kung pao chicken, movies and some company on the El ride into work (our offices are a stop away from one another on the Brown Line). On Friday night, we took in some hot dogs at Murphy's and a preview production of 'Night, Mother, a very thought-provoking story about suicide that was also a 1986 movie starring Cissy Spacek. After tears were running all the way down my neck, somehow dodging feather-capped drunks at OktoberFest didn't seem appropriate anymore. Instead, we swapped stories about family and commiserated about how much life sucks over appetizers and alcohol.
I love hanging out with cc. Few people understand me the way she does, and even fewer know exactly what I'm thinking about a situation even before they turn to look at my face. Which is why she got me this mug (and some awesome graphic novels) for my birthday:
The back says "Pessimist's mug."Even though it's killing me that soon she may live more than 2,000 miles away, I take comfort in my skills at maintaining long-distance relationships. You're the best, cc.
Friday, September 07, 2007
An eye for observation
During college, I interned for a summer in Minneapolis. It was by far not my first experience away from home, but it was the first that required me to procure my own residence outside the state of Illinois. I'd never been there before and even though it was summertime, Minneapolis loomed ahead like a snowy forest of tall, blond people flinging lutefisk. On top of that, I was raised in the church of paranoia so I couldn't just sublet an apartment with some stranger or show up and find something when I arrived. So two months before I was supposed to be there, I signed up for the summer in St. Paul at the College of St. Catherine. In a dormitory.
The campus was a ghost town. I had a two-person room all to myself, and there were supposedly seven other people living on the floor. I had my own sink, but the bathroom, kitchen and tv room were communal. However, for the first few days I hadn't run into a soul. The grounds were lush and flowery, and I could hear the bells from the chapel every day. It was a nice place, but lonely.
If you must know anything about me, it's that I do not like to be alone for long stretches of time. An afternoon with neither human contact nor anything good to read/watch can drag on like the Paleolithic Age. Don't get me wrong, I need time to myself just like anybody, but I prefer it to be when I know someone is elsewhere in the house or on their way home. During college, despite the 39 other people on our floor, I wouldn't be able to sleep until I heard my roommate's key in the lock. Bizzare, I know. So staying at St. Kate's was freaking me out; mostly because I thought no one would be around to hear me scream.
One evening when I went to the community fridge to get a cup of yogurt, I saw some foreign salami. I hovered around the tv room waiting to see if anyone came by looking to make a sandwich to whom I could say hello. Eider (ay-ther) is a tall blonde from Spain with a gentle voice and dark eyes that crinkle when she smiles. Plus she has that soft accent I hadn't heard since my time studying abroad. She was interning for the summer at Fallon advertising agency, and would be commuting into Minneapolis every morning on a bus, just as I was. I liked her immediately.
Even though I met La Mariachi through a mutual friend and ended up staying most of the summer at her house (which was a lot closer to downtown Minneapolis), when I was at the dorm, Eider and I would walk a few blocks from St. Kate's for some of the most excellent cheeseburgers I've ever had at Highland Grill. My afterhours project was to create a scrapbook for my university organization and she came up with some great ideas--I remember thinking she had a great eye and that we would have made a fabulous team if we ever worked together. Sometimes Eider would come salsa dancing with us at First Avenue or Quest, but while we were busy trying to follow our partners' intricate turns without getting tangled up and breaking our necks, she was often hanging back and observing the beauty among the chaos.
After that summer, we both went back to school. We haven't really kept in touch save for the updates I get about her online magazine, but this week I got an e-mail about what she's been up to: She spent almost a year traveling around Southeast Asia taking pictures, and has posted one for each day of her trip, here.
Two-hundred ninety-one photos are quite a lot, but she's really captured the feeling I get when I go back to certain parts of the motherland. If you have some time, check it out.
The campus was a ghost town. I had a two-person room all to myself, and there were supposedly seven other people living on the floor. I had my own sink, but the bathroom, kitchen and tv room were communal. However, for the first few days I hadn't run into a soul. The grounds were lush and flowery, and I could hear the bells from the chapel every day. It was a nice place, but lonely.
If you must know anything about me, it's that I do not like to be alone for long stretches of time. An afternoon with neither human contact nor anything good to read/watch can drag on like the Paleolithic Age. Don't get me wrong, I need time to myself just like anybody, but I prefer it to be when I know someone is elsewhere in the house or on their way home. During college, despite the 39 other people on our floor, I wouldn't be able to sleep until I heard my roommate's key in the lock. Bizzare, I know. So staying at St. Kate's was freaking me out; mostly because I thought no one would be around to hear me scream.
One evening when I went to the community fridge to get a cup of yogurt, I saw some foreign salami. I hovered around the tv room waiting to see if anyone came by looking to make a sandwich to whom I could say hello. Eider (ay-ther) is a tall blonde from Spain with a gentle voice and dark eyes that crinkle when she smiles. Plus she has that soft accent I hadn't heard since my time studying abroad. She was interning for the summer at Fallon advertising agency, and would be commuting into Minneapolis every morning on a bus, just as I was. I liked her immediately.
Even though I met La Mariachi through a mutual friend and ended up staying most of the summer at her house (which was a lot closer to downtown Minneapolis), when I was at the dorm, Eider and I would walk a few blocks from St. Kate's for some of the most excellent cheeseburgers I've ever had at Highland Grill. My afterhours project was to create a scrapbook for my university organization and she came up with some great ideas--I remember thinking she had a great eye and that we would have made a fabulous team if we ever worked together. Sometimes Eider would come salsa dancing with us at First Avenue or Quest, but while we were busy trying to follow our partners' intricate turns without getting tangled up and breaking our necks, she was often hanging back and observing the beauty among the chaos.
After that summer, we both went back to school. We haven't really kept in touch save for the updates I get about her online magazine, but this week I got an e-mail about what she's been up to: She spent almost a year traveling around Southeast Asia taking pictures, and has posted one for each day of her trip, here.
Two-hundred ninety-one photos are quite a lot, but she's really captured the feeling I get when I go back to certain parts of the motherland. If you have some time, check it out.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
just keep your fat mouth shut
The thing about falling asleep early is that you end up waking up early, too. Often on days when you don't have to. Which is extremely irritating.
The other day when I had a couple of hours to kill in the morning, I was flipping through the channels and caught Fat Camp on MTV. Somehow I got sucked into the documentary about camper smacktalking, hooking up, politics and slackerdom, and stuck it out for the entire two hours. And I wasn't even interested in the characters' losing weight, but more keen on seeing the drama unfold.
Yesterday my coworker said something that reminded me of one of the characters and I said, Hey, the other day I was watching this show about Fat Camp...but she cut me off. Offendedly, as though I were commenting about her personally, and then the other coworker joined in, too. At first I laughed along, but in trying to explain that what I was saying had nothing to do with being overweight, I forgot what it was. The mock-outrage went on for just a little too long.
I came away from that conversation feeling like a jackass, but then I remembered that these people decided I'm probably the only person who thinks Flight of the Conchords is funny.
They probably wouldn't appreciate the nuance of Fat Camp anyway.
The other day when I had a couple of hours to kill in the morning, I was flipping through the channels and caught Fat Camp on MTV. Somehow I got sucked into the documentary about camper smacktalking, hooking up, politics and slackerdom, and stuck it out for the entire two hours. And I wasn't even interested in the characters' losing weight, but more keen on seeing the drama unfold.
Yesterday my coworker said something that reminded me of one of the characters and I said, Hey, the other day I was watching this show about Fat Camp...but she cut me off. Offendedly, as though I were commenting about her personally, and then the other coworker joined in, too. At first I laughed along, but in trying to explain that what I was saying had nothing to do with being overweight, I forgot what it was. The mock-outrage went on for just a little too long.
I came away from that conversation feeling like a jackass, but then I remembered that these people decided I'm probably the only person who thinks Flight of the Conchords is funny.
They probably wouldn't appreciate the nuance of Fat Camp anyway.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
crass in the name of love
Dear People,
Get your boobs checked. And your pipes. And the rest of yous. It's way less sucky than the alternative. This may be hard to accept, but you are not invincible, after all. As someone who's spent way too much time pacing around helplessly in hospital waiting rooms, trust me when I say that your loved ones will thank you for taking care of yourselves.
Much love,
Cadiz
p.s. Oh, and don't forget the sunscreen. And the vitamins.
Get your boobs checked. And your pipes. And the rest of yous. It's way less sucky than the alternative. This may be hard to accept, but you are not invincible, after all. As someone who's spent way too much time pacing around helplessly in hospital waiting rooms, trust me when I say that your loved ones will thank you for taking care of yourselves.
Much love,
Cadiz
p.s. Oh, and don't forget the sunscreen. And the vitamins.
Monday, September 03, 2007
hopes for the next generation
We don't have a lot of family on this continent. Aside from my parents and brother, it's pretty much just my dad's sister's husband's father's nephew in Long Island and his wife. Whom we almost never see.
So it was kind of nice to get a visit this weekend from my cousin's best friend Ayesha and Ayesha's husband. They took the Amtrak up from Tennessee. My dad's niece is an only child, so Ayesha is really a lot more like a sister to her. And when I was in Mumbai for my cousin's wedding, Ayesha was so kind and wonderful to me. It was great to see her again.
They've only been in the States a few years for his job, and my parents went out of their way to make them feel at home and comfortable. I think my mom sees a bit of herself circa 1977 in them because she kept referencing how people in India think living here is a cakewalk but it's a lot more difficult than they imagine. Especially when you have no family or support system and have to figure things out for yourselves. My parents drove around our town showing them places we'd lived (some of which I'd never even seen) and talked about how back in the day they had their white friend Tom inquire about apartments for rent because whenever my dad would call, there suddenly weren't any available. They were quick to add that things are a lot better these days.
I felt a little out of place in their fish-out-of-water bonding, because this has always been my bowl and I was too young to process what my parents went through back then. We walked around the neighborhood my parents have lived in for 21 years, stopping at the park and near the subdivision swimming pool.
About halfway down the bikepath, just as we came to the pool, several people splashing around in it stopped and turned to look at us. One guy, who looked to be in his mid20s, glared. I didn't make much of it until we were turned the other way and heard a rubber ball smash into the chain-link fence right behind us. Hard and loud. Then another one. These were definitely not cavort-y overthrows but pointed baseball pitching aimed right at us. The worst part about incidents like that is that even though you can't prove that they are hate-based, your gut knows it without a doubt. So I made us turn around and get out of there, because if one more ball smacked the fence between us, I didn't know if I'd be able to stop myself from hopping over it and tearing out that kid's long stringy hair by the fistful. That wouldn't make a nice impression on our guests at all.
As we walked down the path, we saw a bunch of girls in hijabs carrying brightly-wrapped gifts into the meeting hall attached to the pool, which was obviously rented for the occasion. I wondered if those nasty people in the pool (and I say people because no one said anything to him, including the lifeguard) had seen the girls, made some assumptions and taken it out on us. I couldn't help but worry for those girls and their party.
I was seething about that incident the rest of the weekend. Later I mentioned it to my mother, and she thought she was the only one who had noticed that pool guy. I'm sure we all noticed, even though no one said a word. It's sad that we tend to remove ourselves from a situation like that and rarely respond, even just by asking if the guy had something he'd like to say. Ball-throwing is tame, but will the kids around him who saw what he did build on the sentiment in the future? I can't help but worry for my children.
That bit of nasty didn't stop me from delighting in the fact that the bump that is Ayesha's tummy will grow into a baby come January. My mom and I are convinced it's going to be a girl, so while Ayesha and husband were at the Sears Tower and Shedd Aquarium yesterday, I made a pair of Saartje's Booties (Ale, I think she's in NL!). Ever since I saw the pattern, I've been looking for someone to make them for.
I'm really hoping it's a girl.
So it was kind of nice to get a visit this weekend from my cousin's best friend Ayesha and Ayesha's husband. They took the Amtrak up from Tennessee. My dad's niece is an only child, so Ayesha is really a lot more like a sister to her. And when I was in Mumbai for my cousin's wedding, Ayesha was so kind and wonderful to me. It was great to see her again.
They've only been in the States a few years for his job, and my parents went out of their way to make them feel at home and comfortable. I think my mom sees a bit of herself circa 1977 in them because she kept referencing how people in India think living here is a cakewalk but it's a lot more difficult than they imagine. Especially when you have no family or support system and have to figure things out for yourselves. My parents drove around our town showing them places we'd lived (some of which I'd never even seen) and talked about how back in the day they had their white friend Tom inquire about apartments for rent because whenever my dad would call, there suddenly weren't any available. They were quick to add that things are a lot better these days.
I felt a little out of place in their fish-out-of-water bonding, because this has always been my bowl and I was too young to process what my parents went through back then. We walked around the neighborhood my parents have lived in for 21 years, stopping at the park and near the subdivision swimming pool.
About halfway down the bikepath, just as we came to the pool, several people splashing around in it stopped and turned to look at us. One guy, who looked to be in his mid20s, glared. I didn't make much of it until we were turned the other way and heard a rubber ball smash into the chain-link fence right behind us. Hard and loud. Then another one. These were definitely not cavort-y overthrows but pointed baseball pitching aimed right at us. The worst part about incidents like that is that even though you can't prove that they are hate-based, your gut knows it without a doubt. So I made us turn around and get out of there, because if one more ball smacked the fence between us, I didn't know if I'd be able to stop myself from hopping over it and tearing out that kid's long stringy hair by the fistful. That wouldn't make a nice impression on our guests at all.
As we walked down the path, we saw a bunch of girls in hijabs carrying brightly-wrapped gifts into the meeting hall attached to the pool, which was obviously rented for the occasion. I wondered if those nasty people in the pool (and I say people because no one said anything to him, including the lifeguard) had seen the girls, made some assumptions and taken it out on us. I couldn't help but worry for those girls and their party.
I was seething about that incident the rest of the weekend. Later I mentioned it to my mother, and she thought she was the only one who had noticed that pool guy. I'm sure we all noticed, even though no one said a word. It's sad that we tend to remove ourselves from a situation like that and rarely respond, even just by asking if the guy had something he'd like to say. Ball-throwing is tame, but will the kids around him who saw what he did build on the sentiment in the future? I can't help but worry for my children.
That bit of nasty didn't stop me from delighting in the fact that the bump that is Ayesha's tummy will grow into a baby come January. My mom and I are convinced it's going to be a girl, so while Ayesha and husband were at the Sears Tower and Shedd Aquarium yesterday, I made a pair of Saartje's Booties (Ale, I think she's in NL!). Ever since I saw the pattern, I've been looking for someone to make them for.
I'm really hoping it's a girl.Friday, August 31, 2007
you never know when Batman will show up
There's a frigging LAMBORGHINI parked outside the office, for use in the new Christian Bale batman movie, The Dark Knight. They've blocked off all the streets on our block and on the way into the office this morning, my colleague almost got run over by Bale in a sleek black car flying up the street. When you see the movie, look for a bewildered dark-haired woman in white pants and a dark brown shirt, hopping onto the curb to save her life.
This makes me really pissed I forgot to put my camera back in my bag this morning after it charged.
***UPDATE***
But at least I wasn't missing out on this (includes video).
***UPDATE on the UPDATE***
Here's a picture and some scoop about the movie and the Lamborghini--I'm thinking it's supposed to be Bruce Wayne's, so it's a regular non-Batmobile Lamborghini Murcielago. (Murcielago means "Bat," which I thought was pretty appropriate.)
This makes me really pissed I forgot to put my camera back in my bag this morning after it charged.
***UPDATE***
But at least I wasn't missing out on this (includes video).
***UPDATE on the UPDATE***
Here's a picture and some scoop about the movie and the Lamborghini--I'm thinking it's supposed to be Bruce Wayne's, so it's a regular non-Batmobile Lamborghini Murcielago. (Murcielago means "Bat," which I thought was pretty appropriate.)
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
demoted
It has come to my attention that my Google PageRank is now at a 3. Previously, when there had been talk of such things, I believe I was ranked a 4.
I would delve further into figuring out where I went wrong, but all the math on the Wikipedia entry scared away my motivation. So now I ponder. What could it be, incessant linking to myself (for sake of background)? Nonstop complaining? Have I pissed off someone at Google? Was I delirious back when I thought I was a 4? I feel like one of those people who took too long to reciprocate on a love interest and missed out.
What gives?
I would delve further into figuring out where I went wrong, but all the math on the Wikipedia entry scared away my motivation. So now I ponder. What could it be, incessant linking to myself (for sake of background)? Nonstop complaining? Have I pissed off someone at Google? Was I delirious back when I thought I was a 4? I feel like one of those people who took too long to reciprocate on a love interest and missed out.
What gives?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
but is she ugly?
"Did you get to see the baby?"
"Yeah, they stopped by the office with her."
"So is she cute?"
"Cadiz, she’s a baby. What do you think?"
"Well, there have been known to be ugly babies out there. You can’t just generalize."
"How many ugly babies have you ever personally seen?"
"Well, there was just the one, but that one was enough to make me believe they’re out there!"
"Their baby is very cute."
"Phew. That’s good to hear."
Sunday, August 26, 2007
a big long post about three little words
Last weekend was Super Awesome.
Even though he was red and peeling in a sunburntastic way that brown people usually only hear about and his tastebuds were still stunned, my brother happily carted his crap back to Alabama to start what will hopefully be his last year of college.
My high school peeps requested my presence at 5 pm Friday for a shindig in my honor, but they wouldn't divulge any details, except that Highcon wasn't going to be able to fly out from nyc that weekend after all. When asked about dress code, Ri told me to wear something casual "that doesn't snag easily." All day, my coworkers and I were trying to figure out what the hell it could be, but could only come up with that fad from a few years ago where people would jump on a trampoline and affix themselves to a Velcro wall. Don't laugh; I would totally get a kick out of that.
Unfortunately, there was a snag. Normally--except for those 14-hour days--I get to work around 8 am and leave around 4:30 pm. And it would have been the case that Friday too, but as you may remember, earlier in the week we discovered they're dissolving our jobs, which made it a little harder to concentrate and work ahead.
All of my colleagues had afterwork plans, so we were busting our collective hump to send the reports and get the hell out of there. Kaiya was supposed to pick me up at 5 in her cute new car and whisk me off to wherever, so by 5:30 the text messages started buzzing with growing urgency. We have far to go! We may lose out on our tickets! Sadly, it was two more hours before I finally emerged onto the street with an overnight bag, my seersucker dress flapping in the wind. I was searching around everywhere for the cute new car, until a less-new-but-still-cute car pulled up and Highcon leaned over and said, "It's ABOUT TIME, missy."
Ever since we could drive, I've known to hang on to my life when riding shotgun with Highcon. It's a good thing I grew up with a dad that accelerated at hairpin turns, so I was only slightly fazed when my chauffeur for the evening was texting, dancing and even reading me a Forward joke in a bad Indian accent from his Blackberry, all while zipping around cars on the highway. I kept trying to guess where we were going and he kept making me promise to close my eyes as we approached signs.
One missed exit, fourteen phonecalls in code (I'm passing the "L.C." Do I keep going until I see the Big W?" Should we park by the "B.G"?) and a shuttlebus ride later, we arrived at Ravinia, an outdoor music/park venue with loads of lawn seating upon which people set up elaborate picnics with candles and mini-tables and blankets, and baskets of food and wine. It's a must-do summer pastime in the Chicago area. I was very excited because I hadn't been there since the college girls and I went to see Celia Cruz shortly before she passed away a few years ago. By the time we got to the gate, we'd missed about 45 minutes of the show. And I shook my fists at the work gods when I found out that the people on stage were The Gypsy Kings, whom I have loved since I was about 16 but have never seen live.
It was such a perfect Cadiz evening:
We were sitting under a canopy of tall, shady trees.
The stage was very close and sparkly.
The other kids had gotten there early, staked out an excellent spot to the right of the stage and had a delicious spread of MiddleEastern delights, handpicked by Kaiya. And everyone was there, including my favorite mami, whom I rarely get to see!
Even the brussel sprouts were good!
We rocked out on the lawn near the stage.
After plenty of dancing around barefoot in the grass, silly photo-ops and running around for ice-down-the-back tag, we lazily packed up our stuff and headed home. This part of the evening is kind of blurry, because I'm usually passed out by 11 pm and riding in the car has always made me fall asleep at the end of the night, so I have no recollection of the long road back to Ri and C's place. I'm sure all that wine probably helped, too. I knocked out on their couch.
The rest of the weekend, I crashed with Ri and C. They showed me the gorgeous albums from their wedding and forced me to watch myself give their toast on dvd. I'm glad they did, too, because even though I spent months preparing for it, I didn't know what I was going to say until the words were coming out of my mouth and all I had remembered was trying hard not to let the champagne spill out of my trembling glass. But the speech was actually very good. I sounded exactly how I would have written it as a blog post, and I was surprised at the details I came up with on the fly, like consoling Ri on the loss of River Phoenix and that we served a 12-layer tropical Jell-O mold at Kaiya's 25th birthday party, where we first met C. I was pretty proud of myself.
Saturday we were supposed to go to the Air & Water show, or perhaps Chicago SummerDance at Grant Park, but honestly I had a much better time eating blueberry pancakes and catching up with the two of them all day. I love that I don't feel like a third wheel hanging out with a married couple, and we rarely get a chance to sit around and shoot the shit for an entire weekend. Besides, they live in a highrise right off Lake Shore Drive, so we were able to see a lot of the planes swing around to make their next passes over the show. Unfortunately, the only ones I was able to capture on camera in semifocus were a sprightly group of tricksters in formation.
They can do some fancy tricks, too.
Later we dragged ourselves out of the house for a great All-American meal at McNamara's and then to see Superbad, which H was reluctant to recommend because he hadn't seen it yet, but I think it was actually because he knows he's dating SuperPrude. I admit, a few "oh my goodness"es escaped my lips during the movie, but I've decided that I liked it. (I've come a long way from having covered my face through most of There's Something About Mary.)
On Sunday, Highcon picked me up at the suburban train station and we went to this Chinese restaurant shaped like a pagoda that had mesmerized us as children, with its fake bridge over a koi pond and fancypants decor. Now all that stuff seems a little dated. We made the tragic mistake of overemphasizing how spicy we wanted our Ma Po Tofu and Garlic Chicken, and spent the entire meal dripping sweat and downing gallons of water. To add insult to injury, we both got the SAME fortune when we cracked the cookies: "Happiness is sitting right next to you."
I got home and called my brother to find out how his journey and moving in had gone. He insisted everything was great and warned me against getting HDtv because it would chain me to the house, but I suspect he was really tired. Then he described the sweet bachelor pad he has with his friend Mark, with a bigscreen, Xbox 360 and lots and lots of grilling. He sounded downright giddy when he said, "You know Cadiz, life is good."
That was the perfect thing to hear at the end of an excellent weekend. Yes, baby brother, life is good.
To steal an idea from Alexandra, a shot of the booty.
Oh and this, which was stowed away in the bag that I take on the train.
Even though he was red and peeling in a sunburntastic way that brown people usually only hear about and his tastebuds were still stunned, my brother happily carted his crap back to Alabama to start what will hopefully be his last year of college.
My high school peeps requested my presence at 5 pm Friday for a shindig in my honor, but they wouldn't divulge any details, except that Highcon wasn't going to be able to fly out from nyc that weekend after all. When asked about dress code, Ri told me to wear something casual "that doesn't snag easily." All day, my coworkers and I were trying to figure out what the hell it could be, but could only come up with that fad from a few years ago where people would jump on a trampoline and affix themselves to a Velcro wall. Don't laugh; I would totally get a kick out of that.
Unfortunately, there was a snag. Normally--except for those 14-hour days--I get to work around 8 am and leave around 4:30 pm. And it would have been the case that Friday too, but as you may remember, earlier in the week we discovered they're dissolving our jobs, which made it a little harder to concentrate and work ahead.
All of my colleagues had afterwork plans, so we were busting our collective hump to send the reports and get the hell out of there. Kaiya was supposed to pick me up at 5 in her cute new car and whisk me off to wherever, so by 5:30 the text messages started buzzing with growing urgency. We have far to go! We may lose out on our tickets! Sadly, it was two more hours before I finally emerged onto the street with an overnight bag, my seersucker dress flapping in the wind. I was searching around everywhere for the cute new car, until a less-new-but-still-cute car pulled up and Highcon leaned over and said, "It's ABOUT TIME, missy."
Ever since we could drive, I've known to hang on to my life when riding shotgun with Highcon. It's a good thing I grew up with a dad that accelerated at hairpin turns, so I was only slightly fazed when my chauffeur for the evening was texting, dancing and even reading me a Forward joke in a bad Indian accent from his Blackberry, all while zipping around cars on the highway. I kept trying to guess where we were going and he kept making me promise to close my eyes as we approached signs.
One missed exit, fourteen phonecalls in code (I'm passing the "L.C." Do I keep going until I see the Big W?" Should we park by the "B.G"?) and a shuttlebus ride later, we arrived at Ravinia, an outdoor music/park venue with loads of lawn seating upon which people set up elaborate picnics with candles and mini-tables and blankets, and baskets of food and wine. It's a must-do summer pastime in the Chicago area. I was very excited because I hadn't been there since the college girls and I went to see Celia Cruz shortly before she passed away a few years ago. By the time we got to the gate, we'd missed about 45 minutes of the show. And I shook my fists at the work gods when I found out that the people on stage were The Gypsy Kings, whom I have loved since I was about 16 but have never seen live.
It was such a perfect Cadiz evening:
We were sitting under a canopy of tall, shady trees.
The stage was very close and sparkly.The other kids had gotten there early, staked out an excellent spot to the right of the stage and had a delicious spread of MiddleEastern delights, handpicked by Kaiya. And everyone was there, including my favorite mami, whom I rarely get to see!
Even the brussel sprouts were good!
We rocked out on the lawn near the stage.After plenty of dancing around barefoot in the grass, silly photo-ops and running around for ice-down-the-back tag, we lazily packed up our stuff and headed home. This part of the evening is kind of blurry, because I'm usually passed out by 11 pm and riding in the car has always made me fall asleep at the end of the night, so I have no recollection of the long road back to Ri and C's place. I'm sure all that wine probably helped, too. I knocked out on their couch.
The rest of the weekend, I crashed with Ri and C. They showed me the gorgeous albums from their wedding and forced me to watch myself give their toast on dvd. I'm glad they did, too, because even though I spent months preparing for it, I didn't know what I was going to say until the words were coming out of my mouth and all I had remembered was trying hard not to let the champagne spill out of my trembling glass. But the speech was actually very good. I sounded exactly how I would have written it as a blog post, and I was surprised at the details I came up with on the fly, like consoling Ri on the loss of River Phoenix and that we served a 12-layer tropical Jell-O mold at Kaiya's 25th birthday party, where we first met C. I was pretty proud of myself.
Saturday we were supposed to go to the Air & Water show, or perhaps Chicago SummerDance at Grant Park, but honestly I had a much better time eating blueberry pancakes and catching up with the two of them all day. I love that I don't feel like a third wheel hanging out with a married couple, and we rarely get a chance to sit around and shoot the shit for an entire weekend. Besides, they live in a highrise right off Lake Shore Drive, so we were able to see a lot of the planes swing around to make their next passes over the show. Unfortunately, the only ones I was able to capture on camera in semifocus were a sprightly group of tricksters in formation.
They can do some fancy tricks, too.Later we dragged ourselves out of the house for a great All-American meal at McNamara's and then to see Superbad, which H was reluctant to recommend because he hadn't seen it yet, but I think it was actually because he knows he's dating SuperPrude. I admit, a few "oh my goodness"es escaped my lips during the movie, but I've decided that I liked it. (I've come a long way from having covered my face through most of There's Something About Mary.)
On Sunday, Highcon picked me up at the suburban train station and we went to this Chinese restaurant shaped like a pagoda that had mesmerized us as children, with its fake bridge over a koi pond and fancypants decor. Now all that stuff seems a little dated. We made the tragic mistake of overemphasizing how spicy we wanted our Ma Po Tofu and Garlic Chicken, and spent the entire meal dripping sweat and downing gallons of water. To add insult to injury, we both got the SAME fortune when we cracked the cookies: "Happiness is sitting right next to you."
I got home and called my brother to find out how his journey and moving in had gone. He insisted everything was great and warned me against getting HDtv because it would chain me to the house, but I suspect he was really tired. Then he described the sweet bachelor pad he has with his friend Mark, with a bigscreen, Xbox 360 and lots and lots of grilling. He sounded downright giddy when he said, "You know Cadiz, life is good."
That was the perfect thing to hear at the end of an excellent weekend. Yes, baby brother, life is good.
To steal an idea from Alexandra, a shot of the booty.
Oh and this, which was stowed away in the bag that I take on the train.Saturday, August 25, 2007
completely against my nature
Last night I came home from work, talked to my brother on the phone, ate, passed out on the couch, talked to H (briefly before he told me, "Go to bed! I'll talk to you tomorrow!") and fell into a deep sleep--all before 10 p.m.
This morning, I tried to use my well-honed powers of rolling over and sleeping in, but the latest I could managed to stay in bed was 7:30 a.m.
I don't even recognize myself anymore.
This morning, I tried to use my well-honed powers of rolling over and sleeping in, but the latest I could managed to stay in bed was 7:30 a.m.
I don't even recognize myself anymore.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Mourning period=one week
Anyone who has spent 2.5 minutes talking to me or 2.5 hours reading this blog knows that I get excited. Often, and vigorously. Sadly, a lot of the ruffled feathers is of the freaking-out-for-no-cause variety, which is a lot less interesting than the dirty kind that I'm sure a few of you immediately thought of after that second sentence. Sorry to disappoint.
So of course those who know me are expecting that I'd totally lose it over having to job hunt again only two months after I hung up that particular rifle and furry-earflapped plaid hat. Especially when I heard that H was also "restructured" out of his job. (Oh, I didn't tell you? Add one more member to the Laid-Off Club roster, Jon. Let's get T-shirts!). In all fairness, I did sort of royally flip out when I heard H's news. Wouldn't you? I mean, no one would bet on the chances that both of us would be laid off from our respective jobs in different fields within the same month, let alone any closer than that. Normally, this is when I would rant and rave about how terrible a situation I'm in and how everything in the world sort of sucks (which I still think), but for some reason, I have a sense of calm. Because H getting laid off right after I was is the single best thing that could have happened to me.
Stay with me now; I don't think that H losing his job is good. He doesn't even get to stay and finish stuff up for awhile like I do. And that puts a damper on the plan to save money and get ourselves into the same zip code. However, it also puts a damper on all the whining he'd have to hear from me about how much job hunting sucks and how there's nothing out there and how I'm going to have to move to Biloxi and join the circus so why am I wasting time on resumes and not focusing on regaining my flexibility? What face do I have to bitch about all that to someone who's going through the same thing?
But beyond all that, I really don't have that weighty sense of impending doom that I had at the beginning of this year when the dungeon began to run dry. The kind that made me not want to go out or even talk on the phone with my friends because that would take away precious time from my panicking about my impending doom while pretending to find something to stop it. Perhaps it's different because of the small cushion I have until the checks stop coming. Maybe it's because all my coworkers can commisserate and share contacts. I don't know. But I've got this deadly sense of calm and assurance that things will be okay because I gd said it's going to be, dammit. And I'm going to get that out in writing before the doubt creeps in and asphyxiates it like a poisonous gas.
So of course those who know me are expecting that I'd totally lose it over having to job hunt again only two months after I hung up that particular rifle and furry-earflapped plaid hat. Especially when I heard that H was also "restructured" out of his job. (Oh, I didn't tell you? Add one more member to the Laid-Off Club roster, Jon. Let's get T-shirts!). In all fairness, I did sort of royally flip out when I heard H's news. Wouldn't you? I mean, no one would bet on the chances that both of us would be laid off from our respective jobs in different fields within the same month, let alone any closer than that. Normally, this is when I would rant and rave about how terrible a situation I'm in and how everything in the world sort of sucks (which I still think), but for some reason, I have a sense of calm. Because H getting laid off right after I was is the single best thing that could have happened to me.
Stay with me now; I don't think that H losing his job is good. He doesn't even get to stay and finish stuff up for awhile like I do. And that puts a damper on the plan to save money and get ourselves into the same zip code. However, it also puts a damper on all the whining he'd have to hear from me about how much job hunting sucks and how there's nothing out there and how I'm going to have to move to Biloxi and join the circus so why am I wasting time on resumes and not focusing on regaining my flexibility? What face do I have to bitch about all that to someone who's going through the same thing?
But beyond all that, I really don't have that weighty sense of impending doom that I had at the beginning of this year when the dungeon began to run dry. The kind that made me not want to go out or even talk on the phone with my friends because that would take away precious time from my panicking about my impending doom while pretending to find something to stop it. Perhaps it's different because of the small cushion I have until the checks stop coming. Maybe it's because all my coworkers can commisserate and share contacts. I don't know. But I've got this deadly sense of calm and assurance that things will be okay because I gd said it's going to be, dammit. And I'm going to get that out in writing before the doubt creeps in and asphyxiates it like a poisonous gas.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
you get what you put out there
I had such a lovely birthday. I woke up and went through the day showered with love from family, friends and coworkers and got so many warm wishes from you guys, too. And I got badass stuff in the mail! Oh, how I love getting nonbills/nonjunk in the mail! Especially with exotic postmarks like The Netherlands and California and The City of Chicago! H sent me way too much stuff, including one item he put together himself that probably took a very long time, which I adore. During the day my colleagues took me to Hop Haus, and though I was tempted to try kangaroo or ostrich meat, I went for the excellent beef Bistro cheeseburger and was not disappointed. After work, my godmother brought over the most impressive jasmine tree (yeah, it's that sturdy-looking) with fist-sized fragrant blooms, and my mom got me an ice cream cake just like she has every year since I was three. Yum!
However, all day I had this nagging feeling of guilt ab0ut yesterday's post. I was convinced that unveiling myself as a terrible horrible person to the world like that surely would garner some sort of karmic retribution. But those words came out my fingers to live forever on the Internet, and there's nothing I can do about it now.
Sure enough, it came. Swiftly, semi-unexpectedly and deadly-ly. We got back from that great lunch and had a meeting with the mother office to learn that our entire office is getting laid off, two months (and one day) since I started. Happy Birthday from The Man!
You know how us pessimists like to say they always think negatively because then even if things don't turn out well they can take comfort in knowing they were right? Yeah, I worried that something bad would happen, but I didn't reeeeeeally think it would. Contrary to popular belief, the validation was not all that comforting.
However, all day I had this nagging feeling of guilt ab0ut yesterday's post. I was convinced that unveiling myself as a terrible horrible person to the world like that surely would garner some sort of karmic retribution. But those words came out my fingers to live forever on the Internet, and there's nothing I can do about it now.
Sure enough, it came. Swiftly, semi-unexpectedly and deadly-ly. We got back from that great lunch and had a meeting with the mother office to learn that our entire office is getting laid off, two months (and one day) since I started. Happy Birthday from The Man!
You know how us pessimists like to say they always think negatively because then even if things don't turn out well they can take comfort in knowing they were right? Yeah, I worried that something bad would happen, but I didn't reeeeeeally think it would. Contrary to popular belief, the validation was not all that comforting.
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