It's alright, cause I'm saved by the bell...
Read about the craziness that is my frantic life here.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks...
Sorry I've been a little slack with the postings lately. It's been a tad bit crazy around here. Anyway, here for your viewing pleasure, my thoughts on Holiday Frenzy Fever.
Sorry I've been a little slack with the postings lately. It's been a tad bit crazy around here. Anyway, here for your viewing pleasure, my thoughts on Holiday Frenzy Fever.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Monday, October 27, 2003
Change of plans...
In case you're wondering why I haven't posted in the past week, there is a reasonable explaination. Due to the fact that my columns run in The Jupiter Courier, where I am employed, they are owned by the E.W. Scripps company, and it would be a copyright violation for me to run them on my own site.
Before you break down crying, and feel there is no longer a reason to live, I do have good news! I can post links to the Courier Web site that will take you directly to the column. The only pitfall is, you will not get to read them before the rest of the general public, as you did before.
I will be able to post other things on this site that are not published in the paper. I know I have been slack about that, but I've been a little busy... I will try to be better, though.
Anyway, I hope those of you who are loyal readers will continue to read my columns. It's only one extra mouse click away. C'mon, you can do it! Thanks for all your comments and support! They are always appreciated.
Those with criticism, bugger off!! Just kidding... Enjoy!
In case you're wondering why I haven't posted in the past week, there is a reasonable explaination. Due to the fact that my columns run in The Jupiter Courier, where I am employed, they are owned by the E.W. Scripps company, and it would be a copyright violation for me to run them on my own site.
Before you break down crying, and feel there is no longer a reason to live, I do have good news! I can post links to the Courier Web site that will take you directly to the column. The only pitfall is, you will not get to read them before the rest of the general public, as you did before.
I will be able to post other things on this site that are not published in the paper. I know I have been slack about that, but I've been a little busy... I will try to be better, though.
Anyway, I hope those of you who are loyal readers will continue to read my columns. It's only one extra mouse click away. C'mon, you can do it! Thanks for all your comments and support! They are always appreciated.
Those with criticism, bugger off!! Just kidding... Enjoy!
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Fins to the left...
On my first low-key weekend in longer than I can remember, I decided to do something very risqué and dangerous- test drive cars at a dealership.
And if that was not daring enough, it should be noted that I was by myself and am a first-time car shopper.
Crazy, you say? Foolish, am I?
Perhaps. But I was completely locked into the mindset of not purchasing a car that day, so I figured that I was safe.
Furthermore, I do not have the appropriate funding to just jaunt out and by a new car on a whim at the present time, thus increasing the potency of my safety net.
So, I figured, it’s the perfect crime. I’d get to peruse the cars, test them out and then leave, because there is no way I could conceivably be talked into buying one.
I must say, I severely underestimated the shrewdness of pressure salesmen.
The salespeople were like sharks mulling outside the door of the dealership. In fact, they couldn’t have been more obvious if they had fins taped to their backs.
I did not even have the chance to lock my car door before I was offered something to drink, a business card and a pen with which to sign the contracts.
I was really hoping to just lollygag around. I wanted to look over the cars, make some notes on the reporter’s notepad that I carry with me wherever I go and then let a salesperson know when I was ready to test one out.
Shame on me for desiring some space and independence. I’m guessing that notion was rookie mistake number one, because the sharks, bull sharks I’d presume, in their clean polo shirts and pressed khaki slacks, began to twitch with excitement over my faux pas like I’d just dripped a spot of blood into their holding tank.
With little delay, I was steered towards my “dream car,” which the salesman and I would be driving and discussing. As I climbed into the passenger’s seat, I looked longingly at the stylish, less expensive car I’d wanted to try a little further down the lot.
Guess we weren’t meant to be a match made in Heaven, old boy.
When we returned to the dealership, I wondered if it was just my imagination, or had all of the female salespeople vanished from the premises? Not a single woman was in sight, and in the interest of time, I will resist the urge to turn this story into a “Women’s Lib” issue, and assume that the men just wanted the female prey all to themselves.
As I sat at the salesman’s desk awaiting a price quote I didn’t even know that I had asked for, I was approached by every man in the store. Each claimed to be a manager of some sort, and after a mere ten minutes, I had enough business cards to fill a rolodex.
I glanced wearily at the salesman that had taken me on the test drive. He apologized profusely, and explained that no matter how much he knew that I did not want to buy a car that day, his managers did not believe such a person existed in the world.
So for forty minutes, I sat like a freak exhibit at Ripley’s Believe it or Not. One that everyone had to attempt to discredit before shaking their heads and surrendering to the acknowledgment of my disease.
I’d had quite enough, and asked the friendly salesman (an oxymoron, I know) to pass me a post-it note and a pen. In large letters I wrote, “I do not want to buy a car today!” and stuck it to my forehead.
Well, that maneuver was enough to make them bring out the big guns. Up strode a man with a smile like Jack Nicholson, a walk like Elvis and the presence of Clint Eastwood.
A hush fell over the crop of salesmen assembled around me. The saloon-keeper ducked below the bar. The general manager had entered the scene.
I could feel my knees weakening as he offered me incentive after incentive on a new car. He was a smooth talker, and he was whittling away at my ability to think rationally. I pulled out my last weapon; my one and only line of defense.
“I don’t have any money,” I muttered feebly.
Then all at once, I was snapped back to reality when he uttered one remarkable phrase, much to his own detriment.
“Well, what if you didn’t need money to buy a car today?” he asked slyly.
Well, that did it. I hobbled out the door with a salesman attached to each of my legs. A defeated manager scampered to remove the “for sale” sign from my poor old car before I could get to it.
What was it about his inquiry that made me see the light? Well, I reasoned as I started up my clunky old Honda, if I didn’t need money to buy a car, I’d be at the Lamborghini dealership right now.
On my first low-key weekend in longer than I can remember, I decided to do something very risqué and dangerous- test drive cars at a dealership.
And if that was not daring enough, it should be noted that I was by myself and am a first-time car shopper.
Crazy, you say? Foolish, am I?
Perhaps. But I was completely locked into the mindset of not purchasing a car that day, so I figured that I was safe.
Furthermore, I do not have the appropriate funding to just jaunt out and by a new car on a whim at the present time, thus increasing the potency of my safety net.
So, I figured, it’s the perfect crime. I’d get to peruse the cars, test them out and then leave, because there is no way I could conceivably be talked into buying one.
I must say, I severely underestimated the shrewdness of pressure salesmen.
The salespeople were like sharks mulling outside the door of the dealership. In fact, they couldn’t have been more obvious if they had fins taped to their backs.
I did not even have the chance to lock my car door before I was offered something to drink, a business card and a pen with which to sign the contracts.
I was really hoping to just lollygag around. I wanted to look over the cars, make some notes on the reporter’s notepad that I carry with me wherever I go and then let a salesperson know when I was ready to test one out.
Shame on me for desiring some space and independence. I’m guessing that notion was rookie mistake number one, because the sharks, bull sharks I’d presume, in their clean polo shirts and pressed khaki slacks, began to twitch with excitement over my faux pas like I’d just dripped a spot of blood into their holding tank.
With little delay, I was steered towards my “dream car,” which the salesman and I would be driving and discussing. As I climbed into the passenger’s seat, I looked longingly at the stylish, less expensive car I’d wanted to try a little further down the lot.
Guess we weren’t meant to be a match made in Heaven, old boy.
When we returned to the dealership, I wondered if it was just my imagination, or had all of the female salespeople vanished from the premises? Not a single woman was in sight, and in the interest of time, I will resist the urge to turn this story into a “Women’s Lib” issue, and assume that the men just wanted the female prey all to themselves.
As I sat at the salesman’s desk awaiting a price quote I didn’t even know that I had asked for, I was approached by every man in the store. Each claimed to be a manager of some sort, and after a mere ten minutes, I had enough business cards to fill a rolodex.
I glanced wearily at the salesman that had taken me on the test drive. He apologized profusely, and explained that no matter how much he knew that I did not want to buy a car that day, his managers did not believe such a person existed in the world.
So for forty minutes, I sat like a freak exhibit at Ripley’s Believe it or Not. One that everyone had to attempt to discredit before shaking their heads and surrendering to the acknowledgment of my disease.
I’d had quite enough, and asked the friendly salesman (an oxymoron, I know) to pass me a post-it note and a pen. In large letters I wrote, “I do not want to buy a car today!” and stuck it to my forehead.
Well, that maneuver was enough to make them bring out the big guns. Up strode a man with a smile like Jack Nicholson, a walk like Elvis and the presence of Clint Eastwood.
A hush fell over the crop of salesmen assembled around me. The saloon-keeper ducked below the bar. The general manager had entered the scene.
I could feel my knees weakening as he offered me incentive after incentive on a new car. He was a smooth talker, and he was whittling away at my ability to think rationally. I pulled out my last weapon; my one and only line of defense.
“I don’t have any money,” I muttered feebly.
Then all at once, I was snapped back to reality when he uttered one remarkable phrase, much to his own detriment.
“Well, what if you didn’t need money to buy a car today?” he asked slyly.
Well, that did it. I hobbled out the door with a salesman attached to each of my legs. A defeated manager scampered to remove the “for sale” sign from my poor old car before I could get to it.
What was it about his inquiry that made me see the light? Well, I reasoned as I started up my clunky old Honda, if I didn’t need money to buy a car, I’d be at the Lamborghini dealership right now.
Friday, October 10, 2003
Hail, alma matter...
Some say that you can’t go home again.
After attending my college alma matter’s homecoming celebration this past weekend I learned that this sentiment does not always ring true.
I spent a long weekend at Appalachian State University, and I quickly found that while many things and people were different than I remember, some things never change.
During the week, I stayed with close friends who had all migrated to another city after graduation. I visited new apartments and homes, met new husbands and wives, and chatted about new jobs and higher education.
At first it took a bit of adjusting to see my college folk as the same crop of people with whom I shared triumph and tragedy in our first dorm rooms or during our first classes. Everyone seemed so much older and more mature and settled than I recalled.
It was difficult to witness the same people who could pull all-nighters in our dorm lobby only to scramble to an early morning class, yawning at 9:30 p.m. and complaining about “an early day at the office tomorrow.”
I must admit, at times I got a little downhearted and began reminiscing about the “good ol’ days.” But as quickly as it came, my sadness dissipated into a whirlwind weekend of memories and laughter.
By the time we reached the school, homecoming had indeed become just that. As the mobs of students created unique spectacles of themselves in the middle of Boone’s main street, my friends and I knew it: We were home again.
At game time, we stood on top of the bleachers until our legs felt like jelly and yelled for our team until our voices were long lost. Familiar faces filled the crowd, and everywhere I turned, someone from my past was shouting my name.
My friends and I got caught up in the memory of student life, and for one flickering moment we left our adulthood behind and slipped into a comfortable time warp. We remembered the way things were, and were grateful that those days were not lost forever.
Sometimes it’s easy to lose touch with a good friend. Sometimes when the circumstances under which you became friends disappear, it’s hard to view a friendship in the same light as you once did. Sometimes too much time can create a rift that only a trip to the past can repair.
I was fortunate to have that trip this week, and I know it. Not everyone gets to make the journey home, but at the week’s closure, I was quite glad I did.
Looking back now, I am able to reflect upon my time at “home” and savor several revelations.
Yes, sometimes people change, but that is not always a bad thing. It is possible to change with someone, and changing together can only make a friendship stronger.
Yes, sometimes situations change, but if your relationship is strong enough, it will withstand the tests of time and place.
And yes, we may not have as much time for each other as we would like, but as time becomes more scare, the time you do have to share with others becomes that much more valuable and sacred.
As my short time with old friends drew to a close, I noticed that I started to appreciate their adult selves just as much as I did their college selves. We’re all in the same boat — still growing and trying to find the things in life that will make us happy.
The most important thing to remember, no matter where you go or what you need to do to make it to the next level in your life, your friends will always be there to give you a boost.
My friends were there in the planning stages of my life. Not only do they know my past victories and struggles in life. They also know my dreams and aspirations, and they will be there to remind me of them when I can’t remember myself.
Some say that you can’t go home again.
After attending my college alma matter’s homecoming celebration this past weekend I learned that this sentiment does not always ring true.
I spent a long weekend at Appalachian State University, and I quickly found that while many things and people were different than I remember, some things never change.
During the week, I stayed with close friends who had all migrated to another city after graduation. I visited new apartments and homes, met new husbands and wives, and chatted about new jobs and higher education.
At first it took a bit of adjusting to see my college folk as the same crop of people with whom I shared triumph and tragedy in our first dorm rooms or during our first classes. Everyone seemed so much older and more mature and settled than I recalled.
It was difficult to witness the same people who could pull all-nighters in our dorm lobby only to scramble to an early morning class, yawning at 9:30 p.m. and complaining about “an early day at the office tomorrow.”
I must admit, at times I got a little downhearted and began reminiscing about the “good ol’ days.” But as quickly as it came, my sadness dissipated into a whirlwind weekend of memories and laughter.
By the time we reached the school, homecoming had indeed become just that. As the mobs of students created unique spectacles of themselves in the middle of Boone’s main street, my friends and I knew it: We were home again.
At game time, we stood on top of the bleachers until our legs felt like jelly and yelled for our team until our voices were long lost. Familiar faces filled the crowd, and everywhere I turned, someone from my past was shouting my name.
My friends and I got caught up in the memory of student life, and for one flickering moment we left our adulthood behind and slipped into a comfortable time warp. We remembered the way things were, and were grateful that those days were not lost forever.
Sometimes it’s easy to lose touch with a good friend. Sometimes when the circumstances under which you became friends disappear, it’s hard to view a friendship in the same light as you once did. Sometimes too much time can create a rift that only a trip to the past can repair.
I was fortunate to have that trip this week, and I know it. Not everyone gets to make the journey home, but at the week’s closure, I was quite glad I did.
Looking back now, I am able to reflect upon my time at “home” and savor several revelations.
Yes, sometimes people change, but that is not always a bad thing. It is possible to change with someone, and changing together can only make a friendship stronger.
Yes, sometimes situations change, but if your relationship is strong enough, it will withstand the tests of time and place.
And yes, we may not have as much time for each other as we would like, but as time becomes more scare, the time you do have to share with others becomes that much more valuable and sacred.
As my short time with old friends drew to a close, I noticed that I started to appreciate their adult selves just as much as I did their college selves. We’re all in the same boat — still growing and trying to find the things in life that will make us happy.
The most important thing to remember, no matter where you go or what you need to do to make it to the next level in your life, your friends will always be there to give you a boost.
My friends were there in the planning stages of my life. Not only do they know my past victories and struggles in life. They also know my dreams and aspirations, and they will be there to remind me of them when I can’t remember myself.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Football: Bringing world peace to many...
The roar of the crowd. The collective chant of an audience. The beer bottles flying overhead.
Okay, so there are some things that are slightly unpleasant at football games, but for the most part, there are few things I enjoy more.
Packed into a stadium with 73,000 fellow Dolphins fans last weekend, I couldn’t help but smile at the scene.
People everywhere were decked out in jerseys commemorating their favorite player, and they exchanged a nod and a smile with others sharing their opinions. Strangers slapped hands and exchanged hugs at the slightest hint of victory and produced a collective sigh when times were bleak.
For a brief moment, everyone around you has something in common, and that is a thing to be celebrated. In the grand scope of things, football is a trivial event, but I have come to embrace it as a means of brotherhood and community.
Before non-football fans discard my notion of togetherness, it is important to understand that this feeling can be accomplished in many arenas in life.
In my own experiences, I can recall trips to a theater production where the audience laughed and cried together and became one body of awed viewers. Many times I have turned to an audience member beside me at intermission or at the play’s conclusion and exchanged sentiments about what we had just witnessed.
During my study-abroad program in London, I was fortunate enough to find myself utterly lost in a crowd of thousands celebrating a “football” victory in Piccadilly Circus. I stood fascinated by the masses of people cheering and yelling, and it wasn’t long before I too was caught up in the spirit, embracing my neighbors as we herded down the street.
The term I’ve always used to describe these phenomenons is “choreographed chaos.”
On the outside, things may appear out of control, and an apprehensive person may not look to see what’s within the hustle and bustle. But an insider knows that they are safe, because they are with people who understand.
Be it a concert, a movie, a rally or anything where people are gathered with common interests, nothing compares to the unique bond that can exist in those situations. Anyone knows from experience how a great event or an amazing feeling can get muddled in the retelling. Too often the phrase, “Guess you had to be there,” can escape a disappointed storyteller’s lips.
After a great scene in whatever production in life you witness with another, there is no greater satisfaction than being able to look at someone else and without so much as a sound, be able to understand their feelings completely.
Some people are afraid of crowds, and that’s to be understood. As with last weekend’s game, some people will break the peaceful choreography, and that’s a shame. Those people will never understand the unspoken bond that they have disrupted, but rest assured, more people will get it than not.
I cannot tell you how many crucial connections I have made with fellow audience members from various events that I have attended. I’ve met strangers turned to friends, received information on good mechanics and bad doctors and even received a deal on a car.
The point is, opportunities to congregate are abundant. No matter what our differences in this world may be, there will always be some place where someone else can share your thoughts, hopes and happiness, and we should grasp those occasions whenever we can.
Happiness can come when we embrace that good ‘ol “Cheers” mentality and find ourselves in a place where everybody knows our name. There is security to be found in places that may look disorganized and dangerous. Sharing a priceless moment of joy or sorrow with others who can relate is a liberation that can be, and should be, enjoyed by all.
Unless you were a Bills fan at the Dolphins game- Then you were on your own.
The roar of the crowd. The collective chant of an audience. The beer bottles flying overhead.
Okay, so there are some things that are slightly unpleasant at football games, but for the most part, there are few things I enjoy more.
Packed into a stadium with 73,000 fellow Dolphins fans last weekend, I couldn’t help but smile at the scene.
People everywhere were decked out in jerseys commemorating their favorite player, and they exchanged a nod and a smile with others sharing their opinions. Strangers slapped hands and exchanged hugs at the slightest hint of victory and produced a collective sigh when times were bleak.
For a brief moment, everyone around you has something in common, and that is a thing to be celebrated. In the grand scope of things, football is a trivial event, but I have come to embrace it as a means of brotherhood and community.
Before non-football fans discard my notion of togetherness, it is important to understand that this feeling can be accomplished in many arenas in life.
In my own experiences, I can recall trips to a theater production where the audience laughed and cried together and became one body of awed viewers. Many times I have turned to an audience member beside me at intermission or at the play’s conclusion and exchanged sentiments about what we had just witnessed.
During my study-abroad program in London, I was fortunate enough to find myself utterly lost in a crowd of thousands celebrating a “football” victory in Piccadilly Circus. I stood fascinated by the masses of people cheering and yelling, and it wasn’t long before I too was caught up in the spirit, embracing my neighbors as we herded down the street.
The term I’ve always used to describe these phenomenons is “choreographed chaos.”
On the outside, things may appear out of control, and an apprehensive person may not look to see what’s within the hustle and bustle. But an insider knows that they are safe, because they are with people who understand.
Be it a concert, a movie, a rally or anything where people are gathered with common interests, nothing compares to the unique bond that can exist in those situations. Anyone knows from experience how a great event or an amazing feeling can get muddled in the retelling. Too often the phrase, “Guess you had to be there,” can escape a disappointed storyteller’s lips.
After a great scene in whatever production in life you witness with another, there is no greater satisfaction than being able to look at someone else and without so much as a sound, be able to understand their feelings completely.
Some people are afraid of crowds, and that’s to be understood. As with last weekend’s game, some people will break the peaceful choreography, and that’s a shame. Those people will never understand the unspoken bond that they have disrupted, but rest assured, more people will get it than not.
I cannot tell you how many crucial connections I have made with fellow audience members from various events that I have attended. I’ve met strangers turned to friends, received information on good mechanics and bad doctors and even received a deal on a car.
The point is, opportunities to congregate are abundant. No matter what our differences in this world may be, there will always be some place where someone else can share your thoughts, hopes and happiness, and we should grasp those occasions whenever we can.
Happiness can come when we embrace that good ‘ol “Cheers” mentality and find ourselves in a place where everybody knows our name. There is security to be found in places that may look disorganized and dangerous. Sharing a priceless moment of joy or sorrow with others who can relate is a liberation that can be, and should be, enjoyed by all.
Unless you were a Bills fan at the Dolphins game- Then you were on your own.
Friday, September 19, 2003
Party till your dogs ache...
I celebrated my puppy Picadilly’s first birthday last weekend.
I worked late into the evening making a special cake and cookies with doggie décor to serve to all of our family at his birthday party.
I even went so far as to send out invitations and buy “happy birthday” balloons with Clifford on them (every dog’s hero).
Okay, before you start thinking I’m nuts and petition my editors to have me committed, let me explain my motives for throwing my puppy a birthday party.
I must admit, though quietly so that my beagle boss doesn’t hear, I had ulterior motives for throwing the birthday bash.
For many years, I have traveled to birthday parties, holiday gatherings and football get-togethers held by various members of my family.
I have just moved into my first ever self-subsidized, roommateless apartment, and now, it’s my turn to show off my new digs and entertain those who have done so for me over the years.
As my family sat around on my couches, in my apartment, watching the Dolphins beat the Jets on my television, a deep sense of pride washed over me.
Sure, some had to sit on the floor in my tiny living room, but it was my floor! And okay, so the furniture was all donated, but it’s mine now- no take-backs!
Despite the fact that I have to wipe a few tears from my eyes when I’m writing out that rent check each month with no roommate to defray the cost, I can’t help but think that it’s worth it to be able to come and go as I please, leave dishes in the sink and not take the garbage out the second it gets full.
Now, many beagle owners will tell you that this particular breed, especially the males, are extremely difficult to train. They are highly stubborn, very possessive and do not take rebuke well.
After mine cost me a considerable amount of money in carpet damage payments at our last place, a lot of people thought I was crazy to continue to put up with him. My friends griped each time I had to leave a get-together to take the dog out and my family grumbled whenever he accompanied me to one of their homes.
On countless occasions I have been asked, why would any free-spirited, carefree person anchor themselves to something as demanding as single-puppy parenthood?
Every time, my response is the same: because the very creature that introduced such responsibility and commitment into my life is the same that set me free.
I come home everyday to the healthy, exuberant puppy that I raised single-handedly, and he brings a sense of joy and accomplishment to my life that I have never known.
When he is sick or in pain, he looks to me to protect him and make things better. He is, in essence, my child, and I treat him as such.
It’s not just me I’m providing for- his life is my responsibility, and this home is just as much his as it is mine.
I would not be so shallow as to say that I always have everything under control and that I can handle everything life throws my way. Life is full of big failures and small victories, but eventually you find a way to make each your own. You may even grow to learn that freedom and responsibility are one in the same.
In celebrating Picadilly’s birthday last week, I was actually commemorating more that my pup’s first year on Earth. I was reveling in my first year of being responsible and free through the eyes of someone who needs me to be.
Plus, how often do you get to make a cake with icing dog bones on it?
I celebrated my puppy Picadilly’s first birthday last weekend.
I worked late into the evening making a special cake and cookies with doggie décor to serve to all of our family at his birthday party.
I even went so far as to send out invitations and buy “happy birthday” balloons with Clifford on them (every dog’s hero).
Okay, before you start thinking I’m nuts and petition my editors to have me committed, let me explain my motives for throwing my puppy a birthday party.
I must admit, though quietly so that my beagle boss doesn’t hear, I had ulterior motives for throwing the birthday bash.
For many years, I have traveled to birthday parties, holiday gatherings and football get-togethers held by various members of my family.
I have just moved into my first ever self-subsidized, roommateless apartment, and now, it’s my turn to show off my new digs and entertain those who have done so for me over the years.
As my family sat around on my couches, in my apartment, watching the Dolphins beat the Jets on my television, a deep sense of pride washed over me.
Sure, some had to sit on the floor in my tiny living room, but it was my floor! And okay, so the furniture was all donated, but it’s mine now- no take-backs!
Despite the fact that I have to wipe a few tears from my eyes when I’m writing out that rent check each month with no roommate to defray the cost, I can’t help but think that it’s worth it to be able to come and go as I please, leave dishes in the sink and not take the garbage out the second it gets full.
Now, many beagle owners will tell you that this particular breed, especially the males, are extremely difficult to train. They are highly stubborn, very possessive and do not take rebuke well.
After mine cost me a considerable amount of money in carpet damage payments at our last place, a lot of people thought I was crazy to continue to put up with him. My friends griped each time I had to leave a get-together to take the dog out and my family grumbled whenever he accompanied me to one of their homes.
On countless occasions I have been asked, why would any free-spirited, carefree person anchor themselves to something as demanding as single-puppy parenthood?
Every time, my response is the same: because the very creature that introduced such responsibility and commitment into my life is the same that set me free.
I come home everyday to the healthy, exuberant puppy that I raised single-handedly, and he brings a sense of joy and accomplishment to my life that I have never known.
When he is sick or in pain, he looks to me to protect him and make things better. He is, in essence, my child, and I treat him as such.
It’s not just me I’m providing for- his life is my responsibility, and this home is just as much his as it is mine.
I would not be so shallow as to say that I always have everything under control and that I can handle everything life throws my way. Life is full of big failures and small victories, but eventually you find a way to make each your own. You may even grow to learn that freedom and responsibility are one in the same.
In celebrating Picadilly’s birthday last week, I was actually commemorating more that my pup’s first year on Earth. I was reveling in my first year of being responsible and free through the eyes of someone who needs me to be.
Plus, how often do you get to make a cake with icing dog bones on it?
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Life in the bitter barn...
Murphy’s Law, rule number three: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”
I live my life according to Murphy’s Laws. Rules such as “If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway” and “If everything seems to be going well, you’ve obviously overlooked something” are abundant features in my life.
I say this as I am sitting in an auto repair shop, 40 miles from home, awaiting the fateful prognosis on my battered little car. I shouldn’t feel sorry for the car, though. He (yes, I personify my car) has had all week to break down on me. At any time, he could have decided to give out on me, but he had his own agenda.
In accordance with Murphy’s Laws, he suddenly heaved a tremendous sigh and decided to take an expensive nap- right in the middle of U.S. 1.
And not just anywhere on U.S. 1- in Stuart, where I had an extremely rare 9 a.m. new employees meeting.
When the tow truck men arrived on the scene, they asked if someone was coming to pick me up. The same question was asked of me when I arrived at the repair shop.
As I am sitting in the car repair waiting room working on my laptop, the obvious answer to both is no.
In the six weeks that I have called Palm Beach County my home, the area and I have been engaged in a little game of “getting to know you.”
So far, I am losing…
I have tried a number of methods in an attempt to meet new people in the area, and each of my efforts have been thwarted. Admittedly, many of those undertakings have resulted in rather humorous outcomes, making it very difficult to curse the situations as I so often desire.
The site of my first expedition to meet people was an obvious choice: church.
In church, people have to be nice to you, or they will get smoldered. Okay, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but they do have to actively recruit you for their ministry.
Right after work one Wednesday, I sprinted over to the church for a small group single’s discussion meeting. I figured that narrowing the church mass into a smaller group of people that I could relate to would be the best plan for making new friends.
When I entered the room that evening, I immediately recognized my logical error- and so did they. Several pairs of eyes peered questioningly at me from behind out-dated spectacles, and one brave soul inquired, “Aren’t you a bit young for this group?”
Only about four decades too young, I thought, but who’s counting? They filled me in on the background of their 60+ widower’s group, and I quietly slipped out the door as they jabbered on out a potluck dinner of shepherd’s pie.
Attempts two and three left me high, dry and soaking wet, if you can imagine that phenomenon.
I called around looking for an adult softball league to join, figuring that some outdoors time after work would lead me to fun friends with similar interests. I sought the advice of two different people in charge of organizing the leagues, and their suggestion was the same: go out to the field and ask a team manager if they need an extra player.
I can’t tell you how dopey I felt walking onto the field that Friday afternoon. I felt like that little kid walking up to the posse of bigger kids, asking, “Can I play with you?”
Unfortunately, there was no one there to answer my juvenile request, because neither league organizer bothered to inform me that there were no games during the holiday weekend.
Given my track record, I guess I should have sensed disaster in the air the following Friday, but I was foolishly optimistic. I drove out to the field in drizzly weather, hoping that the games were still on for the evening.
As a torrential downpour began to unleash itself during my drive, I started to wonder if the storm cloud was simply following me or if it was affecting everyone else in the county. When I arrived at the field, people hustling to the parking lot shouted to me, telling me games were cancelled.
I took advantage of the situation and dashed through puddles of slippery, red mud across the field. I decided that I would corner some unsuspecting manager huddled under an awning and make them put me on their team.
The manager I encountered was in fact looking for players for the upcoming weeks, and I am now awaiting notification on my request to play with the Saucy Kitty’s Lingerie team. Don’t ask…
At this point, I feel obliged to tell you that I love this area. I am not resentful or upset that I haven’t found my niche yet, because I know that Jupiter and its surrounding areas have so much to offer someone like me.
Maybe I’m just looking at things the wrong way. I guess having your car stall in the middle of a busy highway and getting two men to rescue you by pushing your car to safety is an icebreaker for future conversation with them. It wasn’t what I had in mind as a way of meeting people, but at this point, I’m open to non-conventional alternatives.
Regardless of my trial and error follies, I have no plans to resign myself to a state of hermit-hood just yet. I will keep taking strides to find my place here, and I will not be bitter when failure seems inevitable.
Okay, maybe I am a little bitter right now, but I promise to have a brighter attitude if I ever leave the car repair shop.
Murphy’s Law, rule number three: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”
I live my life according to Murphy’s Laws. Rules such as “If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway” and “If everything seems to be going well, you’ve obviously overlooked something” are abundant features in my life.
I say this as I am sitting in an auto repair shop, 40 miles from home, awaiting the fateful prognosis on my battered little car. I shouldn’t feel sorry for the car, though. He (yes, I personify my car) has had all week to break down on me. At any time, he could have decided to give out on me, but he had his own agenda.
In accordance with Murphy’s Laws, he suddenly heaved a tremendous sigh and decided to take an expensive nap- right in the middle of U.S. 1.
And not just anywhere on U.S. 1- in Stuart, where I had an extremely rare 9 a.m. new employees meeting.
When the tow truck men arrived on the scene, they asked if someone was coming to pick me up. The same question was asked of me when I arrived at the repair shop.
As I am sitting in the car repair waiting room working on my laptop, the obvious answer to both is no.
In the six weeks that I have called Palm Beach County my home, the area and I have been engaged in a little game of “getting to know you.”
So far, I am losing…
I have tried a number of methods in an attempt to meet new people in the area, and each of my efforts have been thwarted. Admittedly, many of those undertakings have resulted in rather humorous outcomes, making it very difficult to curse the situations as I so often desire.
The site of my first expedition to meet people was an obvious choice: church.
In church, people have to be nice to you, or they will get smoldered. Okay, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but they do have to actively recruit you for their ministry.
Right after work one Wednesday, I sprinted over to the church for a small group single’s discussion meeting. I figured that narrowing the church mass into a smaller group of people that I could relate to would be the best plan for making new friends.
When I entered the room that evening, I immediately recognized my logical error- and so did they. Several pairs of eyes peered questioningly at me from behind out-dated spectacles, and one brave soul inquired, “Aren’t you a bit young for this group?”
Only about four decades too young, I thought, but who’s counting? They filled me in on the background of their 60+ widower’s group, and I quietly slipped out the door as they jabbered on out a potluck dinner of shepherd’s pie.
Attempts two and three left me high, dry and soaking wet, if you can imagine that phenomenon.
I called around looking for an adult softball league to join, figuring that some outdoors time after work would lead me to fun friends with similar interests. I sought the advice of two different people in charge of organizing the leagues, and their suggestion was the same: go out to the field and ask a team manager if they need an extra player.
I can’t tell you how dopey I felt walking onto the field that Friday afternoon. I felt like that little kid walking up to the posse of bigger kids, asking, “Can I play with you?”
Unfortunately, there was no one there to answer my juvenile request, because neither league organizer bothered to inform me that there were no games during the holiday weekend.
Given my track record, I guess I should have sensed disaster in the air the following Friday, but I was foolishly optimistic. I drove out to the field in drizzly weather, hoping that the games were still on for the evening.
As a torrential downpour began to unleash itself during my drive, I started to wonder if the storm cloud was simply following me or if it was affecting everyone else in the county. When I arrived at the field, people hustling to the parking lot shouted to me, telling me games were cancelled.
I took advantage of the situation and dashed through puddles of slippery, red mud across the field. I decided that I would corner some unsuspecting manager huddled under an awning and make them put me on their team.
The manager I encountered was in fact looking for players for the upcoming weeks, and I am now awaiting notification on my request to play with the Saucy Kitty’s Lingerie team. Don’t ask…
At this point, I feel obliged to tell you that I love this area. I am not resentful or upset that I haven’t found my niche yet, because I know that Jupiter and its surrounding areas have so much to offer someone like me.
Maybe I’m just looking at things the wrong way. I guess having your car stall in the middle of a busy highway and getting two men to rescue you by pushing your car to safety is an icebreaker for future conversation with them. It wasn’t what I had in mind as a way of meeting people, but at this point, I’m open to non-conventional alternatives.
Regardless of my trial and error follies, I have no plans to resign myself to a state of hermit-hood just yet. I will keep taking strides to find my place here, and I will not be bitter when failure seems inevitable.
Okay, maybe I am a little bitter right now, but I promise to have a brighter attitude if I ever leave the car repair shop.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Ode to Marco Polo...
When I was younger, I could think of no better way to spend a Saturday than in the pool.
What could possibly beat a ten hour pool day featuring a raucous game of Marco Polo, chicken fights and diving contests?
As a child, my friends and family and I would spend a marathon number of weekend hours completely water-logged and with pruned fingers. When our parents finally hauled us out of the water, our lips chattering and blue from the cool night air, we would enjoy sandwich dinners under the stars, wrapped in sopping towels.
As I recall, there was no greater spoiler of a water fun day than the inevitable one or two teenagers or adults who would lounge by the pool working on their tans and yelling at the kids for splashing or being too noisy. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could waste such a day loaded with fun in the sun potential, and believed firmly that I would never squander such opportunities when I was older.
As I sprawled out in my lawn chair a few weeks ago with an icy drink in hand and a relaxed grin on my face, I thought to myself, nothing could be better than laying here in the sun, letting the beating sun rays drain all of my weekday cares from my head.
I furrowed my brow at the neighborhood children splashing around, and even stifled a lecture when I saw a pack of kids running around the perimeter of the pool. I wondered, why can’t they just be still and enjoy the simplicity of their surroundings?
Woah! Could I have possibly sounded any older?
I have to recall with a laugh how many times my parents threatened to tape record my proclamations as a child. Everything was so definite back then, with no gray areas. “I will NEVER like boys!” “I will NEVER wish for a naptime!” “I will ALWAYS enjoy getting dirty!”
I have, of course, come to believe the opposite of all of these. Mmm... daily naptimes... But I digress.
As “grown ups,” we come to find that life is filled with gray areas. Decisions aren’t always as easy as which color crayon to use. Sometimes instead of choosing between a good option and a bad one, you are forced to make a difficult decision to determine which is the lesser of two evils (for example, choosing mechanics, presidential elections, etc.).
When you are a child, you want to make your own choices; choose your own destinies. As an adult faced with a problem, you want nothing more than to make someone else decide.
On the plus side for adulthood, as a child, you lack the power to choose to dine on jelly beans for lunch. As an adult, you can have them for dinner too!
The most rewarding privilege of adulthood is the ability to choose how you want to view the world. Sometimes being a “grown up” is necessary, but that’s only because throwing paper airplanes during board meetings is not sociably acceptable. When you want to cut loose and have a little fun, you have the option to choose between being an adult and exposing your inner child.
I spent this past weekend at the pool again, this time with a different attitude. I played with my younger siblings, throwing them up in the air and into the water. I watched and applauded their efforts to add a new twist to each dive they did into the pool. I even instigated a dangerous game of Frisbee (my apologies to everyone whose head I hit).
I enjoyed mealtime outside, wrapped in a sopping towel and loving every minute of it. For one moment, I remembered what it was like to be a child, thinking of nothing but poolside fun and a long weekend, and it was great.
When I went to work on Tuesday, I felt more worn-out and water-logged than I have ever felt before in my life. My mind may have been able to relive a slice of childhood, but my adult body just can’t hang with the young ones.
After last weekend, I know I will still fulfill my midweek daydreams of lazy Saturday sunbathing. I can’t promise that I will join in the next neighborhood game of Marco Polo I come across, but at the very least, I will lighten my scowl and enjoy the loud shrieks of childhood.
Maybe I’ll hide a water gun under my towel and spray them periodically. MY parents won’t be there to punish me!
When I was younger, I could think of no better way to spend a Saturday than in the pool.
What could possibly beat a ten hour pool day featuring a raucous game of Marco Polo, chicken fights and diving contests?
As a child, my friends and family and I would spend a marathon number of weekend hours completely water-logged and with pruned fingers. When our parents finally hauled us out of the water, our lips chattering and blue from the cool night air, we would enjoy sandwich dinners under the stars, wrapped in sopping towels.
As I recall, there was no greater spoiler of a water fun day than the inevitable one or two teenagers or adults who would lounge by the pool working on their tans and yelling at the kids for splashing or being too noisy. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could waste such a day loaded with fun in the sun potential, and believed firmly that I would never squander such opportunities when I was older.
As I sprawled out in my lawn chair a few weeks ago with an icy drink in hand and a relaxed grin on my face, I thought to myself, nothing could be better than laying here in the sun, letting the beating sun rays drain all of my weekday cares from my head.
I furrowed my brow at the neighborhood children splashing around, and even stifled a lecture when I saw a pack of kids running around the perimeter of the pool. I wondered, why can’t they just be still and enjoy the simplicity of their surroundings?
Woah! Could I have possibly sounded any older?
I have to recall with a laugh how many times my parents threatened to tape record my proclamations as a child. Everything was so definite back then, with no gray areas. “I will NEVER like boys!” “I will NEVER wish for a naptime!” “I will ALWAYS enjoy getting dirty!”
I have, of course, come to believe the opposite of all of these. Mmm... daily naptimes... But I digress.
As “grown ups,” we come to find that life is filled with gray areas. Decisions aren’t always as easy as which color crayon to use. Sometimes instead of choosing between a good option and a bad one, you are forced to make a difficult decision to determine which is the lesser of two evils (for example, choosing mechanics, presidential elections, etc.).
When you are a child, you want to make your own choices; choose your own destinies. As an adult faced with a problem, you want nothing more than to make someone else decide.
On the plus side for adulthood, as a child, you lack the power to choose to dine on jelly beans for lunch. As an adult, you can have them for dinner too!
The most rewarding privilege of adulthood is the ability to choose how you want to view the world. Sometimes being a “grown up” is necessary, but that’s only because throwing paper airplanes during board meetings is not sociably acceptable. When you want to cut loose and have a little fun, you have the option to choose between being an adult and exposing your inner child.
I spent this past weekend at the pool again, this time with a different attitude. I played with my younger siblings, throwing them up in the air and into the water. I watched and applauded their efforts to add a new twist to each dive they did into the pool. I even instigated a dangerous game of Frisbee (my apologies to everyone whose head I hit).
I enjoyed mealtime outside, wrapped in a sopping towel and loving every minute of it. For one moment, I remembered what it was like to be a child, thinking of nothing but poolside fun and a long weekend, and it was great.
When I went to work on Tuesday, I felt more worn-out and water-logged than I have ever felt before in my life. My mind may have been able to relive a slice of childhood, but my adult body just can’t hang with the young ones.
After last weekend, I know I will still fulfill my midweek daydreams of lazy Saturday sunbathing. I can’t promise that I will join in the next neighborhood game of Marco Polo I come across, but at the very least, I will lighten my scowl and enjoy the loud shrieks of childhood.
Maybe I’ll hide a water gun under my towel and spray them periodically. MY parents won’t be there to punish me!
Friday, August 29, 2003
Look it up...
Let me just say, genius. Pure genius.
Never before (and I suspect never again) has a television show so captured the thoughts and feelings of modern-day Americans, and additionally, external opinions of our society, as one family sitcom. They’ve captured the attention of this and other nations for nearly 14 years in a flawless manner that others have tried, and failed, to duplicate.
I am speaking, of course, of “The Simpsons.”
What a masterpiece! This show boasts oodles of awards, billions of dollars in revenue and millions of adoring fans.
You might say, “So what. Lot’s of show’s have millions of fans. The Simpsons aren’t that special.” My friend, you couldn’t be more wrong, and I’ll tell you why.
I could post nearly as many arguments highlighting the uniqueness of “The Simpsons” as there are lunchbox toting, episode quoting fans, but there is really only one thing that I can say to sum up my case and point: “D’oh!”
That’s right people. On June 14, 2001, “D’oh” was officially inducted into the dictionary making it an official word in the English language. And not just any dictionary: The Oxford English Dictionary! And we all know that Brits are smarter (or at least, they act that way), so accept it, respect it, use it. “The Simpsons” lingo is a part of your English vocabulary now and forever more.
Because “The Simpsons” are celebrating the release of their third complete season this week, I, as a “Simpsons” devotee, feel it necessary to rejoice in my own humble fashion. In light of that decision, I have decided to provide you with a list of what I feel are the top 10 episodes (in no particular order) of the past 14 glorious years:
1) “Radioactive Man” – Milhouse: “We’ve done the Jimminy Jilikers scene. We’ve done it so many times that the words have lost all meaning!”
2) “Who Shot Mr. Burns- Parts 1 & 2” – Where else can you get a murder mystery with such suspense and such an unlikely culprit? Quality.
3) “Bart After Dark” – When Bart stumbles upon a burlesque theatre, it takes a musical number featuring Springfield’s residents to save it.
4) “Guess Who’s Coming to Criticize Dinner” – Homer as a food critic. Lisa: “Dad, don’t eat it! It’s fat-free!”
5) “Tree house of Horror IX” – By far the best in a long line of Halloween classics. It’s the one where Homer’s hair tries to kill Bart, Bart and Lisa get sucked into “The Itchy and Scratchy Show” and it is revealed that Marge was impregnated by an alien (Maggie’s father).
6) “The Great Money Caper” – The whole town plays along in a prank to teach Bart and Homer a lesson in grifting. Then they go surfing...
7) “The Bart Wants What it Wants” – Bart and Milhouse compete over a girl in Canada. Milhouse: “The house always wins!”
8) “Trilogy of Error” – Everyone’s stories are contingent upon the others’. Pure genius.
9) “A Tale of Two Springfields” – Homer becomes mayor of “Old Springfield.” They have no utilities, but survive by bringing in beer and The Who.
10) “Homerpalooza” – Homer goes to Lalapalooza and takes cannonballs to the gut.
Here’s to many more years with Springfield’s finest!
Let me just say, genius. Pure genius.
Never before (and I suspect never again) has a television show so captured the thoughts and feelings of modern-day Americans, and additionally, external opinions of our society, as one family sitcom. They’ve captured the attention of this and other nations for nearly 14 years in a flawless manner that others have tried, and failed, to duplicate.
I am speaking, of course, of “The Simpsons.”
What a masterpiece! This show boasts oodles of awards, billions of dollars in revenue and millions of adoring fans.
You might say, “So what. Lot’s of show’s have millions of fans. The Simpsons aren’t that special.” My friend, you couldn’t be more wrong, and I’ll tell you why.
I could post nearly as many arguments highlighting the uniqueness of “The Simpsons” as there are lunchbox toting, episode quoting fans, but there is really only one thing that I can say to sum up my case and point: “D’oh!”
That’s right people. On June 14, 2001, “D’oh” was officially inducted into the dictionary making it an official word in the English language. And not just any dictionary: The Oxford English Dictionary! And we all know that Brits are smarter (or at least, they act that way), so accept it, respect it, use it. “The Simpsons” lingo is a part of your English vocabulary now and forever more.
Because “The Simpsons” are celebrating the release of their third complete season this week, I, as a “Simpsons” devotee, feel it necessary to rejoice in my own humble fashion. In light of that decision, I have decided to provide you with a list of what I feel are the top 10 episodes (in no particular order) of the past 14 glorious years:
1) “Radioactive Man” – Milhouse: “We’ve done the Jimminy Jilikers scene. We’ve done it so many times that the words have lost all meaning!”
2) “Who Shot Mr. Burns- Parts 1 & 2” – Where else can you get a murder mystery with such suspense and such an unlikely culprit? Quality.
3) “Bart After Dark” – When Bart stumbles upon a burlesque theatre, it takes a musical number featuring Springfield’s residents to save it.
4) “Guess Who’s Coming to Criticize Dinner” – Homer as a food critic. Lisa: “Dad, don’t eat it! It’s fat-free!”
5) “Tree house of Horror IX” – By far the best in a long line of Halloween classics. It’s the one where Homer’s hair tries to kill Bart, Bart and Lisa get sucked into “The Itchy and Scratchy Show” and it is revealed that Marge was impregnated by an alien (Maggie’s father).
6) “The Great Money Caper” – The whole town plays along in a prank to teach Bart and Homer a lesson in grifting. Then they go surfing...
7) “The Bart Wants What it Wants” – Bart and Milhouse compete over a girl in Canada. Milhouse: “The house always wins!”
8) “Trilogy of Error” – Everyone’s stories are contingent upon the others’. Pure genius.
9) “A Tale of Two Springfields” – Homer becomes mayor of “Old Springfield.” They have no utilities, but survive by bringing in beer and The Who.
10) “Homerpalooza” – Homer goes to Lalapalooza and takes cannonballs to the gut.
Here’s to many more years with Springfield’s finest!
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Good 'ol Ramen...
I uttered a phrase today that I swore would never escape my lips: I miss college.
I miss sprinting to class on two hours sleep, wearing my pajamas and splashing coffee all over myself.
I miss classes being over by noon on Friday and knowing that I had nothing to think about all weekend long, but the party on Saturday night and what type of pizza my roommates and I would consume that evening.
I even miss living in a dorm with 30 of my closest friends living right down the hall or even in the same room as me.
Every college student dreams of life after school. After all, we’d spent all of our recollected lives in classrooms and working grunt jobs just to have money for weekend trips to Taco Bell (and if we were feeling saucy, Chili’s). We fantasized about the day when we would hold our first paycheck and be able to announce aloud, “This round’s on me!”
Now here I sit, my diploma staring me in the face, eight months after I skipped merrily across the stage to the tune of “Pomp and Circumstance,” coveting my Tuesday morning “Mass Media and Society” naptimes.
What prompted my nostalgic attitude towards the good ‘ol undergrad days?
It could be my discussion with a co-worker about wanting to get my Master’s degree “someday” (did I really say that out loud?). Or it could have been the interview I had over at FAU where I listened intently to a student stressing to a professor her need for curriculum advice. Or maybe it’s the Homecoming reunion I am tying to organize with my alumni friends for October.
I think what it really boils down to, though, is responsibility.
I am at a unique point in my life, which friends and family alike have assured me is a passing phase. I am caught somewhere in between being an adult, with freedoms beyond anything I’ve ever known, and being a child, longing for the days of carefree life and irresponsibility.
As a child, I could easily say, “Hey, let’s go get a drink tonight! It’s only midnight!” As an adult, I know the more responsible way to go would be to say, “No thanks, I’ve got work tomorrow.”
At the age of 23, I find myself sitting on the brink of what I want to do and what I have the potential to be.
As I sat in my first self-subsidized apartment tonight, I came to a realization. The first step to being an adult is to realize that I have nothing of myself to lose, and only a lifetime of learning to gain.
I can be absolutely anything I want to be. Knowing that is the greatest freedom that exists in the world today.
Adulthood isn’t about eating ice cream before dinner or having a beer on a Wednesday night- It’s about being free to determine your own destiny and the path that you wish to follow.
I still keep in touch with a few of my teachers who have been supportive of me for many years. I know that they will read my “revelation” and chuckle, because they knew all along.
Nothing anyone can teach you in school can prepare you for the challenges “real life” will throw your way. When my teachers looked at me and my classmates, they weren’t fooled. They knew who would make it and who would be left behind to ponder their place in the world. They gave us all of the tools and then left us to sink or swim.
As a bonafide adult, with rent and utilities due and everything, I feel that I have a true understanding of what this world has to offer and what I have to give in return.
How do I know? Because I have just figured out that the world is a college classroom, and everyone is a professor in the game of life.
I still like leaving dirty dishes in the sink and eating Ramen noodles, though.
I uttered a phrase today that I swore would never escape my lips: I miss college.
I miss sprinting to class on two hours sleep, wearing my pajamas and splashing coffee all over myself.
I miss classes being over by noon on Friday and knowing that I had nothing to think about all weekend long, but the party on Saturday night and what type of pizza my roommates and I would consume that evening.
I even miss living in a dorm with 30 of my closest friends living right down the hall or even in the same room as me.
Every college student dreams of life after school. After all, we’d spent all of our recollected lives in classrooms and working grunt jobs just to have money for weekend trips to Taco Bell (and if we were feeling saucy, Chili’s). We fantasized about the day when we would hold our first paycheck and be able to announce aloud, “This round’s on me!”
Now here I sit, my diploma staring me in the face, eight months after I skipped merrily across the stage to the tune of “Pomp and Circumstance,” coveting my Tuesday morning “Mass Media and Society” naptimes.
What prompted my nostalgic attitude towards the good ‘ol undergrad days?
It could be my discussion with a co-worker about wanting to get my Master’s degree “someday” (did I really say that out loud?). Or it could have been the interview I had over at FAU where I listened intently to a student stressing to a professor her need for curriculum advice. Or maybe it’s the Homecoming reunion I am tying to organize with my alumni friends for October.
I think what it really boils down to, though, is responsibility.
I am at a unique point in my life, which friends and family alike have assured me is a passing phase. I am caught somewhere in between being an adult, with freedoms beyond anything I’ve ever known, and being a child, longing for the days of carefree life and irresponsibility.
As a child, I could easily say, “Hey, let’s go get a drink tonight! It’s only midnight!” As an adult, I know the more responsible way to go would be to say, “No thanks, I’ve got work tomorrow.”
At the age of 23, I find myself sitting on the brink of what I want to do and what I have the potential to be.
As I sat in my first self-subsidized apartment tonight, I came to a realization. The first step to being an adult is to realize that I have nothing of myself to lose, and only a lifetime of learning to gain.
I can be absolutely anything I want to be. Knowing that is the greatest freedom that exists in the world today.
Adulthood isn’t about eating ice cream before dinner or having a beer on a Wednesday night- It’s about being free to determine your own destiny and the path that you wish to follow.
I still keep in touch with a few of my teachers who have been supportive of me for many years. I know that they will read my “revelation” and chuckle, because they knew all along.
Nothing anyone can teach you in school can prepare you for the challenges “real life” will throw your way. When my teachers looked at me and my classmates, they weren’t fooled. They knew who would make it and who would be left behind to ponder their place in the world. They gave us all of the tools and then left us to sink or swim.
As a bonafide adult, with rent and utilities due and everything, I feel that I have a true understanding of what this world has to offer and what I have to give in return.
How do I know? Because I have just figured out that the world is a college classroom, and everyone is a professor in the game of life.
I still like leaving dirty dishes in the sink and eating Ramen noodles, though.
Monday, August 18, 2003
Reuniting with the bartender...
High school reunions provide numerous valuable opportunities. The opportunities to reacquaint with old friends, act nostalgic about your “golden years” or even rekindle an old flame are plentiful.
After attending a friend’s 10-year high school reunion this past weekend, it is safe to say that I have assessed the primary goal for all attendees of the prom-like promenade: to show everyone that you are better than you were when they knew you.
Reunions cause a great deal of undue stress amongst attendees. Everyone wants to go looking better and feeling better about their lives. Reunions staged as an event for “reuniting” have a subtle way of turning into a “whose life is better than whose” contest.
During this particular reunion, I knew nobody and had plenty of opportunities to make observations and form twisted opinions of participants as they gathered in droves in misshapen lines at the bar. The combination of long lost friends (and foes) and alcohol made for rather humorous scenery and quite predictable results.
I hung back and chatted with other non-class-of-93 reunion goers. The room was packed with friends, fiancées, spouses and miscellaneous others who were conned into attending by class members who did not want to arrive on the scene alone. We were of little interest to former students, because we did not know them in high school, couldn’t have passed judgement on them and are therefore not worth impressing.
Many people can be excluded from the generalizations that I am about to make concerning attendees. Some really did attend in the hopes of catching up with old friends and introducing new ones, however those who can be classified into obvious groups, are certainly more fun to write about.
Based on my observations, men go to reunions for two reasons: to reflect desperately upon their glory days and to show former bullies that their hand-picked bodyguards can take them down.
Many of the men I encountered were the guys in high school that got picked on and made to feel inferior. They flocked to the opportunity to show off the trophy girls and designer suits that their rocket scientist salaries have secured them like moths to a flame. The classic example that I noted of this practice was a rather short, gangly looking man clinging onto a 5 foot 10 inch model wearing a “dress,” which covered only the parts of her body required by law. The attraction there is a no-brainer.
On the other side of the room, balding former football heroes slugged down beers and thought they could hang onto some shred of their glory days by slapping each other on the butt and flexing the remnants of their muscles. This practice became even more acceptable the more drinks they consumed.
Women are slightly sneaker in their reunion objectives. They will begin preparing for the event more than a year in advance in some cases. Workout regiments will have been established and conditions will have been set (“I’m only going if I lose 15 pounds by the day of the reunion...”).
Women sidle up to each other under the pretense of a quick hello and nostalgic chat. Before you know it, you are bombarded by baby pictures, have been gaily introduced to a bored-looking husband and inundated with their Cinderella life story that has occurred since your previous meeting. Reunion attendee tip: believe about half of the stories, and you might get an accurate depiction of any given person’s life.
In the end, you realize that it’s all politics. Nobody wants to hear about your life. They only want to fascinate you with theirs. People will even begin their conversation with, “How are you?” in order to get a cookie cutter response (“Great!”). Then when you ask the obligatory return question, that is when the floodgates open.
Overall we had a great time, but not with the crowd we had expected. Old friends completely consumed with informing everyone of their picture perfect lives will prove to be a lot less fun to spend the evening with than strangers you meet for the first time. Conversations with those people typically go as follows:
“Did we have English together?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Cool, let’s dance!”
"Right on!"
After all is said and done, you feel good knowing that you caught up with old friends and even better knowing that you don’t have to see them for another 15 years. You bask in the glow of attention from new friends. But most importantly, you go home thinking that you were the best-looking, most successful person in the room, and everyone knows it. At least, that’s what you told them!
High school reunions provide numerous valuable opportunities. The opportunities to reacquaint with old friends, act nostalgic about your “golden years” or even rekindle an old flame are plentiful.
After attending a friend’s 10-year high school reunion this past weekend, it is safe to say that I have assessed the primary goal for all attendees of the prom-like promenade: to show everyone that you are better than you were when they knew you.
Reunions cause a great deal of undue stress amongst attendees. Everyone wants to go looking better and feeling better about their lives. Reunions staged as an event for “reuniting” have a subtle way of turning into a “whose life is better than whose” contest.
During this particular reunion, I knew nobody and had plenty of opportunities to make observations and form twisted opinions of participants as they gathered in droves in misshapen lines at the bar. The combination of long lost friends (and foes) and alcohol made for rather humorous scenery and quite predictable results.
I hung back and chatted with other non-class-of-93 reunion goers. The room was packed with friends, fiancées, spouses and miscellaneous others who were conned into attending by class members who did not want to arrive on the scene alone. We were of little interest to former students, because we did not know them in high school, couldn’t have passed judgement on them and are therefore not worth impressing.
Many people can be excluded from the generalizations that I am about to make concerning attendees. Some really did attend in the hopes of catching up with old friends and introducing new ones, however those who can be classified into obvious groups, are certainly more fun to write about.
Based on my observations, men go to reunions for two reasons: to reflect desperately upon their glory days and to show former bullies that their hand-picked bodyguards can take them down.
Many of the men I encountered were the guys in high school that got picked on and made to feel inferior. They flocked to the opportunity to show off the trophy girls and designer suits that their rocket scientist salaries have secured them like moths to a flame. The classic example that I noted of this practice was a rather short, gangly looking man clinging onto a 5 foot 10 inch model wearing a “dress,” which covered only the parts of her body required by law. The attraction there is a no-brainer.
On the other side of the room, balding former football heroes slugged down beers and thought they could hang onto some shred of their glory days by slapping each other on the butt and flexing the remnants of their muscles. This practice became even more acceptable the more drinks they consumed.
Women are slightly sneaker in their reunion objectives. They will begin preparing for the event more than a year in advance in some cases. Workout regiments will have been established and conditions will have been set (“I’m only going if I lose 15 pounds by the day of the reunion...”).
Women sidle up to each other under the pretense of a quick hello and nostalgic chat. Before you know it, you are bombarded by baby pictures, have been gaily introduced to a bored-looking husband and inundated with their Cinderella life story that has occurred since your previous meeting. Reunion attendee tip: believe about half of the stories, and you might get an accurate depiction of any given person’s life.
In the end, you realize that it’s all politics. Nobody wants to hear about your life. They only want to fascinate you with theirs. People will even begin their conversation with, “How are you?” in order to get a cookie cutter response (“Great!”). Then when you ask the obligatory return question, that is when the floodgates open.
Overall we had a great time, but not with the crowd we had expected. Old friends completely consumed with informing everyone of their picture perfect lives will prove to be a lot less fun to spend the evening with than strangers you meet for the first time. Conversations with those people typically go as follows:
“Did we have English together?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Cool, let’s dance!”
"Right on!"
After all is said and done, you feel good knowing that you caught up with old friends and even better knowing that you don’t have to see them for another 15 years. You bask in the glow of attention from new friends. But most importantly, you go home thinking that you were the best-looking, most successful person in the room, and everyone knows it. At least, that’s what you told them!
Friday, August 15, 2003
The scariest word of all...
Vulnerable is the word du jour being used by media types across the country to describe the blackout situation that effected 50 million people in the Northeastern United States and Canada yesterday. The lights are out, systems are down and we are vulnerable.
Vulnerability is a scary term in this day and age. Before 9-11, a girl would use it to describe her emotional status after a bad break-up. A guy might use it to describe the defense of a pro-team after a notable team member got injured. Vulnerability certainly was not fun, but it was not life-threatening.
Now here we stand, nearly two years since the worst attack on U.S. soil since Pearl Harbor was carried out. Billions of dollars have been spent on “homeland security” by the Bush administration. Hundreds of thousands were shipped away from their families to a foreign land to stamp out a possible, unproven breeding ground of future terrorist attacks.
As a nation we have formed international alliances and pulled together on our own soil to secure our way of life. We have even endured with a begrudging nod the rigors of airport security and the scare tactics they have inflicted upon our society. We have cowered in corners, afraid for our lives, and we have stood tall on the borders and shouted our dedication to our country.
All this, and yet in one swift motion, we are vulnerable.
I’ve been dealing with similar patterns of vulnerability in my own life, and I am sure many others go through these cycles too. Sometimes when things start going well, we consider ourselves invincible. No one can touch us, because we have dotted all of the T’s and crossed all the I’s.
Then something unexpected happens and we are vulnerable.
Someone second-guesses your brilliant ideas or the veracity of your conclusions. Someone disagrees with the way you work or the value of what your work produces. You are vulnerable.
Sometimes it doesn’t even take that much. Sometimes an unpredictable roadblock, such as a financial difficulty or even the death of a loved one can cause you to open your eyes and see that you are human. You have no control. You are vulnerable.
To the millions without power, and to the handful of us who are experiencing the frightening sensation of vulnerability, I say, remember that life cannot be lived by looking backwards. Don’t spend your life in fear that someone or something might come along and break you down. That can only happen if you allow it. Sometimes the greatest thinking, followed by the greatest actions come from a situation labeled as “out of control.”
I’ll close with a brilliant piece of wisdom from an old school classic, The Mighty Ducks: “Don’t be too careless, but don’t be too careful either.” Chew on that today when you have more than one option. Sometimes the path of vulnerability can also be the path to greatness.
Vulnerable is the word du jour being used by media types across the country to describe the blackout situation that effected 50 million people in the Northeastern United States and Canada yesterday. The lights are out, systems are down and we are vulnerable.
Vulnerability is a scary term in this day and age. Before 9-11, a girl would use it to describe her emotional status after a bad break-up. A guy might use it to describe the defense of a pro-team after a notable team member got injured. Vulnerability certainly was not fun, but it was not life-threatening.
Now here we stand, nearly two years since the worst attack on U.S. soil since Pearl Harbor was carried out. Billions of dollars have been spent on “homeland security” by the Bush administration. Hundreds of thousands were shipped away from their families to a foreign land to stamp out a possible, unproven breeding ground of future terrorist attacks.
As a nation we have formed international alliances and pulled together on our own soil to secure our way of life. We have even endured with a begrudging nod the rigors of airport security and the scare tactics they have inflicted upon our society. We have cowered in corners, afraid for our lives, and we have stood tall on the borders and shouted our dedication to our country.
All this, and yet in one swift motion, we are vulnerable.
I’ve been dealing with similar patterns of vulnerability in my own life, and I am sure many others go through these cycles too. Sometimes when things start going well, we consider ourselves invincible. No one can touch us, because we have dotted all of the T’s and crossed all the I’s.
Then something unexpected happens and we are vulnerable.
Someone second-guesses your brilliant ideas or the veracity of your conclusions. Someone disagrees with the way you work or the value of what your work produces. You are vulnerable.
Sometimes it doesn’t even take that much. Sometimes an unpredictable roadblock, such as a financial difficulty or even the death of a loved one can cause you to open your eyes and see that you are human. You have no control. You are vulnerable.
To the millions without power, and to the handful of us who are experiencing the frightening sensation of vulnerability, I say, remember that life cannot be lived by looking backwards. Don’t spend your life in fear that someone or something might come along and break you down. That can only happen if you allow it. Sometimes the greatest thinking, followed by the greatest actions come from a situation labeled as “out of control.”
I’ll close with a brilliant piece of wisdom from an old school classic, The Mighty Ducks: “Don’t be too careless, but don’t be too careful either.” Chew on that today when you have more than one option. Sometimes the path of vulnerability can also be the path to greatness.
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
The boy who cried "traffic!"...
I have occupied a large number of towns in my life. I’ve lived in large, metropolitan cities, as well as tiny, quaint towns.
I’ve come to discover that no matter where I choose to unpack my bags, one issue remains universal throughout every town, city and county in this country: traffic.
Road rage is a disease that plagues almost every traveler that goes head-to-head with routine daily traffic. We are all “warriors of the road,” acting as if we are the masters of our own driving destiny.
I am certainly not exempt when it comes to the subjects of aggressive driving and road rage. It is a commonly known (and should be a widely accepted) fact that everyone on the road with me is wrong and I am right. If everyone else would see things my way, the commuting world would be in perfect harmony, but I digress.
Traffic issues are paramount in the decision making processes of every town. No building, house or road can exist without opposition being voiced based on traffic.
Being a road rage addict, if you will, I can see the merit of these concerns in many instances. If the traffic situation in a community is unbearable and expansion of a town’s facilities will only agitate the situation, I will stand up and cry “traffic troubles!” at the top of my lungs.
What I do not agree with, however, is the usage of the traffic arguments in providing a protective blanket around those who routinely oppose expansion. In essence, these people are crying “traffic trouble!” in a similar manor to the boy who cried wolf.
If people continue to attempt to shield their towns from prospective changes by continuously alleging traffic issues, one of two things could happen to negatively impact their home-sweet-homes.
1) Everyone will commiserate with residents’ traffic woes and no expansion will ever be allowing. Such an outcome would create terrible economic repercussions for the town. Spending would eventually come to a halt as new residents would find the town uninhabitable.
2) No one would listen, assuming that traffic woes are over-exaggerated and “old hap,” and expansion would burst beyond capacity, creating even more dangerous and hazardous traffic situations.
The point I’m trying, in a long-winded manor, I grant you, to make is that traffic concerns are real, and should be taken seriously when considering land development issues. It should not, however, play the key roll in shooting down feasible expansion efforts before they are given a chance to get off the ground.
I have occupied a large number of towns in my life. I’ve lived in large, metropolitan cities, as well as tiny, quaint towns.
I’ve come to discover that no matter where I choose to unpack my bags, one issue remains universal throughout every town, city and county in this country: traffic.
Road rage is a disease that plagues almost every traveler that goes head-to-head with routine daily traffic. We are all “warriors of the road,” acting as if we are the masters of our own driving destiny.
I am certainly not exempt when it comes to the subjects of aggressive driving and road rage. It is a commonly known (and should be a widely accepted) fact that everyone on the road with me is wrong and I am right. If everyone else would see things my way, the commuting world would be in perfect harmony, but I digress.
Traffic issues are paramount in the decision making processes of every town. No building, house or road can exist without opposition being voiced based on traffic.
Being a road rage addict, if you will, I can see the merit of these concerns in many instances. If the traffic situation in a community is unbearable and expansion of a town’s facilities will only agitate the situation, I will stand up and cry “traffic troubles!” at the top of my lungs.
What I do not agree with, however, is the usage of the traffic arguments in providing a protective blanket around those who routinely oppose expansion. In essence, these people are crying “traffic trouble!” in a similar manor to the boy who cried wolf.
If people continue to attempt to shield their towns from prospective changes by continuously alleging traffic issues, one of two things could happen to negatively impact their home-sweet-homes.
1) Everyone will commiserate with residents’ traffic woes and no expansion will ever be allowing. Such an outcome would create terrible economic repercussions for the town. Spending would eventually come to a halt as new residents would find the town uninhabitable.
2) No one would listen, assuming that traffic woes are over-exaggerated and “old hap,” and expansion would burst beyond capacity, creating even more dangerous and hazardous traffic situations.
The point I’m trying, in a long-winded manor, I grant you, to make is that traffic concerns are real, and should be taken seriously when considering land development issues. It should not, however, play the key roll in shooting down feasible expansion efforts before they are given a chance to get off the ground.
Monday, August 11, 2003
I'm baaaaaaack...
After a three week sabatical, I am back, and in rare form, posting blogs for your reading enjoyment. I have been extremely busy with my new job, which is awesome, so I fear that I will not be able to post as frequently as before. I will be writing a column for my paper, The Jupiter Courier, and I will post those comments, in addition to random other stories. I hope you enjoy. Please keep checking in if you feel the need to follow my life story!
I apologize in advance for the length of my column below. It's been awhile...
After a three week sabatical, I am back, and in rare form, posting blogs for your reading enjoyment. I have been extremely busy with my new job, which is awesome, so I fear that I will not be able to post as frequently as before. I will be writing a column for my paper, The Jupiter Courier, and I will post those comments, in addition to random other stories. I hope you enjoy. Please keep checking in if you feel the need to follow my life story!
I apologize in advance for the length of my column below. It's been awhile...
Weekday Warrior...
For most people, the first week of work at a new job involves a lot of tedium. 20 people feel the need to show you where the water cooler is. You learn that Bob in accounting is not the same person as Bob in marketing. And you lie awake at night wondering if you signed away your first-born child in that mountain of paperwork you signed.
When I signed on as a reporter for the Jupiter Courier, I was unaware that I would spend my first week studying 30 years of local litigation, mingling with celebrities and putting my life in mortal danger.
On day one my job was masquerading as a “normal” position. I filled out the forms, I watched the safety videos (“If your phone receiver is causing you discomfort, ask your supervisor to order you a headset immediately.”) and I did the office tour.
I went home that night, my head swimming with random factoids, and feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of my responsibilities. Being a recent college graduate, I panicked wondering if I would be able to cut it in this high-pressure, no-nonsense profession. Nothing they can teach you in a classroom could have prepared me for day two.
I spent the day wandering around my new hometown with my co-workers, learning, and quickly forgetting, the names of all of my would-be future contacts. My reporting beat extends to everything from crime to court to business, and, as I learned that day, country music.
After racing around learning the ropes during the exhausting afternoon, I was handed my first “breaking story.” I hopped in my non-air-conditioned car (donations to my cause are appreciated) and raced down to the Castaways bar for an exclusive interview with Country Music Television personality Lance Smith.
Now here I am, sitting in a lounge chair next to a celebrity on the beach at a bar in the middle of the afternoon thinking, I definitely picked the right career. Then I went to Jupiter’s Town Council meeting.
Things were moving right along, and I made the mistake of thinking that this wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately, a long-winded speaker caused my fellow reporter and I to take turns snoring and jabbing each other in the ribs.
Day three was fairly normal, as far as a reporter’s normalcy goes. I spent the day pouring through legal documents and making phone calls to attempt to comprehend some shred of what I was reading (I did, in fact inform my supervisor that I am medically in need of a headset. Thanks safety video!).
It wasn’t until day four that the roof caved in. Literally.
I went about my business and was preparing to do some interviews around town when I found myself standing outside in the middle of a torrential downpour.
After hearing on the radio that tornados were tearing up my neighborhood, I decided that going home was not an option.
Seeing as I was already drenched, I pulled my car over and decided to take some pictures of the cars plowing their way through the flooded roads. That is when my life flashed before my eyes.
I took, what is in my opinion, the “shot of the year” of a large SUV splashing quickly through a lake-deep puddle. But the world almost did not know how good of a picture I took, because the tidal wave produced by the bewildered traveler collapsed over me as I turned and ducked, tucking the camera under my sopping wet shirt.
I finally made it home to a dark, damp apartment to change clothes and walk my mystified puppy. I unfortunately could not do anything to tame my water-primed bouffant hairdo, as I foolishly discovered after attempting to start my hair dryer with no electricity.
I hustled as best as I could on the parking lot known as I-95 to the site of a tornado-torn shopping plaza in order to chat with shaken witnesses. The rain was still pounding, turning my window-sealed car into a sauna, and I once again risked my life speeding down the road, talking on my cell phone, receiving instructions from my anxious editor.
I left work at 11 o’clock at night feeling drained, yet exhilarated. After four days of anxiety and self-doubt, I heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that whatever day five had to throw at me, I was ready for. Silly me.
I rolled into work on less than five hours of sleep wearing a Hawaiian shirt (Friday office policy) and deeply anticipating a weekend away from the newsroom. The Miami Dolphins had their first pre-season game, and I was going to be there, barring typhoon or hurricane (since we’ve already established that I can handle tornados).
Hawaiian shirt Friday brought the promise of concealment in the office, typing away at stories and interviewing over the phone. However, who should choose to meet me in person that day for the first time, but the mayor.
I felt ridiculous, and even forewarned Mayor Golonka of my casual appearance, but nothing she could say while wearing her professional, pin-striped business suit could make me feel less cheesy and inappropriate. Well, at least she’ll remember who I am. That kid in the Hawaiian shirt and sandals. What a legacy.
Despite numerous interruptions, I stayed on top of things, blocked out all distractions and got my work done, but anyone who has read this far into my story should know that at 4:30 p.m., a glitch arose and our main system shut down as tornado warnings filled the office.
I finally snuck out and made it in time to see the forth quarter of the Dolphins game. The guard laughed as he waved me into the parking lot, and remarked, “A little late, aren’t ya?” You think?
After all was said and done, I sat with a friend and reflected upon my first week on the job with a beer and a smile. I cannot wait to see what happens next week.
For most people, the first week of work at a new job involves a lot of tedium. 20 people feel the need to show you where the water cooler is. You learn that Bob in accounting is not the same person as Bob in marketing. And you lie awake at night wondering if you signed away your first-born child in that mountain of paperwork you signed.
When I signed on as a reporter for the Jupiter Courier, I was unaware that I would spend my first week studying 30 years of local litigation, mingling with celebrities and putting my life in mortal danger.
On day one my job was masquerading as a “normal” position. I filled out the forms, I watched the safety videos (“If your phone receiver is causing you discomfort, ask your supervisor to order you a headset immediately.”) and I did the office tour.
I went home that night, my head swimming with random factoids, and feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of my responsibilities. Being a recent college graduate, I panicked wondering if I would be able to cut it in this high-pressure, no-nonsense profession. Nothing they can teach you in a classroom could have prepared me for day two.
I spent the day wandering around my new hometown with my co-workers, learning, and quickly forgetting, the names of all of my would-be future contacts. My reporting beat extends to everything from crime to court to business, and, as I learned that day, country music.
After racing around learning the ropes during the exhausting afternoon, I was handed my first “breaking story.” I hopped in my non-air-conditioned car (donations to my cause are appreciated) and raced down to the Castaways bar for an exclusive interview with Country Music Television personality Lance Smith.
Now here I am, sitting in a lounge chair next to a celebrity on the beach at a bar in the middle of the afternoon thinking, I definitely picked the right career. Then I went to Jupiter’s Town Council meeting.
Things were moving right along, and I made the mistake of thinking that this wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately, a long-winded speaker caused my fellow reporter and I to take turns snoring and jabbing each other in the ribs.
Day three was fairly normal, as far as a reporter’s normalcy goes. I spent the day pouring through legal documents and making phone calls to attempt to comprehend some shred of what I was reading (I did, in fact inform my supervisor that I am medically in need of a headset. Thanks safety video!).
It wasn’t until day four that the roof caved in. Literally.
I went about my business and was preparing to do some interviews around town when I found myself standing outside in the middle of a torrential downpour.
After hearing on the radio that tornados were tearing up my neighborhood, I decided that going home was not an option.
Seeing as I was already drenched, I pulled my car over and decided to take some pictures of the cars plowing their way through the flooded roads. That is when my life flashed before my eyes.
I took, what is in my opinion, the “shot of the year” of a large SUV splashing quickly through a lake-deep puddle. But the world almost did not know how good of a picture I took, because the tidal wave produced by the bewildered traveler collapsed over me as I turned and ducked, tucking the camera under my sopping wet shirt.
I finally made it home to a dark, damp apartment to change clothes and walk my mystified puppy. I unfortunately could not do anything to tame my water-primed bouffant hairdo, as I foolishly discovered after attempting to start my hair dryer with no electricity.
I hustled as best as I could on the parking lot known as I-95 to the site of a tornado-torn shopping plaza in order to chat with shaken witnesses. The rain was still pounding, turning my window-sealed car into a sauna, and I once again risked my life speeding down the road, talking on my cell phone, receiving instructions from my anxious editor.
I left work at 11 o’clock at night feeling drained, yet exhilarated. After four days of anxiety and self-doubt, I heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that whatever day five had to throw at me, I was ready for. Silly me.
I rolled into work on less than five hours of sleep wearing a Hawaiian shirt (Friday office policy) and deeply anticipating a weekend away from the newsroom. The Miami Dolphins had their first pre-season game, and I was going to be there, barring typhoon or hurricane (since we’ve already established that I can handle tornados).
Hawaiian shirt Friday brought the promise of concealment in the office, typing away at stories and interviewing over the phone. However, who should choose to meet me in person that day for the first time, but the mayor.
I felt ridiculous, and even forewarned Mayor Golonka of my casual appearance, but nothing she could say while wearing her professional, pin-striped business suit could make me feel less cheesy and inappropriate. Well, at least she’ll remember who I am. That kid in the Hawaiian shirt and sandals. What a legacy.
Despite numerous interruptions, I stayed on top of things, blocked out all distractions and got my work done, but anyone who has read this far into my story should know that at 4:30 p.m., a glitch arose and our main system shut down as tornado warnings filled the office.
I finally snuck out and made it in time to see the forth quarter of the Dolphins game. The guard laughed as he waved me into the parking lot, and remarked, “A little late, aren’t ya?” You think?
After all was said and done, I sat with a friend and reflected upon my first week on the job with a beer and a smile. I cannot wait to see what happens next week.
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