Overheard in the office

You can thank my Dutch friend Sophie for finding "Overheard in the Office," a great site where people submit stupid or funny things they've overheard.

My favorite so far (just from the first page, anyway)?

Lawyer: Put your John Hancock on these documents, please.
Daughter: You sure this is legal? I mean, with me being your kid and all?
Lawyer: It is very legal. Far more legal than any of the drugs you have experimented with on my credit card.

Nicknames

I've always been a proponent of using nicknames for the people I date/am interested in. (As, apparently, are many of my friends. Check out Becky and Miranda's blogs for proof.) When I was younger, it was a way to disguise who my friends and I were talking about, so that crushes wouldn't find out you liked them. Yes, I know. Very mature. The nicknames Father Z Man (cute boy turned priest), Croutons (his last name was Bacon, but we thought calling him Bacon Bits would be too obvious) and Cheeto (I have no idea why--but somehow it stuck) were among the highlights of this nickname phase.

Then there was the period where I only seemed to be into people named Steve. We call it the Steve Period (or, more aptly, the Dark Age). Those guys were referred to as Steves 1-7. I kid you not. There really were 7 Steves. And it really was way too much trouble to come up with creative, individualized nicknames for all of them. Thus, a numbering system.

As I got older and more mature (and in a self-imposed Steve-free zone), my reasons for nicknaming changed. As Becky says, the nicknames became a way to distance myself so I wouldn't get hurt. After all, it is hard to get emotionally attached to someone you refer to as the Downsizer.

More often anymore, the nicknames are how I ID people--crushes, new acquaintances, and people I'm dating--to my friends: they might be confused on the real names, but they remember who the Friendster Friend, the Quoter, the Tall Texan, and the Online Dater/Dumper/UnDumper are. (Sorry, A--I'll either come up with a new nickname or just start calling you by your real name now.)

And while I do think of coming up with a catchy and appropriate nickname as a fun challenge, I'm looking forward to the day when all the nicknaming falls away: there are no longer secret crushes, dates I have to distinguish from a pile of other prospects, or relationships I'm trying to keep at arm's length. I'm looking forward to the day when all the fronts and barriers fall away and what's left is me, him, and what's being built between us. I look at Becky, whose list of "homeboys" and "mainmen" has been culled down to one, and I think that looks pretty good, too.

A good blog to check out

Taking the skills he learned at Media Bootcamp, my tall Texan friend Ash has recently launched a blog for his organization, Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid. Believing my blog to be highly trafficked (because he doesn't realize that at least half the time, it's my parents and a couple of friends who get really bored at work checking my blog repeatedly), he has asked that I put a link from my blog to TRLA's. I'm going to do him one better and actually say that I think people should check out the work that TRLA is doing in Southwestern Texas to provide education and defend the legal rights of low-income people, particularly Latino immigrants. (You can link to the main website here.)

Seriously, I know the folks at TRLA are good people (and by good people, I mean the best kind of trouble-makers) when they have the following quote on their main page:

"I think [TRLA] is to blame because they're supplying these people with the information and they're telling them all about the Federal laws and everything." Deaf Smith County Sheriff Travis McPherson, quoted in Howard Gaull Co. vs. Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid, 615 F Supp. 916 at 925 (N.D. Tex-Amarillo Div. 1985)

Giving people information and telling them about laws? How dare they?

David and Goliath, Animal-Style

My co-worker Brooke is pet-sitting a friend's Gecko, Tyrone. The problem with pet-sitting a gecko is that you have to take care of an entire eco-system: the gecko as well as the crickets the gecko eats (which Brooke has to shake in vitamin powder before she can feed them to Tyrone). This is especially problematic for Brooke since she's a vegan and generally doesn't support eating anything that's alive. I guess she tried to convert the gecko (and the crickets) to veggie burgers, but that didn't go over so well.

Anyway, as we were sharing pet-sitting/pet feeding stories, my co-worker Sarah chimed in with what has to be the best (and craziest) feeding story I've ever heard.

Sarah explained how she used to go to a camp where they kept a pet rattle-snake in a cage. Every day the snake had to be fed mice, but it liked to hunt for them--not just be fed them. So they would stick the mouse in the cage at night, and in the morning: no more mouse. Maybe some mouse parts, but definitely no mouse.

Until the morning where the came to check and found a mouse sitting calmly, next to the decaptitated snake. Apparently the cold-blooded snake had already gone into its nightly deep freeze when they dropped this particular mouse in the cage. And the mouse, instead of just hanging around, waiting to be snake bait the next morning, had taken the opportunity to chew the snake's head off.

Thus endeth the snake feeding.

We only hope nothing like that happens with Tyrone, the crickets and Brooke's dog, Paisley. There'd be a lot of explaining to do.

The Challenges of Moving

I talked to my parents last night, who just completed the move into a house that's 110 years old. (From their former house, which was only 100 or so years old.) It seems like a pretty cool house: big yard, balconies, a guest house over a 3.5 car garage. This last thing is very important, seeing as how between my mom and dad, they have three cars. And a lot of tools and other garage-y stuff.

But when I asked how the move-in was going, my dad informed me that they had run into a few problems. Even though they had someone come and set up internet in the house, it wasn't working. Neither was the cable. The washing machine overflowed on its first load, and the dryer doesn't have the right number of prongs to fit into the outlet. And despite the fact that nearly every room in the house has a phone jack, only the one in their bedroom is actually working.

So basically, my parents have no access to the outside world and they're needing to use a washboard and a clothes lines for their clothes. It's almost like living in the 19th century. Given my parents' long-time fascination with old houses and the show "The 1900 House"--some PBS reality show where a family is forced to dress, eat and live as if it were 1900--I find this to be very appropriate. And quite funny.

God Hates Shrimp

You can thank Dan Savage (of the sex advice column Savage Love) for finding this treat:

God Hates Shrimp.

Is this site serious? Is it a parody? You'll have to check it out to find out. . . .

Blog Fans

In the past few months on my blog, something very exciting has happened: I've gained new readers. This, I believe, is every blogger's dream. It's certainly my dream, anyway.

For those of you who didn't already know this, I have a site meter, which lets me see how many people are reading my blog and where they're reading it from (and other, not so helpful stuff like whether it was from a Mac or a PC and who their Internet Service Provider is).

I don't normally bother to check the site meter, but out of curiosity today, I looked. And there are all these new readers in fun locations! Some of the locations I recognize: The Netherlands, London, Boise, Austin--I know who you are. But other locations have me intrigued: who's reading me in Denver; McAllen, TX; Little Rock, AR; and Long Beach, Mississippi? (Actually, given that apparently Long Beach is just outside of New Orleans, maybe I do know who's reading. In which case, I'm sorry--I know I owe you a phone call!)

For a long time, I had "sneaky fans" in Raleigh-Durham and Laurel, NJ. I never had any idea who they were. And as fun as the speculation on their possible identities was, I always wished I'd just known.

So if you're reading my blog, and you're not sure that I already know that, you should tell me. It's always nice to be reminded that you're not writing into a big, black void of nothingness.

The Tally So Far:

So since my announcement that I think I'm ready to leave the Bay Area, I've gotten a fair amount of feedback from (admittedly self-interested) friends and co-workers. The results so far are as follows:

Boise--1 Loud Vote
Boston--Nothing
Seattle: 2 Votes
Portland: 3 Votes
Austin: 1 Vote
Chicago: 1 Vote
Denver: No votes (come on people, Denver is great, even if I'm not ready to live there yet.)
Buenos Aires: Nada

There was also a suggestion that I should consider other places in the South. That's not going to happen, I can tell you right now. Dry heat's bad enough, but humidity makes me feel like I'm suffocating. I can't even handle 5 minutes of the wet steam room at the gym.

What I really need is a panel of people to show me pictures and defend what's great about these cities. But since that's not going to happen, I might be stuck road-tripping to find out for myself, or just pinning up a map and throwing darts at it to determine my next location.

Here's some spin for ya

We spent a bunch of time at Media Bootcamp this past weekend talking about framing and messaging. The short definition of "framing" is getting the pieces of an issue that you want to highlight (and nothing else) in the picture. "Messaging" is just what you say about the issue--within your frame. There's a specific order in which you should say things: first articulate a problem, them give a vision or solution to the problem and then put out an action, or an ask, of your audience.

As it happens, I have been given a golden opportunity to practice this whole framing/messaging thing. And as is often the case in real life, I get to practice positively framing something that I do not feel positive about at all. (At least not yet.) This, by the way, is often called "spin:" the euphemisms you use and the way you give things a happy tint, even when you're not feeling that positive about them.

So here's the issue: my last two long-term friends both told me today that they are definitely leaving the Bay Area to be with their significant others.

The frame: This presents a great opportunity to go somewhere new and experience new things.

Message: In the last 3 months, many (you could even say most) of my friends have left the Bay Area--some for grad school, some for love, and some for family. This has left a void in my social circle that I've been slow to fill. Plus, after 4 years in the Bay Area, I'm honestly getting a little bored. The same scene, the same people: maybe it's time for something new? I'll be leaving my job in two months, I don't have as many people to cut ties with, and there's a whole big world that needs exploring, while I'm still young enough and obligation-free enough to do it. I'm ready to find a new place to fall in love with, a new place to build community, a new place to call home. Do you have thoughts on where I should go? Please let me know them.

So like I said, this is a bunch of spin. Am I really ready to cut my ties with the Bay Area? i don't know, but I think I could be, if given another suggestion that sounded appealing enough. And I am open to suggestions--Portland, Seattle, Boise, Denver, Austin, Chicago, Boston, and Buenos Aires have all already been thrown into the ring. It just can't be humid and I'd really prefer a place that had good public transit and was close to nature (mountains get more points than the ocean).

Jesuit Values

So I generally choose not to read the alumni magazine from my school, Boston College, when it comes in the mail. (Ditto--times two--the special alumni newsletter for former Boston College Presidential Scholars.) This is because I always end up with a crazily intense inferiority complex about all the prestigious awards and high-powered jobs my classmates have won since graduation. Given that I will never make any money and will probably never do anything that Boston College--the institution, anyway--would deem worthy of highlighting, I figure I'm never going to end up in the alumni magazine and don't really want to compare myself to those who have.

But this time, the alumni magazine kind of sneaked up on me. Bored and needing something to read, I started to flip through it, and I came across an article about this year's commencement ceremony. The commencement ceremony where Condoleeza Rice had been invited to speak and would be receiving an honorary degree from the university, as it happens.

What the article was really about was the faculty-led protest of Rice as the choice for commencement speaker. Now here's where I get really proud of my Jesuit education:

• Nearly a quarter of tenured staff at BC signed onto a petition saying they were against having Rice speak at commencement
• The petition was authored and moved by Fathers Himes and Hollenbach. Father Hollenbach taught my Human Rights class, which dramatically shaped my politics and the direction my life since college has taken. Father Himes taught the religion class that first opened me up to the concept of radical spirituality and Christianity. He also said the noon Wednesday Mass at St. Mary's that was always so profound and so perfectly germane to what I was dealing with that I literally shaped my school and work schedule around it.
• The decision to move the petition was defended on the O'Reilly factor by Charles Derber, a sociology professor who taught me about globalization and solidified all of the social/economic justice leanings that had started with Father Hollenbach.

Many other professors and students took a stand against Rice (and more specifically, the administration she represents and the insidious war they continue to wage in Iraq), invoking the Jesuit-honored traditions of peace and justice.

I am proud to have gone to a school that not only says it is committed to the Jesuit values of social justice, but whose faculty is unafraid to stand up for them and act upon them. I am proud to call these people my teachers, and I hope that the work I do always upholds the values they have taught me.

An addition to the lexicon

One of my new Spin Academy friends has coined what I think is a really fabulous phrase to describe self-righteous and judgmental "progressive" people:

Lefter than thou.

I love this phrase. It's perfect. It really sums up my feelings about the Bay Area at times. I think it also nails on the head the whole problem with the left: you can't really sway people's politics and opinions if they feel judged and belittled.

Media Bootcamp: the good, the better and the best

Anyone who has talked to me in the last week or so has probably heard some grumbling about having to attend "Media Bootcamp" (i.e., the Spin Academy) for work. Despite all of my certainty that it wouldn't be fun and I wouldn't make any friends, I had a really good time.

Bootcamp was held at Walker Creek Ranch outside of Petaluma--far, far away from the land of cell phone service. We stayed in dorms, ate (and ate and ate--they were trying to feed us every two hours. No exaggeration.) in a cafeteria, and kept it all pretty low key. It's been a long time since I've been any place quite this rural; the main activties for free time were hiking and swimming in the pond, and everywhere you looked there was wildlife: rabbits, foxes, deer, turkeys (lots of turkeys) and crickets almost as big as my fist.

And I did learn a lot about communications and media. Some of it I already knew (and it was just nice to have it reiterated that I was doing it right) and a lot of it I didn't. Maybe the best thing I got out of all the training is that it is completely stupid for an organization as large as ours (and doing so much program work) not to have at least one full-time, dedicated communication staff person. 50% of my time (and by 50%, I really mean 15% on a good week) isn't going to cut it when it comes down to what I think we as an organization want to achieve, communications wise. And going "Quick! We have an action next week--go get some media" is not actually a viable or reasonable communications plan. I guess what the Spin Academy really did for me is verified that I am not, in fact, a fuck-up as a communications person. I might end up being one, but there hasn't really been a fair and thorough opportunity to find out yet, because what's been functioning as "communications" in our office is so far (and so much narrower) than what it should be.

I was also reminded that activists and organizers are great people. It's really inspiring and energizing to be around people who are passionate about what they do, and more specifically, are passionate about trying to make the world a better place. And if they also happen to be cute, funny and from Texas, well that's just icing on the activist cake.

Anyway, overall it was a good week/weekend: Beautiful scenery, new skills, movement people and a lot of beer thrown in for good measure and I really have no complaints.

Except that I'm tired as hell and have to go to work tomorrow.

New hobbies

I was going to write a blog entry detailing my weekend. After all, it was a pretty good weekend: went to the "brewery" with Matt and Abby, attended a "Golf Pros and Tennis Hos" party with Josh, accidentally went for an 8.5 mile hike in Redwood Regional Park the next day (while hungover--yikes!) and saw Little Miss Sunshine (which was really funny). But I haven't been in a very funny, light-hearted mood lately. What with Miranda (and Carrie and Becky and John) all gone, there's been a lack of people to embrace the awkward with, and my head's been going in a more pensive, thoughtful direction than a funny one.

Miranda told me today that she's decided to take up golf. When I stopped laughing at how ridiculous that statement was, she explained. Games of golf, she says, are prime time for business deals, and she doesn't want to be left out of that. Also, she figures that playing golf would be a great way to meet new people now that she's back in Boise and a little lonely. She figures it would especially be a good way to meet men.

She might have a point.

If I weren't completely devoid of coordination, I might consider taking up golf. Or tennis. (Afterall, I already have the skirt.) I could probably stand to get a new hobby that would allow me to meet new people. And men. But only if they're emotionally available. Because wouldn't that be a pleasant change of pace?

Lessons learned

This weekend had been full of lessons that I thought I should share:

1) When it seems like way too much salt is being called for in a recipe, you're probably right. And if you don't go with your gut, then you deserve to eat a dinner of salty shrimp with a side of salt. And approximately a liter of water.

2) There's no such thing as a fool-proof plan. You should never underestimate the wily creativity and determination of a really committed fool.

3) It's not always a bad thing to risk being a jackass. Sometimes it's the best thing you could have done.

4) It's also not a bad thing to admit that you're a mess and that maybe--just maybe--you need other people sometimes.

5) Sometimes you get a second opportunity to say things you should have said. But not always. So don't count on it.

6) Tom Cruise has been creepy for a long time--check out Magnolia (ca. 1999) if you don't believe me. A lesson for Ms. Homes: Katie, it's important to watch more than just Top Gun before you decide you want to marry the guy.

Word.

And another friend bites the dust

This has been a pretty shit week. Let's start out with that part where "IhatemyjobIhatemyjobIhatemyjob." That problem's not going away anytime soon, or at least not for the next two months.

On top of that, I got dumped yesterday. If you're saying to youself "But Claire is fabulous; who'd be stupid enough to dump her?" you get a gold star and a thumbs up for that correct assessment. The answer would be people not over their ex-girlfriends, which I suppose I have to accept as an excuse, even though I don't really understand it. You get with new people so as to get over your ex-girlfriends. But whatever. Since this was the nicest and most respectful break-up I've ever had to endure, I'm going to try really hard not to talk too much shit. But if other people want to talk shit, they should by all means feel free.

In worse news, I'm down to one full-time friend in the Bay Area: Josh. I said my goodbyes to Miranda tonight, as she makes her way (via Santa Cruz and Merced and Scramento and Portland and Spokane) to Boise--at least for grad school, but hopefully not for good? For someone who claims to not do goodbyes, it was a pretty sad one, complete with watery eyes and name-calling. I'm going to miss her a lot. Who on earth am I going to fry stuff with, and who's going to be my co-reviewer of all the dive bars in the Bay Area? Dive bars are only really fun with a friend who knows how to bring out the shady--by yourself, you're just a sad sack in a sketchy bar.

But in classic fashion, we ended her Bay Area residency on a good note: we met a crazy, militant union pipe fitter at the brewery. And, in good T.O.O. fashion, she's going to keep me from behaving like a jackass with regards to the most recent Dumper--she is now the keeper of his phone number. He's been deleted from my phone.

So no, Dumper--if you're reading this (or I should really say when you read this, because I know that you will)--I won't be calling you. Or text messaging you. Not unless Miranda says it's OK. And currently, she doesn't think it's OK.

Even though I'm wishing that I had fought with you about this--I'm an organizer for Christ's sake and I should have done some more probing and pushing about this decision, if for no other reason than to understand it--that won't be happening. I'm going to just have to take a cue from Josh and do my best to get back out there and, as Josh puts it: "own this town." And I will own this town.

Oh bravado, how I love thee.

On the up side of all of this, I'll have plenty of time to go to the gym. Thank god for silver linings.

Berkeley Kite Festival

Miranda and I went to the Berkeley Kite Festival and West Coast Kite Championships today. There were people with kites everywhere, and we saw some really amazing and fun ones.

Among the more impressive and interesting things we saw were the Rokkaku kite battles, where people's kite strings are lined with tar and broken glass (The Kite Runner, anyone?) and then you fight to try to cut other people's kite lines and be the last kite standing. Or I guess, in this case, flying.



We also watched Ray Bethell, a 78 year old deaf guy who puts on choreographed kite performances with three kites--one kite string in his right hand, one in his left hand and one tied to his waist. It was pretty impressive. Besides being known as the "three kite guy," Ray is apparently also known for never wearing a shirt, which means he's pretty tan. This fact led the kite festival broadcasters to announce "Well, it seems Ray is wearing a nice brown leather jacket today. Oh wait, that's not a jacket at all. That's just Ray."

Meltdown (and no, I'm not talking about the heatwave.)

I just had a minor meltdown at work. This has been a really shit week, so this should not have come as a big surprise. When your major projects for the week involve figuring out how to make absolutely no work look like $17,500 worth of work, and taking 11 people's conflicting feedback on a buzillion minute details of a potential website design and trying to create one cohesive position to tell the web designer (knowing full well that everyone is just going to keep complaining about the feedback of theirs you didn't take when they see the next round of website designs anyway) and you're not doing anything you feel even remotely good at, and you're definitely not doing anything you even remotely enjoy, meltdowns should probably be expected.

Mine went something like this:

"IhatethisjobIhatethisjobIhatethisjobIhatethisjobIhatethisjob." (This popped out completely involuntarily in the middle of a conversation with two of my co-workers about the aforementioned website. Pretty much apropos of nothing to them, but it's all very clearly connected for me.)

This prompted one co-worker to ask me what I'd rather be doing, and, chiming in, the other co-worker asked, "yeah Claire, what color is your parachute?" which I personally thought was pretty funny.

So yeah, I spent the rest of the afternoon fluctuating between annoyance and frustration.

And while I'm discussing things that annoy/frustrate/trigger meltdown-type drama in me, here's one I'd add to the list:

--The world of celebrity news. Celebrity gossip is bad enough, but when things like "Lindsay Lohan suffers from heat stroke" and "New Miss Universe faints at pageant" make the news, I want to scream. How is this newsworthy? Who cares? Seriously: WHO CARES? I can at least understand the entertainment value in covering the latest Lohan/Hilton cat fight or boyfriend swap, but I cannot even believe there is a whole world of journalists out there who are making their living on reporting that Jessica Simpson brushes her teeth every morning. Get some self-respect and get a real job reporting real news.

Whew. I think that's it for right now. No more melting. Unless I'm talking about heatwaves.

Post-traumatic pet disorder

As a favor to my friend Abby, I am pet-sitting her Beta fish, Alpha. When she initially asked me to watch the fish, I thought this sounded like a pretty easy gig--a pinch of food every other day. Even easier than watering plants and having to worry about them getting too much water or too little, or too much sun, or not enough. (I am not good with plants. She knows this. I suspect that's why she didn't ask me to take care of them.) But a pinch of food? Surely I could handle that without killing anything.

But when I went to pick up my water-loving roommate of the next week and half, I started to remember. Traumatic, horrible memories of dead fish--fish I had killed--as a child. (And I'm not talking your standard "cheapo fish from the carnival goes belly-up in the bowl a week later" kind of stories.) I started to worry that Abby would return to find that I had failed her in the one simple task she had charged me with: to keep her fish from croaking. I started to worry that I was unfit to watch this fish. History has pretty much already proven that.

How bad could it be, you ask? Let me tell you. When I was 9, I had a small tank of neon tetra fish on the nightstand in my bedroom. Now as a child, I was a fitful sleeper. One night, I woke in the wee hours of the morning to discover that the floor next to my bed was wet and my fish tank was missing. Upon turning on the light, I discovered that my flailing, sleeping arms had knocked the tank off the nightstand. To my horror, there, flopping on the floor--amidst the broken, jagged shards of my former fish tank--were my 8 neon tetras, their little mouths opening and closing in waterless gasps as their eyes started to bulge. One by one, they died on the floor. I screamed and screamed, horrified by the sight. (What can I say? I was a highly strung child.)

After that, my parents passed a rule that I could no longer keep fish in my room. As a consolation, however, my dad did superglue the tank back together, printed out some fish on neon paper and stuck them--on toothpicks--back into my tank. He said they would have to do until I learned how to lie still and sleep like a normal person.

Time passed. Eventually, my parents bought me a new fish, a goldfish named Fred. Now I know it's silly to become attached to fish, but I was attached to Fred. I'd had him for almost a year when Christmas rolled around, and I felt like he deserved a stocking and presents, just like our other pets had. (What can I say? We're a weird family.) For presents, I had bought him some new plants and tiny plastic castle to put in his bowl.

"Aren't you excited, Fred?" I asked, as I scooped him out of his bowl and put him in a cup so I could wash out his bowl and put in his new accessories. He wagged his little fish tail at me; I like to think that he was, in fact, excited about the plants and castle.

In my haste to get him back into his bowl, however, I didn't think to check the temperature of the water. I poured him back into the bowl, and watched, horrified, as he died on the spot--boiled alive in hot water. His little limp body drifted in and out of the strands of his new plants and finally collided with the side of his new castle.

I was a certified fish killer.

I feel like fish usually die in a sort of vague, "no one's really to blame" kind of way. But this was clearly my fault. And I took it pretty hard. I immediately started crying and proceeded to lock myself in the bathroom for more than a hour. Needless to say, it kind of put a damper on that year's Christmas festivities.

There were no more fish after that. It was too hard, too painful.

Until now.

Now, I live in fear that I will come home and find Alpha dead and floating in his bowl. I am terrified that I will trip and accidentally knock his bowl off my dining room table, where he is currently stationed. I worry that my neighbor's cat, who likes to come visit, will think Alpha could make a good after-dinner snack. I fret that sunlight streaming through my windows will bounce off a particularly reflective surface and create some sort of heat-seaking laser beam that kills him dead, like ants under a magnifying glass. I am sure I couldn't handle the trauma of killing off yet another fish.

I am counting the days until Abby comes back.

I just hope I still have a fish to give her when she gets here.

Flight Karma

I have bad flight karma. I always have. I don't know what I did to piss off a flight attendant or a pilot in a past life, but it must have been really bad, because there seems to be no end to my airline punishment. In fact, it's only gotten worse as I've gotten older.

It used to be that anytime I got on a plane, it was pretty much a guarantee that the screaming baby would be immediately next to me. Or if not that, then the snotty three year old who's just learning how to kick would be right behind me.

But in recent years it's gotten worse. Lost luggage, delayed flights, re-routing, cancellations. You name it, it's happened (frequently).

And because I am a former theatre major (and by definition, somewhat dramatic about everything) I always complain when these things happen. I complain so much, in fact, that I think people have stopped believing that my flight karma is as bad as I say it is.

Today, on my way back from a work trip to Los Angeles, I had the opportunity (three hours, in fact, but more on that in a moment) to reflect on my karma and count up exactly how often airline misfortune has befallen me in the past year. Here is my list:

--September 2005: On my way to my cousin's funeral. Delayed in Washington Dulles (the most boring airport EVER) for two hours. Completely missed the visitation and arrived at the funeral home in time to see the janitors cleaning up and locking up. (On the return trip there was another 2+ hour delay in Dulles--but this time I was stuck in what I'm very sure was a converted airplane hanger, complete with concrete floor and grease stains.)
--November 2005: The ever-harrowing trip home to Colorado, this time for Thanksgiving. Made it to Denver, only to be delayed by an hour and a half for the 15 minute flight to Colorado Springs. On Thanksgiving Day. (A side note: Colorado Springs is only about 55 minutes away from Denver. Another side note: being stuck in Denver International Airport--aka the airport from hell--will be an ongoing theme.)
--December 2005: Going to Chicago to visit friends. This trip was a doozy. My flight was actually canceled. They put me on another flight, which was an hour late getting to Oakland, and two hours late leaving. They were in such a rush to make up time because of the lateness that they didn't actually put our baggage on the plane, but put it on a later flight. This meant that we got to Chicago late, and then had to sit in the baggage claim area for another hour (because no one told us what had happened) while we waited for our luggage to appear. Oh, and I was flying into Midway the day after that plane had actually skidded off the runway and into the street. And of course, I was also an hour and a half delayed coming home.
--December 2005: Home for the holidays. Delayed in Denver going to Colorado Springs.
--December 2005: On my way to Boston for New Years. Delayed in Denver (at least two hours).
--January 2006: Coming home from Boston. New Year's Day. My flight was delayed by (and I kid you not) 6 hours. Maybe more. The only upside of this was that if my flight had left when it was supposed to I would have still been hungover (and maybe even drunk) from the previous night's debauchery. As it happened, I caught the delay before I left for the airport, and so was able to spend a few more hours watching the Project Runway marathon on Bravo. And then I went to the airport, and hung out there for a few more hours, while my flight continued to be delayed. And it's always fun figuring out how you're gonna get home from SFO in the wee hours of the morning after BART has stopped running. Good times all around.
--February 2006: L.A. for work. Absolutely nothing bad happened. (This is really just the gods playing with me, because. . . .)
--June 2006: San Diego for the marathon. Am trapped on a plane with a horrible group of marathon running wanna-be cheerleaders called Team Awesome. There is chanting and singing "We Are the Champions" involved.
--June 2006. Washington D.C. for a wedding. (See above note about how boring Dulles airport is.) There is torrential rain this weekend, causing most of D.C. and the surrounding areas to flood, stranding hundreds of people in the airport over night, and causing my flight to be more than 3 hours delayed. (But I will say I am grateful it took off at all.) This also got me back into Oakland at approximately 3 in the morning, forcing a very lovely and--I'm sure--tired boy to pick me up when he should have been sleeping. It also meant I was an incoherent zombie at work the next day. (Usually, I'm just incoherent.)

That brings us up to today. I had to go to Los Angeles again for work. I'd managed to get myself on an earlier flight home and I was feeling pretty good. We got on the plane, listened to the seat belt/safety speech, pulled away from the gate. And then we stopped. Why, you ask?

Wait for it. . . .

Wait for it. . . .

Because all the power went out at LAX and they had no radar or any other way to direct incoming and outgoing flights. Two and a half hours of sitting on a plane on the tarmac later, and they finally figured out how to turn the power back on. Here is an article in the LA Times that explains what happened.

My dad used to say: "If we can't get there by flying, then we're not going." Well sorry dad, but my new motto is: "If getting there involves flying, then count me out."

Note: This tally of bad flight experiences in the past year leaves out some of my best bad flight experiences, including but not limited to Heathrow airport losing my luggage (and 10,000 other people's) because their luggage sorting system broke down; the trip to Boston where bad weather forced us to circle until we nearly ran out of gas and were forced to land in Providence and take a bus back to Boston, and my 25th birthday, where I spent more than 5 hours getting drunk by myself in a bar at Denver International Airport, because of--you guessed it--a delayed flight.

Good times at the airport. Good times.

Yosemite--first the funny . . .

I went to Yosemite this past weekend. I've been putting off writing about it for my blog, because I was torn by quite the dilemma: should I highlight the funny and interesting bits, or talk about the profound and thoughtful moments?

But here's the beauty of the blog: I can do both. So here is version #1 of my weekend in Yosemite--with all that was funny and random and action-packed. Stay tuned for version #2. . .

My reasons for going to Yosemite were two: 1) get away from work and people and have a little time to sort some stuff out; and 2) climb Half-Dome. (More on this later.)

I spent Friday in Tuolumne Meadows (for those of you who are looking at that word and wondering how to pronounce it, I'm pretty sure it's something like Two-AH-loh-meh. I wasn't sure at first either). Tuolumne Meadows is the High Country of Yosemite, which means it looks a lot like home for me. In fact, it was probably a little too much like home, because it also came complete with tons of mosquitos in the woods and really intense sunlight. Meaning of course, that I spent the whole weekend covered in mosquito bites and completely sunburned. So now I have this awesome farmer tan that cuts right across my biceps (I'm secretly hoping it makes them look really jacked. Somehow I doubt it.) and these huge pink welts from where I couldn't stop scratching at the bites. Good times. But the meadows are beautiful, and have way less people than the valley.

Tuolumne Meadows

The valley. This leads me to day number 2, where my goal was to climb Half-Dome. Climbing Half-Dome, for those of you who don't know, involves a 17 mile round-trip hike, climbing some 4,000+ feet in elevation. And oh yeah, the last 900 feet or so aren't really hiking so much as they're pulling yourself up a nearly vertical granite rock face using some loosely anchored cables and an occasional plank of wood. You could call it a ladder of sorts, but I wouldn't. I'd call it scary.

Now you might be asking, what would possess someone to do this? Well, there's the bragging rights of being able to say you climbed Half-Dome. But for me, it was more about proving to myself that I could--I didn't really need to prove it to anyone else. You see, three years ago, my JVC roommates and I went to Yosemite, and several of them climbed Half-Dome. I did not. There was absolutely no way my out-of-shape ass was going to make it up that. I barely made it up Yosemite falls, which is equally steep and not nearly as long (or as scary). So I wanted to mark that I am much healthier than I was three years ago, and in much better shape.

And guess what? I am.

So here, quick style, are the highlights of Half-Dome:

--The loud Fresno hikers who apparently make the trek to the top of Half-Dome every year. This year they had Brie cheese, fried chicken and red wine (in little plastic wine glasses) to celebrate their ascent.

--The 10 Mennonite women (all wearing really ugly long-sleeved, ankle-length flowered dresses and white bonnets) who I ran into as they were hauling their way up the last bit to the top of Half-Dome.

--The San Jose girls who befriended me and got me up (and back down) the dome itself. Especially helpful was the girl who, when I stopped mid-way up and told her I thought I was going to throw up, informed me that that wasn't an option, because there were guys watching, and did I want them to think I was some little wussy girl?

--The two guys I hiked down with. I'll call them Big Talk and No Talk, because one wouldn't stop talking about how awesome he was, and the other--who had apparently pulled a groin muscle but didn't want to stop because of some guy-ego-competitive thing--never said a word. They were at least entertaining, and they made the end of the trip go faster.

--The twelve people who very helpfully informed that I was sunburned ("Yes, I know.") and then asked if I needed some sunscreen ("No, thanks, I've got some. But where were you yesterday when I could have used it?")

--And oh yeah, the view from the top: You could see all of Yosemite Valley and up and out the other side, as well the lush, green sprawl of the back country. It's convinced me that the next time I go to Yosemite, it'll be to get out of the valley, away from the tourists and back into the mountains.

View of Nevada Falls from the John Muir Trail

View of Half-Dome from Little Yosemite Valley


The next-to-last part of the Half-Dome ascent. This, ironically, is the not-so-steep part

The final ascent. Those little specks, by the way, are people. When I saw this, my inner mother screamed out that climbing this would rank as the stupidest thing I'd ever done. Of course, I did it anyway, but I at least thought twice about it.

Me and the view from the top.