Work Related Lists

Things that make me calm:
- Making excel spreadsheets, and color coding them
- Writing on triplicate forms with Uniball pens
- Making very straight lines with rulers
- Figuring out percentage differences after revising orders
- Addressing envelopes in fun hand-writing

Things that make me stressed:
- Buyers that demand last minute hurdle jumping, and have the audacity to do so with a bad attitude.
- Finding my 401K (where in the world is my 401K?) and figuring out how to transfer it to...somewhere...?
- Figuring out how to get all my insurance related medical bills paid before my insurance runs out.
- Figuring out what I'll do for insurance when I have it no longer.
- Figuring out how to transfer bizillions of personal emails to MY personal email and deleting them for all time/eternity from the work server.

Words that make me feel like this year has not be wasted after all:
- "You will be sooooooooooooooooooooo missed……………………But the kids that you teach, will just love you. I can see you as a teacher. Good Luck with everything that you do in the future."
- "I can’t tell you how much I have appreciated your great attitude everyday. You have set the standard for how to approach your job and your life as a whole. I wish you continued success in all that you do. Please keep in touch and if you should ever need anything don’t hesitate to ask."
- "I cannot believe the time has come for your departure! You will be missed more than you know; your spirit and attitude are infectious, and you are a joy to work with. I have no doubt you will be successful in your new endeavors (I was a coach for many years, and nearly went into teaching myself; still wonder if I should have…), and I wish you much happiness. We will be green with envy, but don’t let that stop you from sending pictures from France. Have a wonderful trip!"
- "And we are more then blessed to have you walk into our lives. It was a life changing experience for me and one which I will never forget.
Laissez les bons temps rouler"


I have one more day at my job. I have a million things to do before I go. I feel so blessed to be leaving on the good note I am. I have a gajillion things to look forward to. THIS daydream is about to come to pass-- and I will be waving at you from the Eiffel Tower soon enough.



Praise the Lord for hard lessons and long, long awaited fruit.

Responding in Kind

Has everyone else heard about the earthquake in China? I saw the headlines in today’s paper when I sat down to breakfast this morning and felt floored, I felt almost ill. What is happening to our world? First Burma, and now 13,000+ deaths in China after this enormous earth quake? I thought of the war in Iraq, and how many needless deaths are taking place that were initiated by intention, or anger, and felt another wave of helpless frustration. Aren’t there enough deaths happening through famines and droughts and natural disasters? Do we really have to speed up the process with guns and bombs as well?

In the paper, I read that countries around the world were already responding with aid, and food. This made me feel a little better. It makes sense that the initial aid response would be providing food, because after all—that’s the first basic requisite for survival after water. But picturing Russia and England and Canada loading up their planes the way a concerned neighbor trots over to her sick friend’s house with a casserole provided some measure of goodness within this terrible situation. I’ve never been someone particularly enamored with food—I’m more of an “eat to live-er” than a “live to eat-er,” but I love the way food can bring people together. It’s one of our most basic common denominators—we may disagree on religion, and politics, and dress, and gender roles, but we all must eat. When disasters happen, it seems to be as basic an instinct to get food ready as it is for the victims to need it. You see this happen even when food is irrelevant, even when food exists in abundance. A family has a new baby, a neighbor is diagnosed with cancer. What do we do? We come over with cookies, with dinners that can be frozen and cooked easily at any time; we make cakes, and get gift-cards to grocery stores and restaurants. Out of our desire to help, we come up with aid that fulfils the most undeniable need we would encounter as humans. We help each other eat.

I wish we could all just be eaters. I wish global interactions transpired solely within this context—the international exchange of casseroles when one country just needed to put up its feet for a while and be taken care of, and we could all take turns providing in health, and accepting in distress. I wish the terrorism, the threats, the violence, and anger, and unrest could just subside in the face of these greater, tragic disasters. It’s hard enough to live and exist—why must we make it so much more difficult besides? Why not trade anger for concern? Why not violent disagreement for tolerance? I know it’s not that simple—it’s never been that simple. But hearing about Burma and China makes me wish we could lay the guns and disagreements aside… And just bring one another a few more ready-made dinners.

Mad Mechanics

Some people work on cars. Some people use wrenches and hammers and things on engines, and know where gizmos connect to gadgets connect to gauges. I am not so mechanically inclined.

That’s okay. I feel I make up for it in other ways. I have people skills. This is true. I’m not lying. A Strengths Finder test told me once that I am especially fabulous at “WOO,” which is an acronym for “Winning Others Over.” I meet. I charm. I conquer.

Sometimes, however, people skills are not so applicable to life. When my engine made a loud screaming sound this last summer for instance, and I stopped being able to accelerate on the freeway: that was a problem that I had trouble WOO-ing myself out of.

My solution to this problem has been to do my very best to win my cars over. No, no—you read right. I turn my cars into friends, and then they like me, and then they want to be good for me. I WOO. My vehicles.

You don’t believe me? This from the girl that personifies everything—I know, I know, you think you’re about to read just another blog about how I think there are fairies and dragons and that my stuffed animals come to life when my back is turned. (Okay, but they DO.) Fine: you want proof? I will give you proof. Below: the stories of the past conglomerations of steel and rubber that I have turned into affectionate vehicular amigos.

Birdie was my first car, a 1983 Volvo four-door which sported a “Turbo” notification on the back, which was similar to Danny Devito wearing a t-shirt that says, “Tall.” I named her Birdie because she would frequently make chirping sounds for no apparent reason. Besides demonstrating disconcerting singing aspirations, Birdie had a sun-roof that did not work, and had frequent overheating problems, which meant that on the hottest days of the year I had to have the hot air blasting into the car to get it off the engine. She also had trouble starting. The relationship got off to a rocky start. I remember driving through a pouring rain-storm one day, and getting soaked from water pouring in through the leaky sun-roof. I drove with one hand pressed up against the roof, holding my dance clothes to the leaky ceiling. When I left the car, I made a leaning tower of books and back-pack with my dance clothes on the top to try to avoid coming back to a Volvo flood. We couldn’t go on like that. It was high time Birdie learned some ‘spect. Or at least became a little more cooperative.

We started conversing. I was nice to her. I greeted her, and said goodbye. Birdie responded in turn: where she used to have trouble starting up no matter what time of day it was, she started learning my routine and would easily comply to my driving objectives at 8:30am (going to school), 4:15pm (coming home), and 5:50pm (going to work.) However, any deviance from this learned schedule threw her off. I would surprise her at lunch time by wanting to go out, and she would respond with surliness, sputtering and gasping for five to ten minutes before finally grumpily starting up. What do we do in people situations like this? We communicate. People skills were employed. “Birdie. I’m probably going to go out to lunch today. I need you to be ready for me around 12:30. Okay?” Like any woman, Birdie loved the advance warning, and would start up for me with no problem. “Hon, I have rehearsal tonight, so I’m probably not going to be ready to leave until like 9:30. But it would be really great if you could be ready to peace, because I hate sitting in this dark parking lot when there’s no one around.” Out I would come at 9:30 and Birdie would happily vroom to life. We developed an understanding. She adored me.

After Birdie passed away (RIP dear), I was car-less through college. However, a move to California after graduation necessitated new wheels. My dad sold me his car, a navy blue 2000 Honda Accord, right after I got back from a trip to Africa. My sister and I made the inaugural drive on our road trip down and discussed what we might name her on the way.
“Well, is it a girl or a boy?”
“I can’t really tell. What’s your feeling?”
“Um. I don’t know. It’s navy blue. Maybe a boy?”
“Are you feeling a name like Lightening or Speedo, or like a real person’s name?”
“Ummm… I don’t know. Maybe I could name it after one of the kids in Africa. Tikambe? No, too exotic. Chauncey maybe?”
“Chauncey’s good.”
We tried it. It didn’t stick. Josie was obviously insulted—and who could blame her? We named her after a boy, talked about her as though she wasn’t even there, and I put her in life-threatening situations almost daily on the L.A. freeways. She gave me the silent treatment for the next several months.

I got the feeling that she didn’t like me. I wondered if maybe she missed my dad. “But why?” I thought uneasily. “I drive this car along the ocean every day to work. How could the Honda NOT love being with me?” When people are mad, they require a little extra TLC. My little Honda was clearly asserting her need for an apology.

In an effort to make amends, I spent one day spoiling her. I washed her thoroughly by hand, took her to get her oil changed, and filled her up with good gas.

It WORKED.

On the drive away from the gas station, she finally told me. Calmly, firmly: “Josie. My name. Is JOSIE.” She wasn’t rude about it—she’s classier than that, as I’ve learned. She didn’t make a lot of noise about having told me so, and how could I think she was a boy: she simply explained that her name was JOSIE. “Of COURSE, “ I thought after she’d given me the nudge. “Of course your name is Josie.”

Josie doesn’t adore me the way Birdie did, but we’ve developed a fond working relationship. She is a classy girl, after all. Josie forgave me when her engine died—she knew that wasn’t my fault. And though she did get annoyed when I flattened her tire on a curb, she let it go in light of her frequent oil changes. I don’t protect her as well as I could, but I think she secretly likes being one of the fastest cars on the road. And when she shows signs of mechanical issues—like refusing to chirp and alarm herself when I press the key chain button—I know it’s only because, in those situations, we’re usually parked in sketchy areas and she doesn’t want me to abandon her. If I give her a pep talk, and reassure her of when I’ll be coming back, she alarms herself accommodatingly.

I know it’s an unorthodox method of mechanics, but it’s worked alright for us so far. And if it ever doesn’t…

I can always WOO someone who knows the difference between a gizmo and a gauge.

Words of (Random) Wisdom

Scene: Girl sits at computer. It is late at night. The lights are out. The house is silent, and has been for some time. Suddenly: from the other room calls a clear, firm voice:

Gramps: Just know that: on MONDAY, you have to use new stamps.

Pause.

Girl: Okay!

Southward

I'm currently in Nashville, visiting one of my favorite people in the world:



For the first several years that I knew ABOUT Annie Parsons, I thought of her in my head as "Cool Annie Parsons." She used to help lead worship at our college church group, and was always SO stylish, SO poised, and so... effortlessly... COOL. She got to know me through our mutual friend Aaron, and apparently decided that she wanted to be my friend when I wore a pair of blue coveralls to church, with big dangly earrings.

(Note to the reading public: if anyone wants to help me bring back coveralls, I would be so down.)

The first time she invited me to hang out, I was starstruck. I remember a new boyfriend asking me to do something with him the same night, and I felt so torn. "But, Nick... I'm sorry, but COOL ANNIE PARSONS wants to hang out with me!" He understood. It was Cool Annie Parsons. You don't turn that down.

Of course you get over being starstruck, and as Annie and I have become better friends, the "celebrity" of her up-front-stylish-singer-persona has worn off. And thank God-- because that's been the best part. Today, Annie and I went on a long, hot, sunny walk through Nashville and we talked about family, and we talked about relationships, and we talked about insecurities, and failings, and God, and weaknesses, and the things that we hoped to one day-- eventually-- triumph over. We were neither chic, impressive women: we were sweating 20-somethings in workout clothes that were throwing up our hands in life-confusion. It was fantastic.

What a gift this friendship has been in my life-- to have someone who accepts all my imperfections, and will listen to my expression of them intently, and sensitively, and to return understanding words. Annie and I have both had weird, rough years-- and my friendship with her has been a life raft when the waves threatened submersion.

On Friday, my first day in Nashville, I walked to Annie's work, and got caught in a torrential downpour. It was supposed to be a lovely, perfect day-- instead, the sky emptied lakes, and lightening, and huge crashes of thunder. The rain lit through my clothes, my shoes, my backpack; it ravaged my hair. It was. The best. Most fun. Most fantastic. Most exhilerating. Most life-awakening walk I've had in I can't remember how long. It was sublime, and I couldn't stop laughing out loud. I got to Annie's immaculate office building, and dripped on the marble floors. So many wry grins and raised eyebrows from the well dressed employees. "Raining out there, is it?" I wanted to laugh again, and give them a rain sodden hug, and make them laugh at the ridiculousness of us both.

Last night, we went to an unbelievable live music show at the Bluebird Cafe. Four artists sat in a circle and shared songs about mistakes, and anger, and relief, and sex, and desire, and of giving up. One song was titled, "Cracked and Broken and Beautiful." Out of their hunger and past pain, these writers had created things that were exquisite and lovely. They were inspiring; they were redemptive.

Today, on our walk, Annie and I saw beautiful stately homes that consistently had messy, ungroomed lawns. In all their elegance, the owners must have chosen to just let the lawns: Go. I don't know why. But I liked the combination. I liked the the perfect houses having a messy, wild side, and of the owners having more important things to do than manicuring their lawns.

The point I'm getting at, I suppose, is that I love the messy imperfections. I love that Annie and I both have holes and gaps, because that's where we're able to meet each other in friendship. Imperfection requires help-- it requires hope, and GRACE, and saving-- from God, from one another. For one another. And I love that, I love the meeting between trenches. That's when life gets to LIVING. Praise the Lord that Annie is not just Cool Annie Parsons-- that she's messier than the poised singer up front of many impressed people. If she was only that, we would have never needed to become friends, and the kind of wisdom and songs and thoughts that she's shared with me and so many others would have never been aired. If Cool Annie Parsons was only that, I don't know that she would have had the patience to walk with me through MY confusion-- but as it is, she does. And thank God that she does.

Anyway. Suffice it to say. I'm really loving Nashville. And Annie Parsons is fos sure one of my most favorite people in the whole world.