Trained

My week of management training went rather better than expected. I expected to be unconvinced and cynical. Instead, I could see the usefulness of many of the techniques presented to us. I also enjoyed meeting the other people in the class. It was kind of like jury duty in that way. Not quite as diverse but people from really different backgrounds doing very different things whom I wouldn't have met otherwise. Very interesting!

Now, of course, I am not a manager, so I won't have many opportunities to apply the things I learned in class. But in a couple of exercises I worked through ways to deal with coworkers that might actually yield better results than my past efforts. The focus in the class is on changing oneself, something I find hard to do, but which I'm open to trying. I will be trying some of these new strategies to get better cooperation from coworkers.

Better cooperation from contractors, though, is a different matter. The course didn't really touch those issues and I'm still struggling with how "empowerment" and "delegation" or the "Pygmalion effect" will get better quality work from fully empowered completely separate entities. Oh well.

I talked much too much, but got positive feedback from my classmates about what I said. They were interested and entertained by my tales of work-place miscommunication. Way to go dysfunctional agency!

The fighting with Mom has commenced. I'd say the problem from my end is that I'm not as engaged as she'd like me to be. Isn't that usually our problem? She's annoyed, among other things, when I'm on the computer. But it's not only her fault that I haven't posted, though that's a big part of it.

On the road tomorrow. Yom Kippur today. Have an easy fast if you're fasting (I am).

Grateful for: forgiveness.

Tabitha's big day…

and my big night.

I'm posting from Seattle, which is great. I do love it here. I almost forget how much when I'm away. It's too soon to be homesick for DC so I'm just enjoying the cloudy skies, the cool weather and the abundance of high-quality coffee.

Let's go back in time to Saturday. I did not make it to soccer. Lame, I know. I wasn't packed, I'd been up until 3am and it wasn't happening. (To my credit, I did pay the gym in my mom's building a visit on Sunday. I know, awesome.)

On Saturday, the exterminator came around 11am and in between explaining Reform Judaism, Yom Kippur and letting him into the basement, Miss Tabitha (the cat) decided it was a good time to go exploring. She rushed past me out the back gate and I let her roam free for a while. When I tried to find her, I saw that she'd gotten into the locked up back yard of our neighbors where I could not follow. (I would have had to crawl under our back under the house space to under their back porch and then…how would I crawl back to my yard holding a hissing, pissed off cat?)

I called and cajoled and she looked at me through the fence and cried. One of the neighborhood cats stood nearby and I turned to her and said, "Can you help her out?" She didn't answer.

I gave up and went back in the house and continued to pack, sort and organize. I took a shower. I went back outside and Tabby was in back in the yard. I scooped her up and carried her crying into the house. Maybe I should let her out more? She sure likes it and always seems to come back…still, fetching her is a serious pain.

I had to make a trip to the office since I'd left my iPod there. Good planning! I went to the gym on Friday and managed to leave it in my gym bag. I must say, I did ok on the gym this week. Mon, Tues and Friday. I like that I went back on Friday when it would have been so easy to skip. I don't like that I skipped soccer on Saturday, but even if I'd gone to bed at a reasonable hour, considering my lack of preparation, it wasn't a great idea. Well, it was a great idea; it just wasn't practical.

I did take some pics of the packing "process" as it were. Again, I wonder, is this of interest to anyone? I brought rather more clothing on this trip than usual. Not only because of the length more because of the likely variable weather. Cool in Seattle to hot in Arkansas. I've got my waterproof parka, wool long johns, heavy wool shirt, a few tank tops, long pants, short pants, and shorts. No skirts, fancy shirts or nice shoes. Just lots of comfortable, practical clothing. The shoe choices are hilarious: hiking boots, ugly red shoes and sneakers. Oh, and a pair of slides for shower-going in campgrounds. I normally only wear black shoes and yet, not a single pair made it on this trip.

Why was I up so late? As planned, I went to Pele's after work. She picked me up. We headed to her place. A few people were coming over later, but we decided to have a small dinner of pupusas first. Before we went for the pupusas, I called the Spanish lessons guy. I'd been putting it off all week. I was hoping he wouldn't answer and I could leave a message and I got my wish. A few minutes later, my phone rang. It was him, of course, but I didn't answer. I was glad he called back but I wasn't excited or overwhelmed. He left rather a long message and said he'd call later. I let him.

Ah, the message. When I first listened to the message, I only heard the first part, which made reference to Spanish lessons! On second listen, I heard the rest of the message, where he thanked me several times for calling and said he was on his way to a gig, and he'd call me later.

I got home around 11pm and soon after, he called. We talked and he's funny and I like him. He says, "When am I going to see you again?" I say, "Yeah, um, well, not for a while…" And I explain about my trip and we talk about that for a while and he tells me he's going to Mexico (home) in December. Then the connection drops.

He calls back and uses the tone I expect when someone is ending a conversation. Instead, he says, "I'm very near you. I'll drop by and see you."

"Um…"

"What is your street?"

I tell him and, not long after, he arrives.

He carries in his guitar and I get a short hug and kiss on the cheek when he comes in. I get him some water and we sit far apart on the sofa and talk and talk and talk. I like that. He tells some really bad jokes, which I'm not crazy about. He pulls out the guitar and asks me if I sing. I say yes, I used to sing in the glee club.

"What kind of music?"

"Choral music."

"Why don't you do it any more? You don't like it?"

"Oh, I liked it but it takes a lot of time."

He pulls out a huge binder full of songs--a big compendium of lyrics that he's assembled from here and there. Mostly they don't have music, which I ask him about. "I don't need it for most of them." Then he says, "You'll sing. Pick a song."

I demur but he persists. He starts playing a song I don't know then a song I do know. When it's time to start singing I sit silent. "C'mon!" He says, "You know the words."

"I do…but I can't. I'm too shy." I remember back in Chapel Hill, a friend of mine had a bunch of people over to make music. They all brought instruments. She was a devoted guitar player and quite good. I figured I'd sing along--and I did. But I didn't have to sing alone, one person watching me who I barely knew.

I love the idea of singing together. Or even singing while someone else plays guitar. I enjoy singing. I grew up singing with my parents, when my mom played her guitar, with all the records they had. I know the words to many a musical. But, I couldn't do it. He tried several songs and each time, I sat, silent, until he finally gave up and put the guitar away. Kind of sad.

It was strange. I wanted to sing but I couldn't sing. I think it was kind of sweet that he wanted me to sing. I was worried about not singing well. After all, this is someone whose profession is music. Then again, I'm a fine (if not great) singer, so what's the problem? It was just too much, too intimate. As I said to him, "I was never a soloist!"

Not too long after that, he got ready to go since it was 2am or so. 2am! What the fuck? We'd been doing a little couch shifting but never really got close and that was fine with me. I liked him but the whole situation was so unexpected. I didn't need him making passes at me and having to figure that out too.

He stood up to say goodbye and asked for my email and said he'd be in touch. Then he gave me a full hug, which was good. And then a little peck on the lips, which was also fine. Then another kiss as I moved him towards the door. Then, in the hallway, he wanted more kisses and I said "no" and he said "don't be scared" which I think is a pretty ridiculous thing to say to anyone over the age of 15 who's ever been kissed. I just smiled, though, and said no again and that I was glad he came over and sent him on his way.

On Saturday, SL sent me email. He said he had a good time and that I was quite funny. And he apologized for the "extra" kisses.

I don't think I've even gotten "funny" as a compliment in this kind of dating situation. I like it! I think I'm hilarious and if a guy likes my humor, that is great. (His humor I didn't always like--but some of it was good and had me laughing.)

And the extra kisses? That's unintentionally funny because it implies that there was some normal amount of agreed upon kisses and he went for extra…innings? Penalty time? Maybe I got a penalty for not singing so extra kisses came due? Ha ha!

I've now told the story to Mom and Audrey (and in brief, to Pele). Mom thought he was searching for intimacy and may or may not be for real Audrey thought he was doing what he thought a generic girl would want. Interesting takes. I say he likes me and he's quirky. I like him but I'm not sure how much. I don't get a lot of pleasure out of unreciprocated attention, so there's some mutuality here. Enough for a "real" relationship? Who knows? Who cares? It's fun and I'm on vacation (sort of) and it's nice to have something to look forward to when I get back. That's about as far as it goes for now.

Grateful for: Seattle, possibilities.

Keeping score

Last night, I went to the ballgame with Pele and her not-so-new boyfriend. Even though this fellow has been on the scene for quite a while (seven months? more?), this is only the fourth time we've met. Of course, we know quite a bit about each other, though I possibly have the edge on him. We are inclined to think positively about each other but we've yet to make an independent connection.

I also knew that going to the game wasn't going to be our moment. First, it would be noisy. Second, Pele would almost certainly sit in between us, making conversation minimal.

As expected, it was too loud to talk to anyone but your immediate neighbor, and mine was Pele. She relayed some conversations between the two of us and we shouted a little at each other about our past ownership of Chevy Malibus. His was an early '80s model, mine a 1970. He conceded that mine was much cooler, but both had V-8's, which is nothing to sneer at. I don't fault Pele, she tried to facilitate conversation--and under other circumstances, it might have worked--maybe next time.

I anticipated this outcome, so, for the first time this season, I brought my scorebook. That's right, I own a baseball scorebook.

In the old days, in Seattle, I developed the habit of keeping score. I found that I paid much closer attention to the games and got a lot more enjoyment out of them if I kept score. I usually went to games with my mom and she thought my habit was adorable--she even admired my mastery of the symbolic scoring language. The only problem with keeping score is that it's a bit anti-social. If you stop paying attention and talk to your companions, you miss things--vital things.

When I was dating Joe, my old Seattle boyfriend, we loved to watch baseball together. We went to a few games and watched (and listened) to many more. The summer we dated, I loved to come home, turn on the game, lie on the floor and do the crossword. Joe liked to do the crossword puzzle too. For his birthday, I got him the package where you get your name on the screen. You also got a souvenir ball (which we lost playing catch). His mom and step-dad were visiting for his birthday and we put everyone in the Malibu (it sat six, easy) and drove down to the Kingdome to catch the game. What a great day.

I'm not sure what the occasion was, but Joe bought me some baseball paraphernalia that I still own: the scorebook and an official rulebook. We used the scorebook when we watched games at home and the first few pages are filled with Joes neat handwriting--much nicer than mine.

I've wanted to keep score at the Nats games, but to get a scorecard you have to buy the program--which is $10! Crazy. I'm not paying that much. In Seattle, you could buy a scorecard for .75 cents (it went up to $1 after 1991--who knows what it costs now--my last Seattle card is from 1997 and it's still $1). The card would have a handy list of the players for each team and their stats. Each scorecard was printed on heavy stock for ease of use.

Also, I go to the games with friends, so I try to repress my anti-social urges. But, last night, I knew I wouldn't be able to fully participate in a conversation and this way, I'd be sure to have a good time.

I scored the entire game, including pitching changes and pinch hitters. The Nats lost, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Maybe it is anti-social, but I sure love keeping score.

Grateful for: my scorebook

Food Stamps

I ran across a link to the Food Stamp challenge the other day and it made me remember the time I was on food stamps. Luckily, I've only ever experienced what my father calls "self-imposed" poverty. That's the poverty of students, non-profit workers and federal employees (ha ha) who have significant family resources behind them. I don't have a trust fund, but I'm definitely privileged--we're solidly (upper) middle-class. I've always had the good fortune to know that if I ever fell into financial straights, my parents would bail me out. That's still the case, but these days, I have the resources to bail them out too, if necessary.

My parents supported me financially during college and a little beyond. (I always had a part-time job, but they wanted me to save money, which I did. I didn't have a credit card or a car during college, which went a long way towards not spending money.) After I graduated from college and had a steady job, my allowance stopped (I don't remember having a conversation about it with my parents, but we must have). After graduating, I paid my own way, but the folks bailed me out to the tune of a few hundred dollars here and there over the years. (I paid for graduate school, but sometimes Dad gave me money for health insurance.) Before I moved for grad school, I got the perks of living in the same town as my mother: free laundry if I trucked it to her place, dinner and movies on her when we went out, home cooked meals, occasional care packages, sick visits, and new socks and underwear on demand. While I made enough money to pay for food, rent and the basics, Mom still helped me in small ways until I left Seattle--and a little after I left too.

A year and a half after I graduated, I got a job as a VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America). I stayed in Seattle and worked for the YWCA. I used to describe VISTA as a domestic Peace Corps, which I believe was the intention behind its founding. During the Clinton years (after my time), it was re-packaged as AmeriCorp. (Aside: I could write a whole post on the VISTA orientation, let alone the overall experience. A highlight was the bit in the orientation handbook about "a thousand points of light." Ugh.)

VISTA volunteers earn a stipend, not a salary. The stipend is less than minimum wage. There's a philosophical reason behind the low pay--VISTAs are supposed to be poor. VISTAs work with the poor (though direct service is prohibited) and should experience poverty. But, like Dad says, self-imposed poverty is not the same. It's not really poverty when your parents buy you a car (only $1,300--but still) or cover the cost of your long distance calls to them.

On my very low VISTA pay, I barely qualified for food stamps. Amazing that you could make approximately $8,000/year and BARELY qualify. I thought it would be smart to apply. Not only because I could use the extra money, but because actually getting food stamps is not something most middle-income people ever do. I was supposed to be poor and this was part of the experience.

I made an appointment at the local welfare office. Ironically, it was in a location that would have been fantastically hard to get to if I didn't own a car. I also had to take almost the whole day off work because the appointment was in the middle of the day. I had to bring my pay stubs, bank statements and tax forms to demonstrate that I wasn't too rich and didn't have too many assets. My only assets were the car and a few hundred dollars in my savings account. My caseworker barely spoke English so the interview was a bit challenging. I believe she came from Russia and I always wondered if they assigned me to her because I have a Russian last name (Barab is Russian, but so is my non-pseudonymous last name). I got through the interview and was told I'd receive $50/month in food stamps.

Using the food stamps was a little embarrassing at first, but the grocery store people never made a fuss and it was fine. These days, benefits come on a card, like an ATM card, but back then the food stamps were paper--like heavy-duty monopoly money. Cool, in a way, but a bit humiliating in practice. Also non-transferable. Food stamps can only be used for food, and only certain types of food (no prepared foods), so purchases had to be made in a combination of cash/check (for the toilet paper, soap, and toothpaste) and food stamps for the rest. It was awkward but manageable. I'd sometimes make food stamp-only runs to avoid the hassle.

Because I was on the margin of being eligible, I had to send in a form and copies of my pay stubs every month. After six months, I'd have to re-certify, which meant another visit to the office, another day off from work, and another assessment of my banking records. Just shy of the six-month mark, I had a month in which I received three checks. I sent in copies of all three pay stubs. Shortly thereafter, I got a letter telling me my income was too high and I would no longer receive food stamps. I was furious. I called and explained that I was earning a salary and just because my monthly pay was higher than usual, my annual income hadn't changed. The response? "You were going to have to re-certify next month anyway, so why are you complaining?" Nice.

I was so discouraged. I thought, "This system encourages people to cheat." Because I was honest and sent all three pay stubs, I was punished. If I'd only sent two, no one would have noticed. I seriously debated re-certifying. I didn't want to go back and deal with all the paperwork and the dour caseworker. Eventually, I concluded that if I were involuntarily poor, I would have to go back. This was part of the deal--being poor means fewer choices. I went back and got another six months of food stamps. I was sincerely trying to live within my means, but supporting even one person (and a car) on $8,000 a year was not easy. I still had Mom if I needed her and thank goodness for that.

Interestingly, after VISTA ended, I had no steady job and even less money. It never occurred to me once during that time to reapply. Since then, I've either had too much income to quality or been a student--and in many places, full time students aren't eligible (I understand why, but what about full-time students who are actually poor???)--so I've never gotten food stamps again. While I fully support the program, I'm glad I've never had to use it again. I know I'm not just lucky, but I am grateful.

Grateful for: plenty to eat.

Otto

Given the current dating moritorium, I thought I'd share a story that makes me happy not to be dating. It's a terrible first date story! I wonder if I could make a series of these...lord knows I've had plenty. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this one.

Back in Seattle, about a year before I moved to Chapel Hill for grad school, I read about a band, IMIJ, that sounded interesting. They were playing at the Off-Ramp and I thought, "Hey, I have a car, it's easy to park around there. I'm going to the show." And I went, solo. As it turned out, I didn't love the band. I watched the show for a while and then moved to the bar.

A scrawny guy who reminded me of a miniature Pete Townshend, big nose and all, sat at the end of the bar, ordering Greyhounds. We made eye contact and he came and sat next to me. He asked where my boyfriend was, where my friends were. I said I was alone. He introduced himself as Otto. We had a long talk about my car. I was a little bit in love with my car, a 1970 Chevy Chevelle Malibu. We made a bet about how many seat belts the car had. He guessed there were a total of six male and six female components. I told him he was wrong, that there were eight of each. He bet me a drink that I was wrong. Of course, he was silly to make that bet since I only bet on a sure thing. We made our way out to the car and I showed him what he hadn't counted on--shoulder belts for the driver and one front-seat passenger (the shoulder belts were not connected to the lap belts). Otto was surprised and possibly irked that I won the bet. We sat in the front seat of the car and I showed him the seat belts. We kissed and then went back to the bar. I didn't let him buy me the drink since I had to drive home. But we made a date.

When Otto picked me up for our date, he was wearing a sports jacket over a sweater vest, but no shirt. No shirt, just a sweater vest. We drove to a Thai restaurant downtown and he proceeded to talk, uninterrupted, for almost the entire night. I'm a big talker and I've been known to dominate more than one conversation. In fact, I talk even more when I'm nervous, which happens on dates, so I could almost understand Otto's monologue. Almost. While we were at the restaurant the only time I spoke was too order my meal. I was fascinated. I couldn't quite believe it was happening. We went to a bar afterwards, he ordered a beer and I spoke again, ordering the same. He paused briefly and I said, "Isn't there anything you want to ask me?"

He looked at me blankly and said, "Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe you want to know where I went to high school?" He'd been talking about his high school.

"Um, ok. Where did you go to high school?"

"I didn't go to high school. I went to college early."

"Oh, that's cool." And then he continued talking. That's my best stuff. I've never known someone who didn't have a follow up question to the "I didn't go to high school" line. (Except the one guy who thought I was joking. Even he repeatedly said, "That can't be true.") I smiled and listened. I thought, "I might as well learn my lesson. It had to happen sometime."

After the bar, we went to his house, which was an abandoned property just south of the Aurora bridge. I'm sure he was squatting. I sat on his lap and we kissed a little. The he drove me home.

I would have gone out with him again, but he didn't call. Maybe he preferred someone more assertive.

Grateful for: first date stories.

Drop me a line.