Phones and 'Phones

Time for some bits of randomness...

--Yesterday I went into the restroom at work and found a guy in there talking on his cell phone. The building I work in houses a library in addition to various offices, so it tends to be quiet. But there is no specific prohibition on cell phone use (they seem to care more about people spilling food on the books) and there are plenty of nooks and quiet areas on the various floors where one can have a quiet cell phone conversation without disturbing others, and I often see people doing this. So why this dude felt it was necessary to have his conversation in the restroom was unclear, but this is something I find particularly annoying. My response was to make as much noise as possible while I was in there, in the hope that I may have annoyed him back, at least a bit.

--To the guy on the T yesterday morning, listening to music on his headphones so loudly that I could identify the artist (Dropkick Murphys) from six feet away: holy crap, how loud must that be inside your head? Ow.

--Then on my commute home, someone's phone rang with a Dropkick Murphys ringtone. It was that song "I'm Shipping Up to Boston" that was featured in The Departed. I'm not a fan of ringtones in general, but if you feel you need to have one, that song seems like a good choice.

Microwave Roulette

The kitchen in our apartment was redone a few years back, when the owners lived in the unit. Everything is nice and modern, and we enjoy the conveniences of a dishwasher and garbage disposal. There are several power outlets along the wall where the counter and sink are, so naturally that's where we have our appliances plugged in. There's the microwave, the toaster oven, the coffee maker, the dishwasher, the switch for the disposal, the switch for the light over the sink, the stove, and the vent hood above it. (The stove is gas, but it needs electricity for its clock and the fan and light in the hood.)

A while after we moved in, we discovered that random kitchen activities would trip the circuit breaker. Each occurrence meant a trip down to the basement to reset the breaker. After a few more instances, we realized that these events weren't so random. Every time it happened, it was caused by one of us trying to use the microwave.

As a result, we started to adjust our behavior. Neither of us wants to be the one who causes the breaker to trip and thus has to trudge downstairs to flip the it back on, so we do things like set the microwave for longer than may be necessary, to avoid food that isn't hot enough and needs to go back for a second zapping, because that could be the one that does it. We turn off lights before starting the microwave. We try to remember when the breaker last got tripped, and try to estimate how long it's going to be before it happens again.

Not being an electrician, I'm not certain of this, but it seems to me that even though we don't make a habit of running all our kitchen appliances simultaneously, this circuit has too much on it and probably should have been split into two smaller circuits. When I talked to the landlord about the circuit, I got a sense that he and his wife had had to put up with the fussy breaker as well. But he's not going to pay to have work done on it. So reheating leftovers becomes sort of like a game of Russian roulette, but with a touchy circuit breaker instead of a gun.

Eyeglass Update #3: I Can See Clearly Now, But...

Glasses arrived yesterday via USPS Priority, which costs $6.99. (You can get free shipping, but I think it's just first-class and is therefore not trackable.)

The prescription is correct, which is good. The frames are the right size and color, which is also good. They left out the anti-reflective coating, which is not good. They did not charge me for it, but it was in my order confirmation, so somewhere along the way it got lost. So I called customer service and explained what had happened. After about two minutes on hold, I was given instructions on how to return the glasses so the error could be fixed. The rep admitted that mistakes do sometimes happen, and obviously they want me to be satisfied, so they are going to give me some sort of discount on the coating. The saga continues...

Eyeglass Update #2

So, about that weekend posting I mentioned? Didn't happen, obviously. But when I reviewed what I had done for three days, I came up somewhat empty. Saturday we were out of the house almost all day, from haircuts to errands to picking up a used computer that's going to help bring my mother into the 21st century. Sunday was mostly consumed by the football games, with a run to the grocery store to get stuff to eat while watching those games.

Monday was a holiday, but I spent a good chunk of the day working, because I had a deadline this week, and because last week we were closed for a day because of a storm that didn't amount to anything. I was unprepared for the closure, which was deemed a "work at home day" by management, and felt I could use the holiday to make up for some of the time missed the previous week, and thus improve my chances of making my deadline. I also had a visit from the cable company, which I'll have more to say about soon.

Now, the good news: I got an email from FramesDirect on Monday informing me that my glasses have shipped, which means they should be here in another day or two.

Work, Work, Work

Sorry for my absence from the interwebs the past few days, folks, but it's been a hectic week at the office for your intrepid blogger. First, I missed a day of work because the bosses decided our office would stay closed on Monday due to the storm. Of course, that storm turned out to be nothing much, really. I'll never look a gift snow day in the mouth, but it messed up my rhythm for the week as deadlines impend.

Then on Wednesday, I ran into some computer problems with the temp. I'd begun converting some files for him to work on, but it turned out that he could not open the converted files on his computer, because it has an older version of the software than I used. My boss used to keep track of all the software, but he's been gone since the end of September and he hasn't been replaced yet.

The other person who was likely to have a clue about the software has been put on bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy and is working from home, so I've been emailing back and forth with her and searching through desk drawers in various offices, looking for software that we supposedly have but I cannot find.

Meanwhile, I came up with a way around the problem: I re-converted the files using the older version of the program still on my computer, and that worked--the temp was able to open them, so I'm not sure there's any need to bother trying to find and install the mystery software. Also meanwhile, my own work languishes--really, I shouldn't even have taken the time to write this post. Fortunately we have a long weekend, and hopefully I will be able to get to a post or two then.

No Parking

Yesterday morning I woke up a little before 9, which is typical for me on a Sunday. I put on some clothes so I could take the dog out. She did her #1 in the back yard, then we proceeded down the driveway for her morning stroll 'n' sniff around the block. When we got to the end of the driveway, there was a car parked across it, blocking our car in. There was empty space behind the car along the curb, but I had no way of knowing if it had been that way overnight. I took the dog on her walk as I thought about how to respond.

There is no shortage of parking in this neighborhood. Just about every house has a driveway, the few apartment buildings have their own lots, and there are no permits or stickers, so anyone can park anywhere on the streets. Our landlord deemed that the tenants of the first-floor apartment (that's us) have exclusive use of the driveway and garage, probably because that's how it was when they lived in this apartment. The three people who live upstairs park on the street, and they seem fine with that.

I did not recognize the car, so I knew it didn't belong to any of our upstairs neighbors, or any of their friends. Besides, they are intelligent and considerate people, and they know that if there is some sort of parking emergency, like during December's snowstorms, they can just pull in the driveway and park behind us.

We came back from out walk, and an hour later I looked outside and the car was still there. It had Connecticut plates, so I reasoned that it might be someone's visitor. I didn't want to have to walk around ringing doorbells, trying to figure out who the car belonged to. I thought about writing a sticky note that said "Please don't block our driveway" and putting it on the driver's window, but that seemed like kind of a wimpy response. By now it was nearing 10:30, and I think if you're going to be so rude as to block someone's driveway with your car, you should at least get your ass out of bed and move the car at some reasonable point after the sun has come up. I decided to call the police department, mostly because I wanted to know if I had any legal position, such as the right to have the car towed.

To my surprise, the person on the phone at the police station said they would send an officer out. I took my coffee into the living room and watched out the window, waiting for the show to start. An officer showed up about ten minutes later. He blooped the siren for a moment, sort of like a warning shot. Then he got out of his cruiser and wrote a ticket. I thought, this is great, but then it occurred to me: a ticket still didn't solve the problem of our driveway being blocked. He pulled his cruiser forward of the car, and I saw a tow truck coming around the corner. I thought, wow, Medford takes parking enforcement seriously.

Just then, the car's owner appeared. He was a big guy wearing a hockey sweater. I had an idea which house he'd come from; a bunch of rowdy dudes had moved in two doors down near the end of the summer. I watched the officer give him a bit of a civics lesson on being a good neighbor, along with the citation. The big dude got into his car and went on his way. I wonder if this will make the police blotter?

Sweet Treatment

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I was talking about IKEA's cinnamon rolls? Did that make any of you hungry? In the mood for some delicious baked goods? Want to learn how to make great baked treats yourself? You're in luck, because our friend Anne teaches baking classes at Brookline Adult & Community Education, and she has two classes coming up that I offered to plug on her behalf.

The first class is called "Breakfast Baking" and takes place on Saturday, January 26th from 10 AM-1 PM. Anne is planning to demonstrate "professional baking techniques, and how to prepare breakfast specialties that are quick and easy to assemble even on the busiest of mornings. We'll make and enjoy breakfast treats like Sour Cream Coffee Cake, Chocolate Chip Muffins, Banana Bread, Cornmeal Currant Scones, and more." Mmmm, I could go for some of that coffee cake about now...

The second class, "Homemade Bars and Brownies," is the following Saturday, February 2nd, also from 10 AM-1 PM. "In this highly-participatory class, bakers of all levels will learn easy recipes and how to make two of the most popular desserts: bars and brownies. We will roll up our sleeves and make an assortment of homemade Turtle Shortbread Bars, Double-Cherry Streusel Bars, Four-way Fudge Brownies, and Citrus-Hazelnut Bars." Oh, baby.

I can testify to Anne's baking skills and the goodness of her creations, as we have been testers for some of her recipes in the past. Tough job, huh?

Eyeglass Update #1

I got a call from a customer service rep at FramesDirect yesterday after I'd submitted my order and faxed my prescription, but it was after I'd left work for the day. When I came in this morning, the voicemail light was blinking on my phone. Here's the thing: I never get phone calls on this line. Once or twice a coworker has called me from within the office about something, but since I've been here, any work-related matters involving people outside the office have been resolved by email, so I did not know how to retrieve the message.

The phones here are terrible: most of the buttons are unlabeled, and nothing about how to use it is obvious. It turned out that the phone had been used by someone who left here over six months ago, and it still had his name as the voicemail greeting. I haven't figured out how to change that yet, but a call to the telecommunications department got the voicemail password reset so I could at least listen to the message.

The reason for the call was that, due to the strength of my prescription, the lenses have to be custom ground, so there would be a surcharge on the order, and the rep wanted to give me the option of choosing the cheaper, but thicker, polycarbonate lenses. She left a name and an extension, so when I called back I was able to speak to her, and not have to explain everything to another rep who was not familiar with my order. So, points to them for getting customer service right.

Specs

A follow-up on the eyeglass frames I bought on eBay: while the measurements of the lenses and bridge are identical to my current glasses, the overall width of the frame is a bit narrower, resulting in them gripping the sides of my head a little too tightly. Also, they have this sort of filigree trim on the temples, which was not visible in the auction photos; had it been, I wouldn't have bid on them, because they just aren't me. So I learned a lesson there, but like I said, they only cost me $30 plus shipping, so I will probably just give them away, or something.

Meanwhile, yesterday after work I found myself with a bit of time to kill, and while wandering around downtown I passed Cohen's Fashion Optical. They are an East Coast chain, and somehow the place had slipped beneath my radar altogether. So I went in, and through some sort of luck, they had the frames I was thinking about ordering online, which meant I was able to try them on to see which size I should get. (You can do all the measuring in the world, but as I learned, glasses just have to be tried on before a decision can be made.)

Of course, they wanted $270 for just the frames, which is what the frames cost that I looked at in the other place. Online from FramesDirect, I can get the entire pair of glasses made for that amount, with the high-index lenses and the more expensive of the two choices of anti-reflective coatings. So, kids, in the interest of consumer research (and blog fodder), I have decided to take the plunge and buy a pair of eyeglasses online. I've placed my order, I've faxed my prescription to them, and now I await the results.

One important note: if you decide to follow my lead and do this yourself, you need a very important piece of information called pupillary distance, which, in typical science-speak, is the distance between your pupils. This number dictates how the lenses should be ground so that they are properly centered in front of your eyes. You can get it a couple of different ways: if you are getting an eye exam, you can ask the doctor to take the measurement. But if you have already had an exam, like I did last year, and are working with a copy of that prescription, the PD may not be on there, because it is usually done by the optician at the time you order glasses. What then? You can look in the mirror and hold a ruler up to your forehead (which is a less than ideal solution, for obvious reasons), or you can call the place that made your previous glasses; they should have it. That's what I ended up doing.

Attention Passengers

I noticed that the T has altered its incoming-train announcements (at least at Wellington in the morning; it could be just a test). I was pleased when they started doing these, because they do make your life a little bit easier--when it's 15 degrees and you hear the announcement, you know you only have to stand outside for another minute or so before you can squish into the train with all the other over-bundled commuters and instantly get overheated.

The thing that has always bothered me about them is the choice of wording: "Attention passengers: the next Orange Line train to Forest Hills is now arriving." Each time I hear it, I think to myself, well no, it's not actually arriving; technically it's still approaching, so that's what the announcement should say.

What the T has done is added a second announcement for each train. And lo, what does that first announcement say? "Attention passengers: the next Orange Line train to Forest Hills is now approaching." Then there's another announcement, when the train is in fact arriving in the station, that says the train is arriving. Whoa. It's like the T somehow got inside my head and read my thoughts. Scary.

The only real downside to the T showing a flash of original thought? That we might expect more of them in the future.

Darkly Dreaming

The Mrs. and I have spent the past few days immersed in the first season of the Showtime series Dexter. We've never had HBO or Showtime or any of the other premium cable channels, mostly because, while cable TV and internet have become things we feel we don't want to live without, I do feel like I'm already giving Comcast too much of my money every month for those services. So with original series like Dexter that air on premium channels, we generally wait until they're available on DVD. In fact, we still haven't seen those last nine Sopranos episodes from earlier this year; I should Netflix them soon.

Though it's only twelve episodes, Dexter is some of the best television I've ever seen. Dexter Morgan is a crime scene tech, specifically a blood spatter analyst, for the Miami police department. He's also a killer who kills only other killers, those who have managed to elude justice one way or another. His adoptive father, a police officer, realized early on what Dexter was and what he was capable of, and taught him in how to pass for normal to get along in the world, how to kill without leaving evidence, and to kill only those who deserved to die. The psychological motivations that drive Dexter are fascinating, and far more rich and complex than those of just about anyone in TV history.

Based on the book Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay, naturally the show is at times gruesome, but it's also deeply compelling, with superb writing and excellent acting. As Dexter struggles to comprehend the motivations of a killer who seems to be using his crimes to send messages intended specifically for him, it quickly becomes apparent that this is no ordinary TV show. If you're not squeamish and not upset or disturbed by this sort of material, you should definitely see Dexter.

Seeing Red

I need a new pair of glasses badly. I've had my current pair for six years, so the lenses are scratched and the finish (originally midnight blue) has worn off much of the metal, leaving them looking like the eyewear equivalent of an '86 Accord that's been parked outside for the past twenty winters. Also, I have no backup pair, so I'm hoping to solve that, and make my current pair my backup pair.

Now, I'm not one of the folks who can just cruise over to For Eyes or one of those other places that advertises on TV and pick up the "two pairs for $99" special. That's mainly because I have a pretty heavy-duty prescription, and in order to avoid the coke-bottle look, I need what are called high-index lenses, which cost somewhat more than the standard plastic lenses that come in the promo-package glasses. If you want the anti-reflective coating, which is helpful if you have to sit under fluorescent lights all day, that costs extra too.

Having been to quite a few of these places recently to browse frames, I can say that none of them have anything I'm interested in wearing on my face. Besides my strong prescription, I have a narrow head for an adult male, and (in case you hadn't picked up on this by now) I'm wicked fussy about pretty much everything. The dominant style at every place I've visited is wide, rectangular frames with a very short top-to-bottom lens measurement, which is precisely the worst-looking style of eyeglass frame for my face. I do best in the roundish realm, and round is out right now, and has been for a while.

There's a place near work that isn't part of a chain, so I popped in there just out of curiosity. I found a nice-looking pair of round frames. They happened to be a designer brand, but they were also the right size and color, with no fussy trim and no logos, so I showed them my prescription and asked them what the total cost would be. The guy looked at my prescription, did some scribbling, punched at a calculator, and said, "Seven hundred."

Seven hundred dollars. SEVEN. HUNDRED. DOLLARS. For a pair of eyeglasses? My new computer cost less than that, and I got a free printer with it, a printer that also scans and copies, and probably makes toast too. Not wanting to look like a clueless bumpkin, I kept calm and didn't change my facial expression. I asked, "How much are just the frames?" "Two seventy-five." Oooo-kay then, gotta be getting back to my office, thanks for your time.

This makes me wonder how the cheapie places do it. I'm sure they are using cheap frames that are no doubt made in China (the higher-end brands tend to be made in Italy), but even so, one place charges a hundred bucks for two complete pairs of glasses, and another place charges fourteen times as much, so what does that mean in terms of lens quality? Eyeglasses are kind of crucial to a lot of people, so what happens when you spend the least possible amount of money on them? That worries me.

None of this has helped me get new glasses, of course. So I'm considering other options. I bought a pair of new, Italian-made designer frames on eBay for a mere $30. If I like how they look on me, I'll have lenses made for them. If I don't, I'm thinking about getting glasses made through the web site FramesDirect. They have a great selection, and I've found exactly what I want; the only drawback is that I can't see and try on the frames first. But I may have to trust in the measurements and photos; the alternative is to call every optician in town to see if they carry the frame style I want.

1985, Part 2

The other major thread running through 1985 was the woman. I met her in early February, at a party hosted by myself and the other residents of the brownstone dorm where I lived. She came as the guest of someone else I knew that I had run into that week and invited.

I was in charge of the music for our house parties, and I think that's what caught her attention initially: we liked a lot of the same music, stuff that wasn't necessarily popular. We danced and talked about music, and I thought she was interesting and attractive; after the party I thought maybe there was something between us, but I had never had a real girlfriend before, so I didn't think much more about it.

Several days later, I again saw the person who had brought her to the party, this time in the cafeteria. It turned out that they were roommates. She said, "She's been talking about you all week, will you please just call her?" This was difficult to comprehend. She was tall and voluptuous, with striking features. She had a punkish haircut and dressed with attitude. She had lived in foreign countries and spoke fluent Spanish. I had never met someone as worldly and sophisticated as her, let alone had someone like that be interested in me. But while I've done at least my share of stupid things in my life, I'm no idiot; I called her that night.

It was just before the Presidents' Day weekend, and she was going home to visit her family, so we made plans to go out the following weekend. I thought I had won some sort of dating lottery. I tried not to talk or think about her too much, afraid that I might jinx the whole thing. For our first date we went to see Stop Making Sense at the Harvard Square Theater. We were both big Talking Heads fans, but she was really into them. She told me she had already seen the movie, but wanted to see it again. It was unseasonably warm for February, so we took a long walk after the movie.

The following weekend was the start of spring break, and I was heading for Florida with a few friends, not to run amok in Fort Lauderdale but to relax by the pool at my friend's house outside Miami. So it was another couple of weeks before I saw the woman again. We dated regularly through March and April, frequently going out to see bands on weekends (once even taking the bus to Worcester to see Prince at the Centrum), but things didn't get serious between us until the semester was nearly over, mostly because I was nervous and unsure of myself. She was finishing her sophomore year and was headed home for the summer to Maine. She didn't really want to go home, but she couldn't afford to stay in the city for the summer. She left a few days before my graduation, and we were faced with sustaining the relationship while apart over the summer.

We wrote many letters to each other, talked on the phone as often as possible (long distance calls were still kind of expensive then), and managed to see each other about every other weekend. Most of the time I would take the bus to Portsmouth, where she would meet me and we would drive the rest of the way to her family's home. I felt strange around her parents, not having been in this sort of situation before, but they made me feel welcome and seemed to like me well enough. A few weekends she came down to Boston and stayed with me.

As the summer went by, I fell deeply and helplessly in love. At times I literally had stomach aches from the pain of being apart from her. As the end of August approached, my anticipation grew for her return and the beginning of the school year. (Although I had graduated, my brain was still very much on academic-year time, and knowing her and other people who were still juniors or seniors kept me in that mind-set.) She returned on a Friday, which happened to coincide with my birthday, and we spent the weekend celebrating.

We fell into a pattern: during the week I would usually stay with her in her dorm room (she had a single). From there I would go to work in the morning. After work I would go home to my apartment, eat dinner, and pick up a change of clothes, then head back to her place. On weekends we would stay at my apartment; she loved to cook and was happy to have access to a kitchen. It wasn't domestic bliss, but I was feeling blissful anyway.

Through my various ordeals with housing and jobs that year, she was a great source of strength to me, always able to say the right thing and help keep me optimistic. When I moved into the house in Allston in early December, I thought everything was falling into place and started allowing myself to think about a long-term future with her. But about a week later, she broke up with me.

It happened at a holiday party back at my old dorm, where we had first met. I had become too dependent on her, or something along those lines. What I wanted her to understand was, this is my first relationship, so I don't exactly know what I'm doing and I'm sure I'm going to make mistakes, give me a chance. But it didn't seem to matter what I said. She had had other boyfriends. She knew what she wanted, and I had been what she wanted, for a while, but no longer. That was probably the worst night of my life.

Naturally, we had already bought each other Christmas presents. Logic takes leave in situations like this; I was still so much in love with her that I wanted to give her the gifts anyway, mostly because I wanted her to see how much thought I had put into them. I had paid attention to things she had said about books, music, jewelry, things I knew she liked. I had chosen wrapping paper in her favorite colors. I had wrapped everything so carefully (I've never been much of a gift-wrapper). I naively thought these gestures might be enough to win her back, but of course they weren't.

I went home for Christmas and never said a word about any of it to my family. I pretended everything was normal and great between us. After I got back from my family visit, she called from her family's home: did I have plans for New Year's Eve? I hadn't made any specific plans, but before all this had happened, I had assumed they would somehow involve her. She was bored, and invited me to come up and spend it with her. Was this a mere olive branch, or a real reconciliation? She didn't give me a clue either way on the phone. It turned out to be a reconciliation. She had had time to think, and had realized that she hadn't been fair to me. She wanted to come back. I wanted her to come back, more than anything. Happy new year.

It lasted about two weeks. At least the second time, it wasn't as much of a shock. Ultimately we would go back and forth this way for months. Eventually it wasn't painful anymore, and when it finally ended for good, it just ended. Nothing was said, but I knew it was really over, and to my surprise I found that I was relieved. It had become clear that there wasn't going to be a happy ending for us, regardless of how well things might have been going at any given time. I did love her, and I knew that she had loved me as well, but she needed something I was simply unable to give her.

We attempted to remain friends, but she had been moving away from me for a long time in many ways, and then she moved away for real, to the other side of the country, with another man. In looking back, I am certain that even if she had not broken up with me that first time, we were not destined to be together. I can't explain how or why I know, I just know. But when you're in the middle of something so intense, you can't see it that way. You can't see in from the outside until you've been turned inside-out. With the benefit of hindsight, I was able to see that she had given me something very important: the ability to see myself in a different way. She showed me that there were other choices, other possibilities for my life. She helped me find myself, my real self, the one I didn't yet know existed.

1985

To close out the year, I'm going to do something a little different: an autobiographical flashback to my younger and more innocent days. Most of you were not in the picture at the time, but a couple of you were, so let me preface by saying that I have tried to recount things as accurately as possible, and if I've screwed something up, it's because I'm getting old (which means you are too, ha) and don't remember things as well as I used to.

1985 was a big year for me. I graduated from college, entered my first real relationship, became fully self-supportive for the first time, and otherwise did quite a bit of growing up. It was also a very challenging year, as I faced some real adversities for the first time in my life. At this time of year I tend to look back on the events of '85 and think about what I've learned, and how far I've come.

I had lived in the cocoon of on-campus housing for all of my undergraduate years, so as graduation approached, one of the major challenges was finding a place to live. I had a friend who had been living in an off-campus house for the previous year, but he wanted a slightly calmer and more, um, adult living environment, so we decided to find an apartment together. This proved more difficult than we had anticipated: in the spring, everyone else is looking for an apartment at the same time, everyone else wants the good locations and wants to pay the least rent possible. Basically, we were screwed. We were unable to find a place in time, so he ended up staying in his house, and I moved in there as well, sleeping on the floor. That house has probably fallen down by now; if it hasn't, it should have.

By mid-June we had found a two-bedroom apartment, in a much less desirable location way, way out on the 57 bus line in Oak Square, about as far out in Brighton as you can go and still be within the city limits of Boston. (I would later end up living in another place on the 57 line, much closer in, for more than two years; eventually I had the entire schedule--inbound, outbound, day, night, weekend, holiday--committed to memory.) It was one of those horrible, square brick three-story buildings with four apartments on each floor and really thin walls. But it was all we could find that we could afford, $600 a month at the time, split between us.

Meanwhile, during my senior year I had a part-time job. I worked 3 PM to 11 PM on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, sitting at the front door of a small private hospital in Brighton (I'm reluctant to use the term "security guard," though that's how the hospital described it). As the end of the school year approached, I was asked if I wanted to work a full 40-hour week. I agreed, because it meant I would not have to look for a "real" job. In hindsight, this was a critical mistake; because I chose to blow off doing any serious thinking about my future, the reverberations of this decision in the years that followed ultimately set back my career goals by probably a decade.

Naturally, the job didn't last long. I honestly can't remember the exact circumstances, but I'm pretty sure they dumped me right after Labor Day. After an ill-fated stint attempting to do customer service for the IRS, I wound up working at the Harvard Coop. My starting pay was $4 per hour, but it was full-time hours with benefits--try finding that now in a retail job. At first I was what they called a "contingent," meaning I worked in whatever department needed extra staff on a given day. But by the end of my first week, I had been assigned permanently to the textbook department, which I believe is still on the third floor of the rear building over there in Harvard Square. I haven't been in there in years, except occasionally to browse the regular book department, which was moved over to the main building several years ago.

During the summer, my friend/roommate met a woman and started dating her. By fall it was pretty serious, and one day I came home from work and he told me he was moving in with her. This meant I had to find another roommate, or find somewhere else to live myself. It was around the beginning of November when he told me, so I had only a few weeks to make other arrangements. I immediately decided I didn't want to continue living in the apartment, mostly because it was a crappy, roach-infested hell hole in an inconvenient location, things that I figured would make it a tough sell for a potential roommate.

Back then there was no craigslist, so the place most people looked for roommates was the Boston Phoenix classifieds. In the midst of trying to find another place to live, I got very sick. The change from eating unlimited, fattening cafeteria food to feeding myself on a very modest budget (anyone remember Purity Supreme?) had caused me to lose about 20 pounds over several months, but I hadn't noticed. The result was that my immune system was fairly vulnerable, and I caught an early-season flu or something like it. I was knocked on my ass for a week; while sick, feeling the pressure of time running out, I dragged myself out in pouring rain to keep one appointment I had already made to see a room. That probably set back my recovery by at least a couple of days.

By Thanksgiving, it was clear that I was not going to be able to find a new place to live in time. My friend, having already moved out of our apartment and feeling somewhat guilty for leaving me in a bit of a jam, offered to let me stay temporarily in his new place. So on December 1st, I once again packed up my clothes and other belongings, and headed across Brighton to his new apartment, on Comm. Ave. near BC. At the time I felt like I was intruding on my friend's new-found cohabitational bliss, but the offer to stay with them turned out to be the bridge that I needed.

After three or four days, on my day off that week, I decided to check out an untried option, the off-campus housing office at my alma mater, BU. Most of the listings were old, from the end of the summer and the start of the fall semester, but one had been placed just that morning. It was for a room in a house in Allston shared by a total of seven people, and the rent was only $180 a month. I called immediately and talked to one of the residents. Apparently one of the housemates had moved out very abruptly, without giving proper notice, so they were in a bit of a bind and needed someone to move in right away. I was in a bit of a bind myself, so I made an appointment to visit that evening.

The house was on the corner of Cambridge Street, on the 57 line between Union Square and St. Elizabeth's Hospital (just barely in Allston, according to the post office), across from some sort of parochial school. There was a bus stop right in front of the house. It was three floors with a total of ten rooms, plus two full bathrooms. The place was old and parts of it were in pretty rough shape, but it also had interesting details like french doors from the front hall to the living room, lots of original woodwork, and a built-in bench at the bottom of the stairs. The residents were a combination of graduate students and folks with jobs.

The total rent was $1400 a month, a convenient number to divide between seven people. The room was advertised at $180 because it was the smallest bedroom, and very small indeed, just about big enough for my bed, dresser, and desk. Up on the third floor was an enormous space that was almost as large as the entire second floor, and at some point it had been decided that the person who had that room (because s/he had lived in the house the longest) would pay $20 more per month for having so much space, and the person moving into the smallest room would pay $20 less.

I was able to meet all the other residents that night, and felt pretty good about the place. Although I knew I would have to take the first place that was offered to me, this didn't feel like a desperation choice. I left feeling like I would want to live there regardless of the circumstances. I didn't have to wait long. I guess they talked it over after I left, and if I remember right, they had called by the time I made it back to my friend's place to say I was in. I made arrangements to move in that weekend. Just to review, this would be my fourth move since May.

By this point my family had tired of helping me move, so I enlisted a friend to rent a vehicle. I probably should have just rented one of those little U-Haul trucks, but I was trying to spend as little as possible, so we went with one of those Rent-a-Wreck places (do those still exist?). We ended up with a station wagon that was about seven or eight years old, and with the back seat down it had a pretty good-sized cargo area. It had a split tailgate, with a metal-framed glass window that flipped up and a lower door that flipped down. When we were finished unloading the car at my new place, I went to close the tailgate. I lifted up the lower part, then brought the window down. The entire window shattered, leaving just the frame. Made a hell of a noise, too. Fortunately, it was covered by insurance.

I lived in the house for two years. Every time someone moved out, I moved to a better room. By the following September I had moved into the second-largest and second-nicest room in the house, a large space at the front of the second floor. It had a turret section with three big windows, with curved glass and frames that followed the shape of the turret wall. Had I stayed a bit longer, I would have moved up to the penthouse soon enough, but I got tired of living with so many other people. What was I thinking? I would have been able to go up to my third-floor sanctuary and get away from all of them.

There were also crime problems. My bicycle was stolen from the basement: someone had washed their car and left the bulkhead unlocked. A few months later, someone (possibly the same person, we never established who) left the front door unlocked, and someone came in and rifled through dresser drawers, stealing cash and a few other small objects; I lost an antique wristwatch that had belonged to my grandfather.

But regardless, I loved the big beige house. In a way, that house saved me. It got me from uncertainty back to stability, and gave me a place to call home when I most needed one. I haven't been by it in at least a dozen years, so I'll have to do that one of these days, just to make sure I don't forget.

(To be continued...)

Cinnamon Dreams

Yesterday, our friend (and commenter on this blog) Sandra called to say she was having an "IKEA emergency": her new bed was being delivered, sooner than she had expected, and she needed new sheets, so she was heading to IKEA and wondered if we wanted to come along.

I like IKEA well enough. Their stuff isn't always the best quality, but it looks good and generally it's inexpensive enough so you can buy without feeling guilty. We have a few things we've bought there: a Poang chair, a couple of lamps, a couple of work tables. But the main reason I'm happy that they opened a store within a reasonable drive: the cinnamon rolls.

I've had a jones for cinnamon rolls for as long as I can remember, but it isn't always easy to find good ones. Some bakeries just don't bother making them, and there are mediocre versions like the ones Dunkin' Donuts used to sell in the fall a few years back. (I ate them anyway, wishing they were better.) So when I discovered that IKEA made their own cinnamon rolls, and that they were pretty tasty, I was pretty happy, except that at the time (June 1998) we were on a road trip through North Carolina, Tennessee, and Kentucky, and there wasn't an IKEA store within 250 miles of home.

Fast-forward a few years, and we finally have our own IKEA right here in eastern Massachusetts. Whenever we find ourselves there, I buy a six-pack of the rolls. I had one for breakfast today, I'll have one tomorrow, and one Tuesday. (The other three are for the Mrs; I'm not that greedy.) They're flaky and gooey, not too sweet, a little messy (eating over the sink is recommended) and perfect with a fresh cup of coffee. Pleasant dreams...

The Pursuit of Perfection

I'm not presumptuous enough to say I predicted it, but back in January I did make this comment after the Patriots lost to the Colts in the AFC championship game:

What I'd love to see is a season similar to 2003 and 2004, only better, where the team hardly loses all season and is really dominant, not just in their division but in the whole AFC. I want to see a year where the Pats are the #1 seed, giving them the first-round playoff bye and two home playoff games at Gillette Stadium, a magic carpet ride of a season that leads them to wherever the Super Bowl is being played that year and their fourth championship. That's my idea of fantasy football.

I've held off on mentioning this because I didn't want to jinx them, but now that the regular season is over I think it's okay. This season has been even better than I could have imagined, but we all know what we really want, and it's not going to be easy. But right now it feels like the Patriots can do pretty much whatever they want, so let's see if they can make some more history in the next few weeks.

Of Loos and Logos

This is just a random observation: to get to the men's room in the Lord & Taylor store at the Burlington Mall, you have to go through the children's department. This creeps me out, as I feel like it's practically inviting a pedophile to grab a kid and whisk him or her into the bathroom. Is there something wrong with me for thinking about these things? Really, shouldn't the men's room be adjacent to the men's department?

The Mrs. and I were shopping in Macy's last night at the same mall, up on the third floor in The Cellar (ponder that one for a moment), because we got a gift card from my brother and sister and we're thinking about getting a new coffee maker, the kind that grinds the beans and then brews the coffee in one unit. Turns out that in that Macy's, both the men's and women's restrooms are in the children's department, which is adjacent to the kitchen stuff. I guess I can see the logic of this: when the kid says, "Mommy/Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom," it's certainly more convenient if the bathroom is right next to where you're shopping for overpriced kids' clothes with shrunken versions of adult designer logos.

Seriously, have you seen this stuff? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Nearly every popular adult clothing designer had a kids' line. I know it's about money and "extending the brand" in marketing-speak; what it really means is turning kids into consumer whores before they even realize that's what they've become. As parents, how do you fight this? We don't have kids, so this is not an issue we have to face.

Swapped

What a week. Never mind the weather, there were plenty of other reasons why it was crazy.

My absence from blogging these past few days is largely attributable to work. My office closes for the holiday break; we won't be back at work until January 2nd, and we get paid for this time off, which is awesome, but the price we pay is that lots of stuff needs to be finished before the break starts. And these are rigid deadlines, as in, this has to be finished because someone else needs the results of what you do, so if you don't get your stuff done, everyone down the line from you is screwed. I don't need blowback like that, so I worked like a hamster in a wheel all week to make sure everything was finished.

In the midst of that, on Wednesday, was our office's holiday party. Our parties are actually fun, not the sort of thing people dread and try to get out of attending. But we do have a Yankee swap, and I had completely forgotten about getting a gift for it, so at lunchtime the day of the party I headed off to the Prudential Center, which is the closest shopping emporium to work. (By placing a location and time limit on the required purchase, I was able to eliminate a lot of the second-guessing I tend to do in such situations. Hmm, note to self for next year...)

I care more about whether my gift is liked than about what gift I end up with. I spent about fifteen minutes in a bookstore, figuring the worst-case choice would be a gift card from the store. But as I passed a display of assorted page-a-day calendars, I spotted something: a New York Times crossword puzzle-a-day calendar. Most of the people in my office are editors and writers and, in one form or another, word people, and word people tend to like crossword puzzles, so this seemed like a pretty good swap gift choice. I was even able to get it wrapped at a table outside the store by volunteers from the local Hadassah group.

The thing I find weird about Yankee swaps is that people always seem to give the crappiest possible gifts. I know that's sort of the idea, and if you're doing a swap with family or friends, people you know fairly well, that can be fun. But when it's your coworkers, when someone you see every day has to go home with something you brought to the swap, it seems like you should make a little more effort.

I happened to draw number 1, which has never happened to me before. 1 is the best number because, according to the swap rules, after everyone is finished, the person with number 1 gets to survey all the gifts and swap if s/he so desires. The gift I selected turned out to be a hideous set of reindeer salt and pepper shakers. I mean, these things were seriously UGLY. They looked demented and deformed. Even my mother wouldn't have wanted them. So I watched and waited, but as the swap went on, I wasn't seeing any other gifts I would want. People seemed to have taken the easiest and cheesiest way out. No food, no booze, no gift cards.

I briefly considered swapping for my calendar, but that seemed silly, so I ended up swapping for a different calendar. The pages are sticky notes, so it may have some additional note-making value down the line. But I always seem to come away from gift swaps feeling like I've made more effort than everyone else has. Even though I say I care more about what I give than what I get, I guess it's not really true (surprise): I want everyone else to care as much as I do.

One of Those Days

Yesterday was not a great day. In fact, it was a pretty trying day. When things don't go well, they have a way of piling on. To wit:

The icy conditions made getting to the bus stop pretty tricky. Most of the distance between my house and the corner where I wait for the bus is buried in now-frozen snow, thanks to the selfish, ignorant assholes who never, ever clear their sidewalks. So I was forced to walk in the street. When I made it to the bus stop, I found that someone had made the effort to shovel out the Herald box, but didn't bother to go the three feet beyond it that would have enabled people to actually get from the sidewalk to the street. So I climbed up on the icebank and stood there.

When the bus came, I got scolded by the driver, more or less along the lines of: "You can't stand up there. If you slip and fall under the bus, I'm liable. So tomorrow you're going to have to stand in the street, or I won't be able to pick you up." Easy for you to say, Ms. Bus Driver (who, to be fair, is generally very polite and pleasant, certainly more so than the average T bus driver); you're not the one who has to stand there with the cars whizzing by, wondering which SUV-driving twit yapping on a cell phone will be the one that hits you.

When I made it to work, I remembered that we had a temp starting that day, and somehow it had been deemed my responsibility to train and supervise this person. It took me about three hours before I had him set up well enough so that I could go do my own work.

I made a bad lunch decision: I got the pasta primavera, and it wasn't until I'd gotten back to my desk that I remembered that I'd gotten it once before, and it was full of squash and red peppers, about the only two vegetables I don't like.

On the way home, I got stuck on the Green Line between Prudential and Copley for about 20 minutes, while we waited for a disabled train to clear out ahead of us. This caused me to miss my usual bus, as well as the one 20 minutes after it. Now, I don't really care about missing the bus in and of itself; sure, it's aggravating, but it's not a crisis. But with the Mrs. away, I've been on morning and evening dog duty, and a delay in getting home means the dog has to wait that much longer to go out. Fortunately, she was able to hold it until I'd made it home.

Also, while changing trains at North Station, I forgot that I'd taken off my hat (because we were not moving for so long, I got overheated) and put it on my lap. When I stood up, it fell on the floor, but I didn't notice until I was down on the Orange Line platform and the train was long gone. So not only did I lose a brand new hat that I really liked, but I had to stand outside hatless in the 24-degree cold because I missed the bus. When I finally made it home, I found that the garbage people had caused the lid of our trash can to vanish, for the second time this year.

One bit of luck: the bus I take runs every 20 minutes during rush hours, but for some reason, I didn't have to wait another 20 minutes for the next bus. One showed up after ten minutes. I assumed we were going to sit and wait until 6:40, but we headed right out. It's possible that it was the 6:20 bus running late, but when I came out of the Orange Line station, it was just after 6:20 and there was no one else waiting for the bus, so I figured I had to have missed it. At that point, I didn't care which bus it was; it was warm, and it was moving, and it got me home.

Winterized

I find that the weather makes people do strange things, but what surprises me most is the folks who seem to be completely oblivious to weather conditions. During Thursday's storm, there were a couple of people waiting for the bus with me who were wearing sweatpants and sneakers. It was about 22 degrees at that point, and we were outside for almost an hour; my boots were inadequate against the cold, so their feet must have been pretty well frozen at that point.

It's not like the storm swooped in unexpectedly--we'd been hearing about it for days beforehand--and it was just as cold that morning as it was later in the afternoon, so I have to wonder what a person is (or isn't) thinking when he or she gets dressed on a day like that. This holds true especially when you rely on buses and trains to get around, because you know you're going to be spending some time standing around outside.

Some people just don't get sick; my father was like that until about five years ago. But most of us wear multiple layers and take multivitamins and feel lucky if we make it through the winter without catching the flu or a serious cold. It makes me wonder about the people who are wandering around in snowstorms wearing inadequate clothing. Do they get sick? How often? If they don't get sick, why not? It would make for an interesting experiment (you can tell my medical work environment is rubbing off on me when I start designing studies), but definitely not a pleasant one for the test subjects.