Andy wanted an external hard drive (EHD) for Christmas. Easy.
I went to our local Apple store and made my way to the back corner where the EHDs live. I stared at the huge wall of multiple brands and sizes trying to make heads or tails of what I was looking at. 500GB, 750GB, 1TB, 2TB, 3TB, Iomega, Western Digital, LaCie, G-tech, Porche… I was overwhelmed.
As if sensing my distressed state (or perhaps just seeing a girl staring at a wall), an employee approached me.
“May I help you find something?” said Scott with a sympathetic smile.
I continued staring, baffled, at the wall of possibilities. “Um, I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.” I immediately hate myself for not doing some homework about these little boxes and how many I would have to choose from.
“Well, you’re standing in front of the EHDs”.
“Right. That’s what I need but I don’t know much about them.” SHAME.
“Ok, well, what size do you need?”
“I don’t know.” SHAME.
“How much memory is on your computer currently?”
“I don’t know.” SHAME.
“What kind of computer do you have?”
“A black one.” SHAME.
“A black one. What year did you buy it?”
“Uh…five years ago maybe? Four?” SHAME.
“Was it four or five years ago?”
“I don’t know.” SHAME.
“What will you be storing?”
“Music and pictures.” AHA! I knew this one.
Scott grabbed a 500 GB EHD and began telling me about how it was his favorite brand and it rarely had problems. I held the box and stared at it waiting for it to tell me that it was just what I was looking for. I turned the box around in my hand pretending to look for something and trying to seem interested in what Scott was saying. At least, I think I nodded my head in the correct places.
“So, when I say we’re storing music, I’m talking about hundreds of albums” I challenged Scott. “Do I need something bigger than this?”
“Oh” said Scott. “A lot of music. Ok.” He took the 500 GB EHD out of my hand and replaced it with a 1 TB EHD. He thought this would hold us over for a while.
Unfortunately they didn’t have this size in his favorite brand, but he thought this other brand would be ok.
I thanked him for his help and checked out. Leaving the store, I hung my head in shame as I had just confirmed the stereotype that women know nothing about technology.
Thank God women like my sister are in the world to prove this stereotype wrong.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Nothing went according to plan.
A week ago, Andy and I had the opportunity to present a Christmas program for a delightful group at our church. We were approached by this group two months in advance and agreed to provide background music for a Christmas dinner. They would graciously provide dinner for us in return for our involvement.
One month ago we found out we would not be providing background music. We were asked to put together a 45 minute concert to serve as entertainment after dinner.
OK. Not what we were expecting. But OK.
Andy and I sat down and talked about the possibilities. We came up with the following program:2 songs by Andy, one song by me, 6 song group carol sing, one song by Andy, a duet, and end with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. We figured that this would cover about 45 minutes.
We purchased the music and worked on our program.
The night of the dinner/concert:
I raced to the church after work with my change of dress in tow. I quickly made a power point slide show for the group carol sing. Andy showed up and we warmed up, checked levels, and sang through a few songs. Due to our frazzled state, we asked if our dinner could be held for us until after the concert.
A group of singers asked if they could join us onstage for the carol sing in the middle of the program. The more the merrier, I figured.
With the guests pleasantly filled with their delicious dinner, the program began as perfectly as could be desired. Andy rocked his first two songs (hardly a dry eye in the house) and I was pretty content with my own performance. We invited the group of singers onto the stage and we led the audience in a 6-song-medley. All was going well until a lovely lady (with the very best of intentions) announced to the audience:
“GOOD NIGHT AND HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
At her announcement, everyone in the audience grabbed their belongings and headed for the door. Andy and I remained on stage trying to figure out what had just happened. We still had the other half of our program to do. Did we care? Did we call out for everyone to come back? Did we just shrug it off and go get dinner?
We chose the latter. We chuckled over the strange ending to our concert and went to the kitchen to retrieve our dinner.
Before we reached the kitchen, we were met by a guilty looking lady who informed us (with her head hung low) that our meals had accidentally been thrown out. She firmly thrust a $20 bill into Andy’s hand and apologized over and over again for how the night turned out.
Then she asked if we would do a concert for their mother/daughter dinner they hold in May.
To which we replied: Yes.
One month ago we found out we would not be providing background music. We were asked to put together a 45 minute concert to serve as entertainment after dinner.
OK. Not what we were expecting. But OK.
Andy and I sat down and talked about the possibilities. We came up with the following program:2 songs by Andy, one song by me, 6 song group carol sing, one song by Andy, a duet, and end with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. We figured that this would cover about 45 minutes.
We purchased the music and worked on our program.
The night of the dinner/concert:
I raced to the church after work with my change of dress in tow. I quickly made a power point slide show for the group carol sing. Andy showed up and we warmed up, checked levels, and sang through a few songs. Due to our frazzled state, we asked if our dinner could be held for us until after the concert.
A group of singers asked if they could join us onstage for the carol sing in the middle of the program. The more the merrier, I figured.
With the guests pleasantly filled with their delicious dinner, the program began as perfectly as could be desired. Andy rocked his first two songs (hardly a dry eye in the house) and I was pretty content with my own performance. We invited the group of singers onto the stage and we led the audience in a 6-song-medley. All was going well until a lovely lady (with the very best of intentions) announced to the audience:
“GOOD NIGHT AND HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
At her announcement, everyone in the audience grabbed their belongings and headed for the door. Andy and I remained on stage trying to figure out what had just happened. We still had the other half of our program to do. Did we care? Did we call out for everyone to come back? Did we just shrug it off and go get dinner?
We chose the latter. We chuckled over the strange ending to our concert and went to the kitchen to retrieve our dinner.
Before we reached the kitchen, we were met by a guilty looking lady who informed us (with her head hung low) that our meals had accidentally been thrown out. She firmly thrust a $20 bill into Andy’s hand and apologized over and over again for how the night turned out.
Then she asked if we would do a concert for their mother/daughter dinner they hold in May.
To which we replied: Yes.
Monday, November 21, 2011
You know what you should do...
Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that advice givers speak from the kindness of their hearts with the sole purpose of helping others through their expertise and wisdom. That said...
I have some sort of bug, a virus that is dwelling in my throat and making me sound like a sultry baritone. I am not congested. I am not sneezing, hacking, or sniffing. I generally feel fine. I merely sound like a dude.
Have you ever noticed how much advice you get when you sound like you might be sick? I’ve noticed advice givers a lot lately(particularly myself…I LOVE to give advice—I’m working on it). While advice about curing a virus usually makes me roll my eyes, I prefer the advice givers to the people who form a cross with their index fingers and scream “STAY AWAY” at me. However, that is another post for another day.
Since I lost my voice four days ago I have compiled a list of the spontaneous advice I’ve been given to cure me. 9 times out of 10 the advice giver begins his or her session with the following words:
You know what you should do…
• Emergen-C (people always swear by it)
• Gargle Cayenne pepper
• Put eucalyptus oil into a pot of boiling water and inhale for 20 minutes
• Drink tea (preferably a concoction of pickled ginger, cayenne pepper, tobacco sauce, vinegar, and black pepper)
• Increase your vitamin intake
• Wear two scarves (or 3 if you have a third)
• Gargle lime juice
• Netty pot (ugh)
• Stop talking (which, I admit, I agree with and failed to do over the weekend)
• Massage eucalyptus oil into your pressure points
• Put Vic’s vaporub under your nostrils and eyes—apparently it doesn’t work as well when it’s just on your chest
This is my list from the past four days. If anything else noteworthy is mentioned, I’ll be sure to update the list. As for now, I thought this was a good start.
I have some sort of bug, a virus that is dwelling in my throat and making me sound like a sultry baritone. I am not congested. I am not sneezing, hacking, or sniffing. I generally feel fine. I merely sound like a dude.
Have you ever noticed how much advice you get when you sound like you might be sick? I’ve noticed advice givers a lot lately(particularly myself…I LOVE to give advice—I’m working on it). While advice about curing a virus usually makes me roll my eyes, I prefer the advice givers to the people who form a cross with their index fingers and scream “STAY AWAY” at me. However, that is another post for another day.
Since I lost my voice four days ago I have compiled a list of the spontaneous advice I’ve been given to cure me. 9 times out of 10 the advice giver begins his or her session with the following words:
You know what you should do…
• Emergen-C (people always swear by it)
• Gargle Cayenne pepper
• Put eucalyptus oil into a pot of boiling water and inhale for 20 minutes
• Drink tea (preferably a concoction of pickled ginger, cayenne pepper, tobacco sauce, vinegar, and black pepper)
• Increase your vitamin intake
• Wear two scarves (or 3 if you have a third)
• Gargle lime juice
• Netty pot (ugh)
• Stop talking (which, I admit, I agree with and failed to do over the weekend)
• Massage eucalyptus oil into your pressure points
• Put Vic’s vaporub under your nostrils and eyes—apparently it doesn’t work as well when it’s just on your chest
This is my list from the past four days. If anything else noteworthy is mentioned, I’ll be sure to update the list. As for now, I thought this was a good start.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
My personal chauffer
My morning commute began as it always did. The short walk from my front door to the bus stop, waiting for the bus which is notoriously 10 minutes late, the grumpy grunt in response to my “good morning”. Nothing out of the ordinary. I snuggled into a seat and immersed myself in my book.
Ten minutes later, the bus turned right and began heading up the hill when the driver called out, “Hey! Does anyone know where this route goes from here?”
The passengers of the 213 nervously looked at each other. The woman one seat in front of me spoke up: “You don’t know the route?” I recognized this woman as a regular rider.
Apologetically, the driver confessed that she hadn’t driven this route in six months and the route had changed since that time. Additionally, she hadn’t reviewed the route before she began her shift.
The woman in front of me smiled maliciously and whispered “This means we can have her drop us off wherever we want!”
Before I could respond, the woman stood up and ran to the front of the bus to help the poor driver find her way.
As we pulled up to the stop where everyone should have gotten off, I stood up to exit the bus. The woman looked at me and said, “Don’t you remember? The route changed and this bus now goes all the way up to the Hospital!” I expected her to give me a giant wink.
“Ma’am,” I began to the bus driver, “this woman is lying to you. The route changed three weeks ago. This bus no longer services the hospital. At the next light, you are supposed to make a left and head down to Central Campus."
The driver looked at me, then at the woman giving her directions. The driver shrugged and said, “Eh. I’m in no hurry. I don’t mind heading up to the hospital.”
I immediately exited the bus frustrated by the woman who used public transportation as her personal car service. I was also frustrated by the driver who gave into it.
Ten minutes later, the bus turned right and began heading up the hill when the driver called out, “Hey! Does anyone know where this route goes from here?”
The passengers of the 213 nervously looked at each other. The woman one seat in front of me spoke up: “You don’t know the route?” I recognized this woman as a regular rider.
Apologetically, the driver confessed that she hadn’t driven this route in six months and the route had changed since that time. Additionally, she hadn’t reviewed the route before she began her shift.
The woman in front of me smiled maliciously and whispered “This means we can have her drop us off wherever we want!”
Before I could respond, the woman stood up and ran to the front of the bus to help the poor driver find her way.
As we pulled up to the stop where everyone should have gotten off, I stood up to exit the bus. The woman looked at me and said, “Don’t you remember? The route changed and this bus now goes all the way up to the Hospital!” I expected her to give me a giant wink.
“Ma’am,” I began to the bus driver, “this woman is lying to you. The route changed three weeks ago. This bus no longer services the hospital. At the next light, you are supposed to make a left and head down to Central Campus."
The driver looked at me, then at the woman giving her directions. The driver shrugged and said, “Eh. I’m in no hurry. I don’t mind heading up to the hospital.”
I immediately exited the bus frustrated by the woman who used public transportation as her personal car service. I was also frustrated by the driver who gave into it.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Resurfacing
Restructuring your life, starting over, turning over a new leaf, shaking it up, etc. These have been my never ending mantras for the past several months. I woke up one morning in June and found myself in a funk. I was unhappy. And I couldn't figure out how to get happy. I was bored with everything and craved a change. I sat down and began to brainstorm the kind of change I was looking for. Unfortunately, the product of my brainstorming session was either too expensive for our current lot (travel the world) or just impractical (move to a new state). I considered school for a while but really had no direction or motivation to speak of.
After dismissing all of my ideas for change, I decided I just needed to get a grip. That's always my first thought when I encounter another person in a funk. Dude, snap out of it. So I gave that a shot.
I dwelled on the blessings in my life (of which there are far too many to count). I made an effort to recognize and acknowledge every kindness that was shown me. I constantly reminded myself how selfish it was to wander around in a grumpy funk. To no avail. I just couldn't shake it.
Hence my three month break from blogging.
I sat down once more at the end of September to list out exactly what was wrong. First on the list (an almost instantaneous addition) was my job. My job was a constant source of anxiety and heartache. I was grateful to have a job but decided that my mental health could use a break from the ever-present stress. Ok. Good progress. #2 on the list: my zumba class. I was lucky enough to find a place that would let me teach zumba. I worked hard to make sure my classes were perfect. I was early to every class and ready to go with a bounce and a smile. Class after class, week after week, no one showed up. I truly felt like a failure. Other things were added to the list from body image to attitude; from spiritual walk to not knowing where to go from here. Each line item knocked me down a peg. The simple act of opening my blogger account made me feel hopeless and discouraged. I felt out of control.
Do you know the best way to handle feeling out of control? You find something small that you do have control over and do something drastic with/to it.
I cut 12 inches off my hair.
I instantly felt better and more confident. Not because I chopped my hair off but because it was MY decision. It may sound stupid but I felt liberated. I was lighter and magically developed an optimistic outlook.
Slowly, things are turning around and I am resurfacing in the world of the functional and content. I quit my failing zumba class which was wasting my time and gas. I will find another class sometime but it isn't my focus right now. I accepted a new job today. I can't say with any certainty that it will solve my problems but it's a change. And anything different is good.
Anything different is good.
After dismissing all of my ideas for change, I decided I just needed to get a grip. That's always my first thought when I encounter another person in a funk. Dude, snap out of it. So I gave that a shot.
I dwelled on the blessings in my life (of which there are far too many to count). I made an effort to recognize and acknowledge every kindness that was shown me. I constantly reminded myself how selfish it was to wander around in a grumpy funk. To no avail. I just couldn't shake it.
Hence my three month break from blogging.
I sat down once more at the end of September to list out exactly what was wrong. First on the list (an almost instantaneous addition) was my job. My job was a constant source of anxiety and heartache. I was grateful to have a job but decided that my mental health could use a break from the ever-present stress. Ok. Good progress. #2 on the list: my zumba class. I was lucky enough to find a place that would let me teach zumba. I worked hard to make sure my classes were perfect. I was early to every class and ready to go with a bounce and a smile. Class after class, week after week, no one showed up. I truly felt like a failure. Other things were added to the list from body image to attitude; from spiritual walk to not knowing where to go from here. Each line item knocked me down a peg. The simple act of opening my blogger account made me feel hopeless and discouraged. I felt out of control.
Do you know the best way to handle feeling out of control? You find something small that you do have control over and do something drastic with/to it.
I cut 12 inches off my hair.
I instantly felt better and more confident. Not because I chopped my hair off but because it was MY decision. It may sound stupid but I felt liberated. I was lighter and magically developed an optimistic outlook.
Slowly, things are turning around and I am resurfacing in the world of the functional and content. I quit my failing zumba class which was wasting my time and gas. I will find another class sometime but it isn't my focus right now. I accepted a new job today. I can't say with any certainty that it will solve my problems but it's a change. And anything different is good.
Anything different is good.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Mourning books
When I get attached to a book (I mean, really attached) I will mourn its end. Regardless the ending, I am depressed that it’s over. This doesn’t happen very often but when it does, I really feel that I go into some kind of mourning.
I recently finished a series that had me absolutely captivated (800 pages in 2 days tells you something). When I read the final page, I was so content with the ending and so sad to have lost this new world. I mentioned this feeling to a coworker and she looked at me like I was an idiot.
So, I just want to throw this out there: Does anyone else mourn the end of a really good book? I can’t imagine that I’m the only one who goes through this. Or perhaps, is there a better way to describe it? Is it more of a withdrawal?
Regardless, I’m usually sad for a few days, consider reading it again, and finally choose a book that is a polar opposite of the book in mourning.
What books do you mourn and how do you deal?
I recently finished a series that had me absolutely captivated (800 pages in 2 days tells you something). When I read the final page, I was so content with the ending and so sad to have lost this new world. I mentioned this feeling to a coworker and she looked at me like I was an idiot.
So, I just want to throw this out there: Does anyone else mourn the end of a really good book? I can’t imagine that I’m the only one who goes through this. Or perhaps, is there a better way to describe it? Is it more of a withdrawal?
Regardless, I’m usually sad for a few days, consider reading it again, and finally choose a book that is a polar opposite of the book in mourning.
What books do you mourn and how do you deal?
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Do you feel SO much better now?
Andy and I had the pleasure of visiting some friends and family over the 4th of July holiday. We made the miserably dull drive to Reno and celebrated the birth of our nation in style. We barbecued, we hiked, we enjoyed the casino scene, we saw some fireworks—it was an all around fabulous trip.
When we arrived at our friends’ house Aron told Andy their t-time was at 1 and Mara had the brilliant idea of the girls hitting the spa while the boys golfed. I couldn’t have picked a better pastime. We chose a spa located in a hotel in South Reno. I’d never been there, she’d never been there. It was an adventure. We arrive at the spa, fill out the paperwork, change into robes, and wait for our massage therapists.
Cindy emerges from the bowels of the spa and leads me back to a room. On my way, I notice that the spa has a nice ambiance and friendly staff. So far, so good. Upon entering the room, my attention is drawn to a reusable grocery bag filled with used Tupperware and trash. Apparently, Cindy has just finished her lunch and left it in the treatment room. I silently wondered if they don’t provide a break room and lockers in which Cindy could have left the remains of her lunch. I shrug off the thought and prepare for the heaven that is a massage.
Cindy increases the volume of her zen-friendly music and the massage begins. “So, are you a guest here?” asks Cindy. Ugh. Chatty therapist. This is always a tricky situation. I don’t want to be rude but I also don’t want to talk. Thankfully, I escape the situation when someone knocks on the door and enters followed by a very loud whisper saying “UGH!! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE WITH A CLIENT. I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!!!!” Cindy begins laughing loudly and hysterically and feels in necessary to tell me what she finds so funny. She begins a monologue about every single time she’s been interrupted or starts working on the wrong client. I close my eyes and try to tune her out.
After Cindy’s recount of several stories she falls silent. I think I’m in the clear until “Man! Your skin is soaking up my oil! You must be dehydrated!” I feel that this statement goes into the category of “things you shouldn’t tell people who are tipping you.” I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that she was using cheap scented oil. But, whatever. Maybe I was.
Usually a massage therapist will ask you how the pressure is. I waited for this question and it never came. So I softly clear my throat and say, “Would you mind doing a deeper pressure?”
“Oh no,” Cindy begins. “This is a Swedish massage. Did you want a deep tissue?”
The massage continues and I notice that my heart rate is up and something is weird. Then I place it. Her zen-friendly music has morphed into a bad ass electric guitar solo. I am listening to hair metal at half volume.
That was it. I was ready to leave. 45 minutes had gone by and I wasn’t relaxed at all. I was frustrated and formulating this blog post the entire time. Cindy takes a final breath signaling that the massage was over.
“Well, that's it," says Cindy. "Do you feel SO much better now?”
When we arrived at our friends’ house Aron told Andy their t-time was at 1 and Mara had the brilliant idea of the girls hitting the spa while the boys golfed. I couldn’t have picked a better pastime. We chose a spa located in a hotel in South Reno. I’d never been there, she’d never been there. It was an adventure. We arrive at the spa, fill out the paperwork, change into robes, and wait for our massage therapists.
Cindy emerges from the bowels of the spa and leads me back to a room. On my way, I notice that the spa has a nice ambiance and friendly staff. So far, so good. Upon entering the room, my attention is drawn to a reusable grocery bag filled with used Tupperware and trash. Apparently, Cindy has just finished her lunch and left it in the treatment room. I silently wondered if they don’t provide a break room and lockers in which Cindy could have left the remains of her lunch. I shrug off the thought and prepare for the heaven that is a massage.
Cindy increases the volume of her zen-friendly music and the massage begins. “So, are you a guest here?” asks Cindy. Ugh. Chatty therapist. This is always a tricky situation. I don’t want to be rude but I also don’t want to talk. Thankfully, I escape the situation when someone knocks on the door and enters followed by a very loud whisper saying “UGH!! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE WITH A CLIENT. I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!!!!” Cindy begins laughing loudly and hysterically and feels in necessary to tell me what she finds so funny. She begins a monologue about every single time she’s been interrupted or starts working on the wrong client. I close my eyes and try to tune her out.
After Cindy’s recount of several stories she falls silent. I think I’m in the clear until “Man! Your skin is soaking up my oil! You must be dehydrated!” I feel that this statement goes into the category of “things you shouldn’t tell people who are tipping you.” I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that she was using cheap scented oil. But, whatever. Maybe I was.
Usually a massage therapist will ask you how the pressure is. I waited for this question and it never came. So I softly clear my throat and say, “Would you mind doing a deeper pressure?”
“Oh no,” Cindy begins. “This is a Swedish massage. Did you want a deep tissue?”
The massage continues and I notice that my heart rate is up and something is weird. Then I place it. Her zen-friendly music has morphed into a bad ass electric guitar solo. I am listening to hair metal at half volume.
That was it. I was ready to leave. 45 minutes had gone by and I wasn’t relaxed at all. I was frustrated and formulating this blog post the entire time. Cindy takes a final breath signaling that the massage was over.
“Well, that's it," says Cindy. "Do you feel SO much better now?”
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