thirty-one posts in thirty-one days.
It was hard. It might have been slightly easier without the numbers thing, but maybe not.
The good:
I always knew what day it was. Whenever anyone asked "what's the date today" I jumped in obnoxiously fast.
I got in the habit of writing everyday, instead of the binge writing that I tend to do around deadlines.
The bad:
There were some real clunkers -- the post for the 29th was the worst. I thought the post for the 18th was sort of cheating also, but it was surprising popular.
The unexpected:
I spent a ton of time thinking about the posts. Most changed from my original ideas. Six Pack morphed from how I drink six diet Pepsi's every day to talking about my godchildren.
One of my friends pointed out that the entries got more elaborate and reflective. It was very hard to write about some things. Nineteen, twenty-six and twenty-eight and thirty were particularly hard. There were several things in those posts that I did not write.
Looking back at those years I realized that I really have not changed much in the last thirty years, which made me sad. My friend wrote that he kept "hoping for an episode of positive action, where something or someone you seem to wish for develops or appears or walks through the door. It's frustrating when that doesn't happen."
For me too, me too.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
thirty
I was managing a Houlihan's restaurant in Philadelphia when I turned thirty. The bar was very busy on Sunday nights. We had a d.j., a dance floor and drink specials. People would would wait in line to get in. We had doormen and security folks.
My birthday was on a Sunday that year (May 19, 1981) I usually worked the Sunday night shift. I disliked the crowd, but loved the busyness and excitement of the evening. I would spend the whole evening changing kegs, breaking up fights (it's much easier for a woman to break up a fight than a big burly guy -- nobody wants to be the first guy to throw a punch at a woman) and generally trying to manage the mess.
These nights also solidified my utter skin-crawling hatred of two songs.
The Electric Slide and Brown Eyed Girl.
I don't think I need to defend my dislike of the Electric Slide. It was very popular at the time and it would be played several times during the night.
My contempt for Brown Eyed Girl is a little harder to explain. I actually like Van Morrison. It is the reaction that the audience has when the song is played that bugs the Hell out of me. People go nuts! I know a lot of musicians that dread the request that everyone knows is coming..."can you play Brown Eyed Girl?" Last year for my birthday, I requested that the band NOT play Brown Eyed Girl.
It was also the last song that the d.j. would play in Sunday nights, it marked the end of the evening. The you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here herding of the people out of the bar.
The d.j. knew it was my birthday and tried to spin some Nora tunes, the Pixies and The Smiths, but the crowd was not in to it.
We finally finished all of the clean up and closing work at about 2:00 am. My friend Al (another manager) met me to celebrate my birthday. We had our roller blades and packed a cooler (a pickle bucket with six beers covered with ice). I grabbed the Electric Slide and Brown Eyed Girl records on the way out the door. We drove to the parking lot of Veterans Stadium.
I had fun skating over them several times. It was such a great feeling skating in that big parking lot on a Spring night -- I felt very happy and healthy and free.
That might have been one of my best birthdays ever.
And it was a great way to go sailing in to the next decade.
And, yes being the "good girl" that I am I replaced the records, even though it just about killed me to walk in to the record store and by them. I think I bought the latest Dinosaur Jr. record at the same time to show the clerk just how cool I was.
My birthday was on a Sunday that year (May 19, 1981) I usually worked the Sunday night shift. I disliked the crowd, but loved the busyness and excitement of the evening. I would spend the whole evening changing kegs, breaking up fights (it's much easier for a woman to break up a fight than a big burly guy -- nobody wants to be the first guy to throw a punch at a woman) and generally trying to manage the mess.
These nights also solidified my utter skin-crawling hatred of two songs.
The Electric Slide and Brown Eyed Girl.
I don't think I need to defend my dislike of the Electric Slide. It was very popular at the time and it would be played several times during the night.
My contempt for Brown Eyed Girl is a little harder to explain. I actually like Van Morrison. It is the reaction that the audience has when the song is played that bugs the Hell out of me. People go nuts! I know a lot of musicians that dread the request that everyone knows is coming..."can you play Brown Eyed Girl?" Last year for my birthday, I requested that the band NOT play Brown Eyed Girl.
It was also the last song that the d.j. would play in Sunday nights, it marked the end of the evening. The you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here herding of the people out of the bar.
The d.j. knew it was my birthday and tried to spin some Nora tunes, the Pixies and The Smiths, but the crowd was not in to it.
We finally finished all of the clean up and closing work at about 2:00 am. My friend Al (another manager) met me to celebrate my birthday. We had our roller blades and packed a cooler (a pickle bucket with six beers covered with ice). I grabbed the Electric Slide and Brown Eyed Girl records on the way out the door. We drove to the parking lot of Veterans Stadium.
I had fun skating over them several times. It was such a great feeling skating in that big parking lot on a Spring night -- I felt very happy and healthy and free.
That might have been one of my best birthdays ever.
And it was a great way to go sailing in to the next decade.
And, yes being the "good girl" that I am I replaced the records, even though it just about killed me to walk in to the record store and by them. I think I bought the latest Dinosaur Jr. record at the same time to show the clerk just how cool I was.
Monday, October 29, 2007
what do you get when you google the number twenty-nine?
I highlighted the ones that I understood (even if it was just a little bit).
And, of course there are 29 of them.
Floccinaucinihilipilification contains 29 letters and is the longest word in the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Note that the letter e does not occur.
The human skull is made-up of 29 bones.
If an odd perfect number exists, it must have at least 29 prime factors (not necessarily distinct).
The extra day in a leap year is February 29.
The number of visible notches on a primitive recording device found in a Swaziland cave. It was made from a section of baboon bone and dated to 35000 B.C.
The Norwegian alphabet contains 29 letters.
The smallest Gilda prime. Note that if a Fibonacci-like sequence is formed with the first term equal to the absolute value between the digits of 29 (i.e., 7) and the second term equal to the digit sum of 29 (i.e., 11) then 29 itself occurs as a term in the sequence: 7, 11, 18, 29.
Bobby Fischer was 29 years old at the time of his 1972 World Chess Championship victory.
29 may be written in two ways as combinations of the first four primes and the three basic arithmetic operations: 29 = (2*7)+(3*5) = (5*7)-(2*3).
It takes the Moon over 29 days to complete its orbit around the Earth.
The state of Utah has 29 counties.
29 is the second integer parameter n2 in Gilson's formula α(n1, n2) = n2cos(π/n1)tan(π/(n1n2))/π for the value of the fine structure constant α = α(137, 29) = 0.0072973525318...
The great majority of the works by which the postimpressionist painter Vincent Van Gogh is remembered were produced in 29 months of frenzied activity and intermittent bouts with epileptoid seizures and profound despair that finally ended in suicide.
The 29th Fibonacci number (i.e., 514229) is a prime ending in 29, which is also prime.
The highest possible score of a single hand in the card game cribbage is 29.
A prime is formed by using 29 twice in the Firoozbakht function, i.e., fi(29, 29).
The smallest prime equal to the sum of three consecutive squares: 22 + 32 + 42.
TWENTY NINE can be written out with exactly 29 toothpicks.
29 can be written as a sum of primes in exactly 3 * 29 ways.
29^23 + 19^17 + 13^11 + 7^5 + 3^2 is prime.
The middle chapter of the Old Testament is Job 29.
The smallest prime of the form 6n-1 = 7m+1.
29 is only known number m such that both m!-R(m) and m!+R(m) are primes. I.e, 29! - 111...1 (29 ones) and 29! + 111...1 (29 ones) are both primes.
29 is the maximum number of squares a chess bishop can visit if it is only allowed to visit each square once.
2^9 + 9^2 is prime.
29 = (2 * 9) + (2 + 9).
29 people were able to escape through "Tunnel 29."
Track 29 is a famous phrase in the song "Chatanooga Choo Choo."
29 = 2*5 + 3*3 + 5*2.
29 people lost their life when the ship the SS Edmund Fitzgerald sank on Lake Superior (17 miles north-northwest of Whitefish Point, Michigan).
A proof of the infinitude of prime numbers is in Book IX (Proposition 20) of Euclid's Elements. Note that IX + 20 = 29.
Bhargava and Hanke proved that if an integer valued quadratic form (such as 3x2 + 2xy + 4y2) can represent the numbers 29 numbers: 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 10, 13, 14, 15, 17, 19, 21, 22, 23, 26, 29, 30, 31, 34, 35, 37, 42, 58, 93, 110, 145, 203 and 290; then it can represent every positive integer.
The smallest prime preceded by five consecutive composite numbers.
Mrs. Prime reads her recantation in Chapter 29 of the nineteenth-century classic Rachel Ray by British novelist Anthony Trollope.
And my very favorite:
TWENTY NINE can be written out with exactly 29 toothpicks.
And, of course there are 29 of them.
Floccinaucinihilipilification contains 29 letters and is the longest word in the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Note that the letter e does not occur.
The human skull is made-up of 29 bones.
If an odd perfect number exists, it must have at least 29 prime factors (not necessarily distinct).
The extra day in a leap year is February 29.
The number of visible notches on a primitive recording device found in a Swaziland cave. It was made from a section of baboon bone and dated to 35000 B.C.
The Norwegian alphabet contains 29 letters.
The smallest Gilda prime. Note that if a Fibonacci-like sequence is formed with the first term equal to the absolute value between the digits of 29 (i.e., 7) and the second term equal to the digit sum of 29 (i.e., 11) then 29 itself occurs as a term in the sequence: 7, 11, 18, 29.
Bobby Fischer was 29 years old at the time of his 1972 World Chess Championship victory.
29 may be written in two ways as combinations of the first four primes and the three basic arithmetic operations: 29 = (2*7)+(3*5) = (5*7)-(2*3).
It takes the Moon over 29 days to complete its orbit around the Earth.
The state of Utah has 29 counties.
29 is the second integer parameter n2 in Gilson's formula α(n1, n2) = n2cos(π/n1)tan(π/(n1n2))/π for the value of the fine structure constant α = α(137, 29) = 0.0072973525318...
The great majority of the works by which the postimpressionist painter Vincent Van Gogh is remembered were produced in 29 months of frenzied activity and intermittent bouts with epileptoid seizures and profound despair that finally ended in suicide.
The 29th Fibonacci number (i.e., 514229) is a prime ending in 29, which is also prime.
The highest possible score of a single hand in the card game cribbage is 29.
A prime is formed by using 29 twice in the Firoozbakht function, i.e., fi(29, 29).
The smallest prime equal to the sum of three consecutive squares: 22 + 32 + 42.
TWENTY NINE can be written out with exactly 29 toothpicks.
29 can be written as a sum of primes in exactly 3 * 29 ways.
29^23 + 19^17 + 13^11 + 7^5 + 3^2 is prime.
The middle chapter of the Old Testament is Job 29.
The smallest prime of the form 6n-1 = 7m+1.
29 is only known number m such that both m!-R(m) and m!+R(m) are primes. I.e, 29! - 111...1 (29 ones) and 29! + 111...1 (29 ones) are both primes.
29 is the maximum number of squares a chess bishop can visit if it is only allowed to visit each square once.
2^9 + 9^2 is prime.
29 = (2 * 9) + (2 + 9).
29 people were able to escape through "Tunnel 29."
Track 29 is a famous phrase in the song "Chatanooga Choo Choo."
29 = 2*5 + 3*3 + 5*2.
29 people lost their life when the ship the SS Edmund Fitzgerald sank on Lake Superior (17 miles north-northwest of Whitefish Point, Michigan).
A proof of the infinitude of prime numbers is in Book IX (Proposition 20) of Euclid's Elements. Note that IX + 20 = 29.
Bhargava and Hanke proved that if an integer valued quadratic form (such as 3x2 + 2xy + 4y2) can represent the numbers 29 numbers: 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 10, 13, 14, 15, 17, 19, 21, 22, 23, 26, 29, 30, 31, 34, 35, 37, 42, 58, 93, 110, 145, 203 and 290; then it can represent every positive integer.
The smallest prime preceded by five consecutive composite numbers.
Mrs. Prime reads her recantation in Chapter 29 of the nineteenth-century classic Rachel Ray by British novelist Anthony Trollope.
And my very favorite:
TWENTY NINE can be written out with exactly 29 toothpicks.
every twenty eight days...or so
,
When we were waiting in line for the Dalai Lama my mom was telling me how she'd done such a good job explaining the birds and the bees to my niece and nephew. I'll admit to turning purple and squeaking "Because you did such a good job with us kids?" Of course, it was incredibly rude of me and my friends shot me evil looks.
I'd been on edge and bitchy for days. Yep, PMS.
But, back to Mom and the facts of life. When I was in fifth grade and a little cheerleader (who couldn't do a cartwheel and was so nervous that I almost threw up before every game) I asked Mom if I could shave my legs, like some of the other girls. Mom told me that I needed to wait until I started my period. Ummm, okay. I looked in the library and sort of figured out what that meant.
A couple of years went by and my younger sister started her period and started shaving her legs. A few more years passed and I was sixteen and working at a nursing home. I took my first paycheck and bought my first-ever pair of jeans and a razor. Another year went by. Still nothing, and mom never talked to me about it. I talked to a nurse at the nursing home and she directed me to Planned Parenthood where I had an exam and they determined that I was okay, just a slow "developer" -- nothing else had developed in the chest area either, if you know what I mean.
I was running in a track meet the last week of my senior year when I started menstruating. I grabbed a dime, bought a tampon from the machine and raced out the door as they were calling for my race. I ran a mile and totally forgot about it. Everything was fine and that set the tone for my periods for years.
I never had any cramps, bloating, backache or PMS. My periods were always light and only lasted a day or two. I can't think of one thing that I ever missed because of my periods (except have the glamorous life depicted in the Tampex ads). I was the woman that other women hated, because the whole thing seems too easy for me.
Until a few years ago, that is. I would get so emotional; hate my life, hate my job and hate AVS. He'd gently suggest that maybe I was feeling out of sorts because of PMS. Which would usually cause me to burst in to tears and cling to him for dear life. Not fun for anyone, really. I think he started putting Xanax in my applesauce, not that I would have blamed him.
All of these years I was fairly regular, until recently. When I was Nashville earlier this month I had a bad cold and some sort of rash. I laid down for a nap, feeling sorry for myself thinking that I couldn't be much more miserable. Ahhh, but I could. Luckily I had a stash in my travel kit.
And, here we go again. I'm paying for all of those years of smooth sailing.
I also fear that it is the beginning of the end of this menstruation thing. The older girls are when they start the greater chance they will go though menopause earlier.
Intellectually I know that I'm okay with never having children. But some times it tugs at my heart. Or maybe that's just the PMS talking.
When we were waiting in line for the Dalai Lama my mom was telling me how she'd done such a good job explaining the birds and the bees to my niece and nephew. I'll admit to turning purple and squeaking "Because you did such a good job with us kids?" Of course, it was incredibly rude of me and my friends shot me evil looks.
I'd been on edge and bitchy for days. Yep, PMS.
But, back to Mom and the facts of life. When I was in fifth grade and a little cheerleader (who couldn't do a cartwheel and was so nervous that I almost threw up before every game) I asked Mom if I could shave my legs, like some of the other girls. Mom told me that I needed to wait until I started my period. Ummm, okay. I looked in the library and sort of figured out what that meant.
A couple of years went by and my younger sister started her period and started shaving her legs. A few more years passed and I was sixteen and working at a nursing home. I took my first paycheck and bought my first-ever pair of jeans and a razor. Another year went by. Still nothing, and mom never talked to me about it. I talked to a nurse at the nursing home and she directed me to Planned Parenthood where I had an exam and they determined that I was okay, just a slow "developer" -- nothing else had developed in the chest area either, if you know what I mean.
I was running in a track meet the last week of my senior year when I started menstruating. I grabbed a dime, bought a tampon from the machine and raced out the door as they were calling for my race. I ran a mile and totally forgot about it. Everything was fine and that set the tone for my periods for years.
I never had any cramps, bloating, backache or PMS. My periods were always light and only lasted a day or two. I can't think of one thing that I ever missed because of my periods (except have the glamorous life depicted in the Tampex ads). I was the woman that other women hated, because the whole thing seems too easy for me.
Until a few years ago, that is. I would get so emotional; hate my life, hate my job and hate AVS. He'd gently suggest that maybe I was feeling out of sorts because of PMS. Which would usually cause me to burst in to tears and cling to him for dear life. Not fun for anyone, really. I think he started putting Xanax in my applesauce, not that I would have blamed him.
All of these years I was fairly regular, until recently. When I was Nashville earlier this month I had a bad cold and some sort of rash. I laid down for a nap, feeling sorry for myself thinking that I couldn't be much more miserable. Ahhh, but I could. Luckily I had a stash in my travel kit.
And, here we go again. I'm paying for all of those years of smooth sailing.
I also fear that it is the beginning of the end of this menstruation thing. The older girls are when they start the greater chance they will go though menopause earlier.
Intellectually I know that I'm okay with never having children. But some times it tugs at my heart. Or maybe that's just the PMS talking.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
tractor square dancing
2 + 7 reasons this video makes me happy.
1. pink tractors.
2. men in bonnets.
plus
1. the music.
2. square dancing reminds me of my late Uncle Joe.
3. and of sweaty evenings of dancing with my cousins.
4. allemande left.
5. my friend Evan sent it to me.
6. fond memories of the Herr barn dances.
7. promenade.
enjoy
1. pink tractors.
2. men in bonnets.
plus
1. the music.
2. square dancing reminds me of my late Uncle Joe.
3. and of sweaty evenings of dancing with my cousins.
4. allemande left.
5. my friend Evan sent it to me.
6. fond memories of the Herr barn dances.
7. promenade.
enjoy
twenty-six vs. forty-six
We last left Nora at nineteen. Here is a quick recap of the next seven years.
I left Purdue after my sophomore year. I continued to live in West Lafayette for a while, working in a skating rink and hanging out with the punk-rock kids. I moved to Indianapolis and took a few classes at IUPUI (Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis) and worked in a nursing home full time, until I started working at Benihana restaurant -- which was the first restaurant I'd ever worked in, unless you count making cotton candy and Sno Cones at the rink. I was having fun, but not too much fun - if you know what I mean. I was still basically a good kid, although I'm sure those years gave my parents fits. I turned twenty-one and dated punk-rock boy. Carol was attending school in NYC and I spent weeks at a time sleeping on her dorm room floor and soaking in the city.
When I was twenty-two a nice farm boy from Lafayette called and I was immediately smitten. GB and I spent a lot of time together and I re-enrolled in school so I could move closer to him. Carol was back at Purdue and she and I became roommates again. I did much better in school that time around, worked at a nursing home and a pizza place and spent a ton of time with GB. The only thing that was wrong with our relationship was my immaturity. GB proposed and I freaked out and dated one of his friends. It was awful for everyone, but I learned some huge relationship lessons. I've never been unfaithful since then, and I learned that breaking someone's heart sucks as much as getting your heart broken.
I graduated when I was twenty-six with a degree in Hotel and Restaurant management and nineteen job offers. Being an "older" student with work experience paid off at interview time. Today I was sitting in Elliott Hall of Music in almost the same, if not the same seat I had for my graduation.
Today I was there to see the Dalai Lama. He was charming and wise and surprisingly funny. All and all it was a lovely day. I took the day off, had a nice leisurely morning, drove to West Lafayette and had lunch with Mom and two friends. Our seats for the talk were wonderful, in the eighth row, center. Supporting the Convocations series finally paid off ( I cashed in all of the points I've earned over the years). There was no one in the seat in front of me and I could really see all of his expressions. Mom rode back with my aunt and uncle that joined us for the talk. My friends and I took our time driving back to Indianapolis stopping for coffee in Lafayette and for dinner in Zionsville -- my friend Scott was playing with his jazz trio at the restaurant.
At twenty-six I was more confident around boys that I liked than I am twenty years later. The last time a boy cozied up to me I talked about Leprosy as he tried to kiss me. Seriously, Leprosy. What the Hell is wrong with me?
I stopped at the Red Key on the way home. Band practice boy was there and invited me to join him. We were having a nice conversation about books and music and our families and our jobs. I was giving myself a virtual pat on the back for how well it was going. I hadn't talked about a disease or spilled anything yet. Our waitress (and my coworker) handed me a note. I looked at it and blanched. And since I was rude and read it in front of him, I felt like I needed to show it to him. "Bring tampons, the drawer is empty." I started keeping a stash behind the bar a couple of years ago for the waitresses and customers. That sure interrupted our conversation about our favorite authors. I'd just recovered from that when Lana stopped by our table for another story. The Red Key sells little screw cap bottles of wine. We are phasing them out and pouring wine from actual bottles. In my five years of working at the Red Key I'd never sold a little bottle of White Zinfandel. There were at least twenty-five in the cooler and a case of forty-eight in the basement a few months ago when I grumbled one night that I'd do a naked cartwheel when all of the White Zin was sold. Inexplicably the wine started disappearing -- at an alarming rate. A few weeks ago when we were down to twenty bottles, I joked that maybe I still had time to lose twenty pounds... and learn how to do a cartwheel. We're now down to three bottles. So, Lana is telling this story, only changing a few details. Like that I needed to lose THIRTY pounds.
So, if I don't manage to screw up an encounter with a boy, at least I know that here is someone close by to do it for me.
I left Purdue after my sophomore year. I continued to live in West Lafayette for a while, working in a skating rink and hanging out with the punk-rock kids. I moved to Indianapolis and took a few classes at IUPUI (Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis) and worked in a nursing home full time, until I started working at Benihana restaurant -- which was the first restaurant I'd ever worked in, unless you count making cotton candy and Sno Cones at the rink. I was having fun, but not too much fun - if you know what I mean. I was still basically a good kid, although I'm sure those years gave my parents fits. I turned twenty-one and dated punk-rock boy. Carol was attending school in NYC and I spent weeks at a time sleeping on her dorm room floor and soaking in the city.
When I was twenty-two a nice farm boy from Lafayette called and I was immediately smitten. GB and I spent a lot of time together and I re-enrolled in school so I could move closer to him. Carol was back at Purdue and she and I became roommates again. I did much better in school that time around, worked at a nursing home and a pizza place and spent a ton of time with GB. The only thing that was wrong with our relationship was my immaturity. GB proposed and I freaked out and dated one of his friends. It was awful for everyone, but I learned some huge relationship lessons. I've never been unfaithful since then, and I learned that breaking someone's heart sucks as much as getting your heart broken.
I graduated when I was twenty-six with a degree in Hotel and Restaurant management and nineteen job offers. Being an "older" student with work experience paid off at interview time. Today I was sitting in Elliott Hall of Music in almost the same, if not the same seat I had for my graduation.
Today I was there to see the Dalai Lama. He was charming and wise and surprisingly funny. All and all it was a lovely day. I took the day off, had a nice leisurely morning, drove to West Lafayette and had lunch with Mom and two friends. Our seats for the talk were wonderful, in the eighth row, center. Supporting the Convocations series finally paid off ( I cashed in all of the points I've earned over the years). There was no one in the seat in front of me and I could really see all of his expressions. Mom rode back with my aunt and uncle that joined us for the talk. My friends and I took our time driving back to Indianapolis stopping for coffee in Lafayette and for dinner in Zionsville -- my friend Scott was playing with his jazz trio at the restaurant.
At twenty-six I was more confident around boys that I liked than I am twenty years later. The last time a boy cozied up to me I talked about Leprosy as he tried to kiss me. Seriously, Leprosy. What the Hell is wrong with me?
I stopped at the Red Key on the way home. Band practice boy was there and invited me to join him. We were having a nice conversation about books and music and our families and our jobs. I was giving myself a virtual pat on the back for how well it was going. I hadn't talked about a disease or spilled anything yet. Our waitress (and my coworker) handed me a note. I looked at it and blanched. And since I was rude and read it in front of him, I felt like I needed to show it to him. "Bring tampons, the drawer is empty." I started keeping a stash behind the bar a couple of years ago for the waitresses and customers. That sure interrupted our conversation about our favorite authors. I'd just recovered from that when Lana stopped by our table for another story. The Red Key sells little screw cap bottles of wine. We are phasing them out and pouring wine from actual bottles. In my five years of working at the Red Key I'd never sold a little bottle of White Zinfandel. There were at least twenty-five in the cooler and a case of forty-eight in the basement a few months ago when I grumbled one night that I'd do a naked cartwheel when all of the White Zin was sold. Inexplicably the wine started disappearing -- at an alarming rate. A few weeks ago when we were down to twenty bottles, I joked that maybe I still had time to lose twenty pounds... and learn how to do a cartwheel. We're now down to three bottles. So, Lana is telling this story, only changing a few details. Like that I needed to lose THIRTY pounds.
So, if I don't manage to screw up an encounter with a boy, at least I know that here is someone close by to do it for me.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
early mornings
I left the house at 5:25 this morning. As a 'torchbearer' for United Way, I talk about Second Helpings to companies during their United Way campaign. Torchbearers typically tell a tug-at-the-heart strings story about someone that their agency has helped. I'm not good at that kind of speech, my talk is about Second Helpings, which is am amazing story on its own. I throw out a lot of facts and numbers -- 3.5 million meals prepared and delivered, 8.2 million pounds of food rescued and almost 300 adults trained for meaningful careers in the last nine years and how we make that all happen.
I seem to be fairly popular as a speaker. Its hard to talk about hunger while people are eating waffles, but I make people feel comfortable. I'm also asked to give a lot of talks at factories, which I love. I've gotten to see lots of cool behind the scenes things, walk through production floors wearing a hard hat and safety glasses and give a talk in an airport hanger.
I was actually excited about the four talks (in spite of my lack of sleep) I was scheduled to give a the trash company. I use that company for the trash and cardboard pick-up at work and the City contracts with them for some of the residential curb trash pick-ups, including my street. There is only one guy on the truck, they jump out, grab the trash, toss it in the truck and jump back on and drive to the next stop. I usually put my meager trash out in the morning. Occasionally I'll hear the truck as I'm still getting ready and I'll run out as he's a house or two away. He seems like a friendly enough guy.
I pulled in to the lot as the drivers were parking their trash trucks in front of the building, it was still dark and I wished I had my camera. It was a cool thing to see.
The meeting was combined with their monthly safety meeting. One hundred guys in green vests piled in to the room grumbling about the lack of donuts. They were given a quiz about fire safety (after four meetings I could have given the quiz -- and probably in Spanish also). They were lectured about the fact that no one both writes and signs their name to to quizzes, even though they are repeatedly told to. My observation was that maybe the company should print more than just "name" on a line of the quiz, "name" and "signature" would make more sense. Not that I said anything, of course. The guys -- yes, it was all men in the room, were still grumbling about donuts. They added gripes about gloves, rain suits and the cold to their linty.
Somehow, and it was probably connected to the four and a half hours of sleep of sleep that I had, I was still feeling good about my part of the morning. Who doesn't love Second Helpings or me, for that matter?
I was finally introduced. I started out with "Hi, I'm Nora S --, 5200 block of Winthrop, blue bathrobe." Funny right? Nothing, nada, zilch from the guys. I launched in to my talk. I talked about how we've kept over 8 million pounds of food from the dumpster so they didn't have to deal with it. No reaction. I cut my losses and my speech short.
I plowed through the rest of the talks. When the last one was over, the man who was running the meetings apologized. They said the guys were made 'cause there were no donuts. Said they always act like that when there are no treats. Seriously? Next time I'll buy the damn donuts. Not that I said anything, of course.
[Update, I took a walk Friday morning and saw my trash guy. He waved and said "Hey Nora, I enjoyed your talk." Not only was I surprised, but want to yell back "Hey dude, you could have piped up yesterday." Not that I said anything, of course.]
I seem to be fairly popular as a speaker. Its hard to talk about hunger while people are eating waffles, but I make people feel comfortable. I'm also asked to give a lot of talks at factories, which I love. I've gotten to see lots of cool behind the scenes things, walk through production floors wearing a hard hat and safety glasses and give a talk in an airport hanger.
I was actually excited about the four talks (in spite of my lack of sleep) I was scheduled to give a the trash company. I use that company for the trash and cardboard pick-up at work and the City contracts with them for some of the residential curb trash pick-ups, including my street. There is only one guy on the truck, they jump out, grab the trash, toss it in the truck and jump back on and drive to the next stop. I usually put my meager trash out in the morning. Occasionally I'll hear the truck as I'm still getting ready and I'll run out as he's a house or two away. He seems like a friendly enough guy.
I pulled in to the lot as the drivers were parking their trash trucks in front of the building, it was still dark and I wished I had my camera. It was a cool thing to see.
The meeting was combined with their monthly safety meeting. One hundred guys in green vests piled in to the room grumbling about the lack of donuts. They were given a quiz about fire safety (after four meetings I could have given the quiz -- and probably in Spanish also). They were lectured about the fact that no one both writes and signs their name to to quizzes, even though they are repeatedly told to. My observation was that maybe the company should print more than just "name" on a line of the quiz, "name" and "signature" would make more sense. Not that I said anything, of course. The guys -- yes, it was all men in the room, were still grumbling about donuts. They added gripes about gloves, rain suits and the cold to their linty.
Somehow, and it was probably connected to the four and a half hours of sleep of sleep that I had, I was still feeling good about my part of the morning. Who doesn't love Second Helpings or me, for that matter?
I was finally introduced. I started out with "Hi, I'm Nora S --, 5200 block of Winthrop, blue bathrobe." Funny right? Nothing, nada, zilch from the guys. I launched in to my talk. I talked about how we've kept over 8 million pounds of food from the dumpster so they didn't have to deal with it. No reaction. I cut my losses and my speech short.
I plowed through the rest of the talks. When the last one was over, the man who was running the meetings apologized. They said the guys were made 'cause there were no donuts. Said they always act like that when there are no treats. Seriously? Next time I'll buy the damn donuts. Not that I said anything, of course.
[Update, I took a walk Friday morning and saw my trash guy. He waved and said "Hey Nora, I enjoyed your talk." Not only was I surprised, but want to yell back "Hey dude, you could have piped up yesterday." Not that I said anything, of course.]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)