Maybe it’s the oppressive weight of the air here that creates my need for simplicity. I hate cozy. There is already too much cozy in the heat and humidity. This house feels barren and uninhabited and it’s so dark outside.
I want to go back to the light air, where we were so close to the sun. Where cozy felt like it is supposed to.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
Rock House
Irregular shaped orange rocks and a big concrete porch with rock pillars on each side of the steps where I punched Gail in the stomach because my brother dared me to. Towering coniferous tress on each side produced blue berries we knew not to eat. Instead we pelted each other with them.
In the side-yard there was a tree-house and a tractor-tire sand box and a swing set where we swung until the legs of the frame came off the ground. I just knew if we jumped, we’d fly out into the traffic of Old Cavern Highway.
Mom said I was born there and I took that literally. I was much older when she laughed at me and said she only meant that we lived there when I was born. That was the first time we lived there.
The whole house was paneled with orange tinted wood, chipped white in places where nails had been driven and removed. There was no hallway to take you through the house. Just one bedroom connected to another. Both rooms scary for the doors that opened off of them.
The back door opened off the back bedroom onto the covered driveway, where you could see the rock shed that matched the house. During the day, I felt quite fancy with the covered driveway, as though a chauffeur might let us out there and then go to park the car.
But the back door changed in the middle of the night. It was a different door altogether when the window turned to a pitch black mirror. The boogey man stood on the other side and watched me through the glass, even on nights that we didn’t tell each other scary stories like “Bloody Bones and Dirty Diapers.” I tried so hard to stay awake, certain that if I closed my eyes he’d begin to turn the knob. Slowly.
The front bedroom had a door to the basement. A windowless box of plastered white walls. Someone had written the word love in red lipstick on the far wall. They wrote it so small that from the stairs it looked like bloody teeth marks on the wall.
Mom put our toys down there, to make it our play room. There were no windows, so I’m not sure why it mattered, but during the day the toys were just barely worth playing down there. As long as we didn’t turn our back on the red smudges. At night, no thanks.
Also attached to the first bedroom, but not scary at all, was the only bathroom. My cousin would literally be born in that room a few years later. One night my aunt got up to go to the bathroom and had Jody.
Mom put the black couches in the dining room, where the big velvet painting of the matador hung. That was where we goaded my little cousin, Heather, into saying smart aleck things like “nunya beeswax,” and then complained that she never got in trouble.
The second time we lived in that house my parents were separated. I know I made a big deal about missing my daddy. I wanted to buy a Trans-Am, like the one in Smokey and the Bandit, and go find him. But now I see it as an illustrious time in my memory. We lived in the sacred house of my birth and Mom had lightness to her then, like the bounce in the loose curls from her hot rollers. My beautiful mother and her sister lived together, picking up shifts at the Stardust and dating men who drove sports cars.
Until we moved to North Dakota, where my dad had gone to find work. I hope it wasn’t my obsession with Trans-Ams and my daddy that drove her to that wasteland. How could I have known?
We came back to the rock house from North Dakota, a family intact. We stayed there with my aunt until we found a rent house next door to my uncle. The house was still the same. The same step-stool chair with the vinyl covered flip-up seat by the side door off the kitchen. I still had my grandmother’s phone number memorized. The braided oval rope rug was still in the living room floor.
Other things had changed. My aunt Connie died while we were gone. She drowned in a flash flood. I can’t describe what that looked like in my five-year-old imagination. It would be disrespectful to her children to put words to it. Suffice to say it was a horror in my mind. My mother loved her.
And even worse, the replacement aunt was cool and aloof. I’m sure I knew this aunt before the move. I know I remember my cousin, her daughter, and how she used to say “oyoyoyoyoyoyoy” over and over again. We thought she was pretty funny. But my corner-stone memory of the replacement aunt was seeing her open the door of her trailer house when we came back to Carlsbad. She stood there dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, all irritated and constipated looking. I could feel my mother’s disapproval, could feel her upper lip stiffen, saw her eyes widen. She still feels like a replacement aunt, like any minute she’ll just flounce away in a pouty huff.
I don’t know where we lived when I ran away from Pate Elementary in third grade, somewhere in Carlsbad. In second grade, I was diagnosed as a “gifted child.” In third, I couldn’t keep up. Mrs. Kartoonen knew my dad when he was a kid. Among other acts of harassment, I think he may have once asked her who dumped popcorn down the back of her pants. Maybe she was taking this out on me. Maybe she wasn’t.
She slammed my math book closed on my last math problem, and told me “I said take out your Mad Minute.” And I said, “Get off my case...” with equal parts frustration and hope that I would get a laugh out of my dad, make a name for myself as a smart-ass Baker. I didn’t get to finish the rhyme, “...toilet face.” before she clamped her hand over my mouth and drug me out into the hall.
She left me alone out there and I was so mad, so frustrated, that I just walked out the door. I crossed National Parks Highway and went to the tree-house in the side-yard of the rock house. I guess I was waiting for my aunt to come home. My mom’s sister, my second mother. I was so pissed off I forgot she didn’t live there anymore. It wasn’t our house. Strangers lived there.
I also thought my mother would be happy to see me when she finally drove up. She wasn’t. She took me back to the principal’s office. I heard my dad’s footsteps behind me when he came in the door. Until that moment, I sort of thought he would be proud of me for standing up to Mrs. Kartoonen. He wasn’t. He blistered my ass later. But not before my mother laid it out for the principal. Mom didn’t care how that teacher felt about my daddy, that woman was not going to mistreat my mother's kid.
By the end of the year, I truly believed Mrs. Kartoonen liked me. She was a real pro. They just don’t make teachers like that anymore.
In the side-yard there was a tree-house and a tractor-tire sand box and a swing set where we swung until the legs of the frame came off the ground. I just knew if we jumped, we’d fly out into the traffic of Old Cavern Highway.
Mom said I was born there and I took that literally. I was much older when she laughed at me and said she only meant that we lived there when I was born. That was the first time we lived there.
The whole house was paneled with orange tinted wood, chipped white in places where nails had been driven and removed. There was no hallway to take you through the house. Just one bedroom connected to another. Both rooms scary for the doors that opened off of them.
The back door opened off the back bedroom onto the covered driveway, where you could see the rock shed that matched the house. During the day, I felt quite fancy with the covered driveway, as though a chauffeur might let us out there and then go to park the car.
But the back door changed in the middle of the night. It was a different door altogether when the window turned to a pitch black mirror. The boogey man stood on the other side and watched me through the glass, even on nights that we didn’t tell each other scary stories like “Bloody Bones and Dirty Diapers.” I tried so hard to stay awake, certain that if I closed my eyes he’d begin to turn the knob. Slowly.
The front bedroom had a door to the basement. A windowless box of plastered white walls. Someone had written the word love in red lipstick on the far wall. They wrote it so small that from the stairs it looked like bloody teeth marks on the wall.
Mom put our toys down there, to make it our play room. There were no windows, so I’m not sure why it mattered, but during the day the toys were just barely worth playing down there. As long as we didn’t turn our back on the red smudges. At night, no thanks.
Also attached to the first bedroom, but not scary at all, was the only bathroom. My cousin would literally be born in that room a few years later. One night my aunt got up to go to the bathroom and had Jody.
Mom put the black couches in the dining room, where the big velvet painting of the matador hung. That was where we goaded my little cousin, Heather, into saying smart aleck things like “nunya beeswax,” and then complained that she never got in trouble.
The second time we lived in that house my parents were separated. I know I made a big deal about missing my daddy. I wanted to buy a Trans-Am, like the one in Smokey and the Bandit, and go find him. But now I see it as an illustrious time in my memory. We lived in the sacred house of my birth and Mom had lightness to her then, like the bounce in the loose curls from her hot rollers. My beautiful mother and her sister lived together, picking up shifts at the Stardust and dating men who drove sports cars.
Until we moved to North Dakota, where my dad had gone to find work. I hope it wasn’t my obsession with Trans-Ams and my daddy that drove her to that wasteland. How could I have known?
We came back to the rock house from North Dakota, a family intact. We stayed there with my aunt until we found a rent house next door to my uncle. The house was still the same. The same step-stool chair with the vinyl covered flip-up seat by the side door off the kitchen. I still had my grandmother’s phone number memorized. The braided oval rope rug was still in the living room floor.
Other things had changed. My aunt Connie died while we were gone. She drowned in a flash flood. I can’t describe what that looked like in my five-year-old imagination. It would be disrespectful to her children to put words to it. Suffice to say it was a horror in my mind. My mother loved her.
And even worse, the replacement aunt was cool and aloof. I’m sure I knew this aunt before the move. I know I remember my cousin, her daughter, and how she used to say “oyoyoyoyoyoyoy” over and over again. We thought she was pretty funny. But my corner-stone memory of the replacement aunt was seeing her open the door of her trailer house when we came back to Carlsbad. She stood there dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, all irritated and constipated looking. I could feel my mother’s disapproval, could feel her upper lip stiffen, saw her eyes widen. She still feels like a replacement aunt, like any minute she’ll just flounce away in a pouty huff.
I don’t know where we lived when I ran away from Pate Elementary in third grade, somewhere in Carlsbad. In second grade, I was diagnosed as a “gifted child.” In third, I couldn’t keep up. Mrs. Kartoonen knew my dad when he was a kid. Among other acts of harassment, I think he may have once asked her who dumped popcorn down the back of her pants. Maybe she was taking this out on me. Maybe she wasn’t.
She slammed my math book closed on my last math problem, and told me “I said take out your Mad Minute.” And I said, “Get off my case...” with equal parts frustration and hope that I would get a laugh out of my dad, make a name for myself as a smart-ass Baker. I didn’t get to finish the rhyme, “...toilet face.” before she clamped her hand over my mouth and drug me out into the hall.
She left me alone out there and I was so mad, so frustrated, that I just walked out the door. I crossed National Parks Highway and went to the tree-house in the side-yard of the rock house. I guess I was waiting for my aunt to come home. My mom’s sister, my second mother. I was so pissed off I forgot she didn’t live there anymore. It wasn’t our house. Strangers lived there.
I also thought my mother would be happy to see me when she finally drove up. She wasn’t. She took me back to the principal’s office. I heard my dad’s footsteps behind me when he came in the door. Until that moment, I sort of thought he would be proud of me for standing up to Mrs. Kartoonen. He wasn’t. He blistered my ass later. But not before my mother laid it out for the principal. Mom didn’t care how that teacher felt about my daddy, that woman was not going to mistreat my mother's kid.
By the end of the year, I truly believed Mrs. Kartoonen liked me. She was a real pro. They just don’t make teachers like that anymore.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Ain't Sorry It Broke
I'm not sorry the air conditioner quit. I might be later, if it isn’t fixed before the weather warms up again. But having the windows open is a nice change. The wind is blowing in swooshy waves. I could even close my eyes and pretend it’s the ocean. If I open them and look outside, the cactus infested wilderness out back is shamrock green. And the temperature is cool enough that the humidity isn’t making me insane. I have always hated humidity, being from the desert. But now I’m thinking maybe the humidity might keep my zombie face from looking so much like craggy sandstone.
The TV is off, the house isn’t completely disgusting, and I’m still in my pajamas, revising chapter six of Reconstruction. I actually split chapter 6 and put part of it at the end of chapter 5, thinking maybe if I hide that part there, it won’t scream so loudly to be cleaned up. But that is another blog post altogether.
And of course if I’m revising, I’m also procrastinating, which means I’m writing blogs, reading blogs, scrolling through Twitter finding more blogs to subscribe to, and staring out the window thinking of all of the things I could blog about. Then I check Facebook, and Authonomy and Youwriteon, then back to the blog reader, email, other email, Facebook, Twitter, and around it goes, until I come across Thesaurus.com opened in a window, and I remember that I was actually stuck on word choice in Chapter 6.
It is a perfectly ordinary and relaxing Sunday afternoon, made extraordinary by open windows and a breeze.
The TV is off, the house isn’t completely disgusting, and I’m still in my pajamas, revising chapter six of Reconstruction. I actually split chapter 6 and put part of it at the end of chapter 5, thinking maybe if I hide that part there, it won’t scream so loudly to be cleaned up. But that is another blog post altogether.
And of course if I’m revising, I’m also procrastinating, which means I’m writing blogs, reading blogs, scrolling through Twitter finding more blogs to subscribe to, and staring out the window thinking of all of the things I could blog about. Then I check Facebook, and Authonomy and Youwriteon, then back to the blog reader, email, other email, Facebook, Twitter, and around it goes, until I come across Thesaurus.com opened in a window, and I remember that I was actually stuck on word choice in Chapter 6.
It is a perfectly ordinary and relaxing Sunday afternoon, made extraordinary by open windows and a breeze.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
What Do You Like To Read?
I started thinking about publishing a novel just as the shift in the publishing industry began. Back then, the mid-list to which I aspired was shrinking and self-publishing was still taboo. The traditional publishing machine claimed that only those novels guaranteed to strike gold could make it through the gate-keepers because publishing houses could no longer afford to foster new or average selling authors. And I get that. Business is business.
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Zombified Version of My Old Self
So this is what it’s like? I mean, I knew I was getting old. I’ll be 40 in a few years. And I have gray hair that I don’t have time to keep covered. But I’ve always just joked about it and blamed my kids.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Glitter Band Aid
I just looked up and saw a picture of Jordan in its frame. This picture, a Christmas picture, was taken while she was in daycare, when she was about three years old. She’s holding a fake present and her wispy little-girl hair is up in the ponytail that I kept on top of her head. You see I was adamant that she would not have bangs. That was very important to me at the time. Who even knows why? Some childhood anger I had at my mom for cutting my own bangs, maybe?
Apparently what wasn’t important to me was to get the ponytail straight, or to get all of her hair into it. Or maybe, the pictures were taken after she had been at daycare for a while, and some Baylor student/daycare-teacher had redone her hair. A college co-ed who wouldn’t put the same love and care into my child’s ponytail as I would. How could she understand that 15 years later, I’d still be looking at that picture, when it would remind me of just how much we have changed, and accomplished, in this long strange trip.
But the truth is, I probably wouldn’t have put much more effort into her hair than that Baylor student. Because, I was probably younger than that student at the time. I probably didn’t understand the lasting importance of that picture any more than she did. And, honestly, I couldn’t get that wispy hair to stay put, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t learn about gel and hair-wax until the gymnastics years.
But the real reason I know I wouldn’t have been so particular with her hair is because the thing that caught my eye about that picture just now is the glittery band aid that I used to hold it in place in the frame. I guess I was out of tape. Well the band aid didn’t hold up. Fifteen years later, the picture, and the band aid, have both slipped.
A band aid? What in the world was I thinking? I was just a kid, and a late bloomer at that. Just making do. It’s a miracle we survived at all. But we did. And I have to say, we both turned out to be very creative problem solvers.
I guess I need to replace that band aid and fix that picture at some point. But first, I’m going to take a digital picture of it. Because, in fifteen years, I might look back on this day and wonder what in the world I was thinking, “fixing” something that was just fine as it was, an artifact that tells a much truer story than the staged Christmas scene in the actual picture.
Apparently what wasn’t important to me was to get the ponytail straight, or to get all of her hair into it. Or maybe, the pictures were taken after she had been at daycare for a while, and some Baylor student/daycare-teacher had redone her hair. A college co-ed who wouldn’t put the same love and care into my child’s ponytail as I would. How could she understand that 15 years later, I’d still be looking at that picture, when it would remind me of just how much we have changed, and accomplished, in this long strange trip.
But the truth is, I probably wouldn’t have put much more effort into her hair than that Baylor student. Because, I was probably younger than that student at the time. I probably didn’t understand the lasting importance of that picture any more than she did. And, honestly, I couldn’t get that wispy hair to stay put, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t learn about gel and hair-wax until the gymnastics years.
But the real reason I know I wouldn’t have been so particular with her hair is because the thing that caught my eye about that picture just now is the glittery band aid that I used to hold it in place in the frame. I guess I was out of tape. Well the band aid didn’t hold up. Fifteen years later, the picture, and the band aid, have both slipped.
A band aid? What in the world was I thinking? I was just a kid, and a late bloomer at that. Just making do. It’s a miracle we survived at all. But we did. And I have to say, we both turned out to be very creative problem solvers.
I guess I need to replace that band aid and fix that picture at some point. But first, I’m going to take a digital picture of it. Because, in fifteen years, I might look back on this day and wonder what in the world I was thinking, “fixing” something that was just fine as it was, an artifact that tells a much truer story than the staged Christmas scene in the actual picture.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wireless = Chicken Foot
Wireless networking is enough to drive a person to superstition. It never fails that I have a board room full of people and the computer screen projected on a wall when someone decides at the last minute that they need a document off the network. Should be no problem, especially for someone who has as much experience and knowledge as I have with networking. I mean I truly, fully, graphically understand how wireless is supposed to work.
But for some reason, only in board meetings, I cannot connect. And with the whole world watching, I cannot run to the my office to troubleshoot. So I am powerless.
And that is where the superstition comes in. What did I do wrong? Was I wearing these shoes the last time this happened? Is it because I don’t have on my lucky bracelet? OOOOH That is blasphemy. That is why I’m being punished. Or, did my mind wander during invocation? Am I even being punished? Am I supposed to learn something from this humiliation? Why did I choose this field? Why was I ever born? What is the meaning of life?
Honestly, at times like this, if you told me that waving a chicken foot over that laptop would fix it, I would be terribly tempted to try it.
You see?
Wireless = Chicken Foot
But for some reason, only in board meetings, I cannot connect. And with the whole world watching, I cannot run to the my office to troubleshoot. So I am powerless.
And that is where the superstition comes in. What did I do wrong? Was I wearing these shoes the last time this happened? Is it because I don’t have on my lucky bracelet? OOOOH That is blasphemy. That is why I’m being punished. Or, did my mind wander during invocation? Am I even being punished? Am I supposed to learn something from this humiliation? Why did I choose this field? Why was I ever born? What is the meaning of life?
Honestly, at times like this, if you told me that waving a chicken foot over that laptop would fix it, I would be terribly tempted to try it.
You see?
Wireless = Chicken Foot
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