The Pissing Contest

On the scale of company politics and inter-personal relationships, I'm not at the top of the heap. In fact on a good day, I probably fall into the middle.

My new team mate started last week and he is so lacking in both areas that he makes me look like Kissinger.

Today is his fourth day and we've already engaged in 3 pissing contests. I can't tell if:
a) He is just an asshole.
b) This is just new-guy insecurity manifesting itself as short-term aggressive posturing.
c) Once I establish my own alpha-male dominance he will recognize me as the big pack dog and back off.
d) Our battle for dominance will make my work life a living hell.

So I am tap-dancing around the issue and avoiding direct confrontation as it seems inappropriate to take the new guy to task before he has even been here one week. But my patience has limits. He is one-email-where-my-boss-is-copied-on-the-message away from a showdown.

Shiny Stuff

I'm an engaged person. Wow...I mean...wow. I feel like I set the women's equality movement back 1,000 years every time I say this but....I love the whole ring thing. First there is the idea that somebody had to make a huge sacrifice to give you this expensive gift. Then there is the pleasure of simply having a lovely new piece of jewelry. And then there is the (ghads I can't believe I'm admitting to this) the whole public symbol part. Its cool and I wear my new ring like a merit badge. I've been picked for the varsity team. I'm going to the show. I'm worthy.

Sad but true. Tisk tisk....

Still I hope we get married soon. If for no other reason than I feel like a total dorkus saying, "My fiance." I would stick with the "boyfriend" thing but Frenchie corrects me every time I do. He's kind of kidding, but kind of not. I feel like Elaine in Seinfield every time I say it. Yike.

When you get engaged, everybody in the known universe immediately asks you, "When is the date?" I feel like this is a test of your seriousness. No date = no real commitment. Sadly in our case no date = no money. Which is only partly true as we have our hands full with house shopping, moving, etc. But I was looking at one of those wedding magazines that talks about how much to spend on this and that. It was vaguely funny. Yeah it would be nice to have some quality photos to keep for years to come. But if some photographer wants me to spend $3,000 on photos he'll have to grab it out of my cold dead hand. And don't get me started on the rest of it (invitations, party favors, etc.). Can somebody explain to me why I need to spend $500 on a wedding cake? Is there gold in it?

But back to the topic. Frenchie is a sweetie and he has good taste. I love my ring. And I love him.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

Found a house. Amidst the fake wood panneling and racoon droppings that seem the norm within our price range, we stumbled upon a little yellow 2-story house surrounded by trees and flowering perennials. Even better, it was void of shag carpeting, cat pee, and wouldn't need work the second we stepped into the building. Frankly - it was delightful.

And we were delighted to make an offer. That day. For a bit over asking. And the little old lady who is selling it was delighted with us. The apple-cheeked young couple who wanted to raise a family in her house. And thus we were told "This is a done deal." A direct quote from the listing agent.

Well while the little old lady waited for her children to read through the contract, another offer came through. Less money but they offered to buy the house without an inspection. And this was apparently more appealing than the apple-cheeked young couple who offered more money. So we offered even more money. And the little old lady got yet another offer - less money (still) but no inspection AND cash.

And thus we were out. Because apparently avoiding an inspection was worth more to her than money and the future prospect of little baby feet running about on her lovingly cared for wood floors.

The whole thing stinks although neither of us can figure out what the backstory is. But we feel strongly that there is one. That the whole thing was doomed from the beginning.

And of course there is the dissapointing process of going back to the drawingboard to look through the houses built on swamp land or filled with small rooms covered in thick aqua paint to figure out which is the least disagreable and thus worth a flight to go look at. And sadly as of now, the answer is a resounding, "none."

House Hunting Fun...

... or How I Ended Up Living in this Van

The move to VT is prompted by many things - one of which is the promise of a lower cost of living. Sure I could eventually save up enough to afford a house in California. But by that time I will be 80 years old and more likely spending my money on a new hip. And we CAN afford a house in VT. Just not a great one.

After months of research, I've determined that we can afford a decent house in VT but that it will have a few liabilities. Its just a matter of determining which liabilities we're most comfortable with. Select a minimum of 3 from the list below:

- house is in undisearable location (next to sewage treatment plant)
- house needs immediate repair (you can throw a baseball through the hole in the roof)
- house has not been updated since 1947 (electrical wiring is expected to light structure on fire any minute)
- interior has not been updated since 1960 (how do you spell lenolium?)
- neighbors are not desireable (felons, child molestors, or both)
- house lacks major feature (garage, closets, bathroom)
- previous owner did not take good care in some regard (house reeks of cat pee)
- house is haunted
- house is so far away from Burlington, will require private jet to commute there
- house is only 500 square feet
- house is built in wetlands

We found one that seemed only slightly undesireable last Friday. It needed a new roof immediately ($10K), had not been updated in 40 years, was near a quarry, and had neighbors that left Budwiser cans in the front yard. Four days later they had an offer.

We found another seemingly reasonable house today. It hasn't been updated since 1966 but seems clean. The bathrooms are minute. But the neighbors seem reasonable. Its been on the market for 3 days and we just bought a $500 plane ticket to check it out in 2 days. Hopefully it hasn't sold by then.

There are houses that have been on the market for months. They're so hideous that only a mother could love them. My favorite has fake wood panneling throughout and one of the bathrooms isn't finished (which doesn't stop them from listing it as a 3/2). The master bedroom is so dark I think vampires are hiding in there. And they actually have wagon wheel light fixtures throughout the house. Ironically none of these people ever drop the prices as they are seemingly resolute in their convinction that somebody will get desperate enough to take them up on their prize residence. And who knows- after a few months of $500 redy-eye flights to VT, maybe we will.

Gaping Void

I'm not really one of those angst ridden employees who spends each day chafing under the harness of corporate rediculousness. But this really captures my feelings about my current project.

Places I Will Have Lived

Somehow every 2 years, I end up moving to a new state despite my general intentions to stay where I am. Once I move to VT - I will have lived in all these places!



create your own personalized map of the USA

Movin On Up

A bit calmer now...

We're moving to VT. The timing of this move is a bit sketchy. The Frenchman needs to be there by September 1 which really means he needs to move in mid August which implies we have an apartment with a lease that begins August 1. Although three months seems like a long way away, to me it feels threateningly close.

I would like to revel in the beauty of Vermont, the prospect of crisp falls with color dipped trees, white Christmas, summers on the lake, and new friends. Only I'm stuck on one issue which is slightly less romantic.

Money.

After many sleepless hours, the basic issue is this - I absolutely need to convince the powers that be to allow me to keep my job and work remotely. Period. If this requires selling my soul, selling my firstborn into white slavery, or removal of a limb, so be it.

So now I have three months to figure out how to make this convincing argument. Ideally in a way that doesn't involve begging, crying, or sexual favors.

Fear of abject poverty is very motivating.

However I am getting excited. Vermont is lovely. Its driving distance to many close friends and family. I haven't lived anywhere that had "fall" for years. I like moose. Maybe the most strange/funny/cool part is the whole "we" concept that is now Vermont. We will move. We will buy a house. We will get married and start a family. All of my other moves were just "me."

And already I can say with some certainty that "we" is much more fun.

The Freakout

We've been waiting for weeks to hear if we would get the job offer in Vermont. Talking in hushed tones about what might happen. Slowly convincing ourselves that the offer wouldn't come. Making plans to stay for one more year.

And we got it. Or he got it. The dream job. Tenure track. I know people who have taken years to get a tenure track offer and he got one first shot. First interview. First pick.

And I'm totally freaked out. The theory of quitting and moving across the country is an entirely different beast from the reality. I'm supposed to be working but my heart is pounding too loudly and I can't concentrate over the noise. If I look down I can see my chest moving with the internal hammer. I'm full into the freakout zone.

Sure I want the house and kids. I love the idea of living in the country. There is something pastoral and graceful in the image of being a professors wife. But the reality of quitting my job to move to the country to be a housewife never seemed that real. Until today. All of a sudden I love my job and the security it brings. Financial and emotional. All of a sudden I find the idea of using my MS in Finance to manage household expenses to be an enormously daunting task.

Christ.

I'm sure this feeling of panic will fade in a few days. It needs to. My heart wasn't meant to pound this loud or this long. I feel kind of dizzy. It feels a little like love. Or heartache. Something that doesn't easily fall into the bad or good category. Full on freakout.

The End

I know this subject has been run long and hard. Still I found this excerpt from Anna Quindlen's column in Newsweek (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/7305204/site/newsweek/page/2/) to be very touching.

Last week my father and I received this short e-mail from my sister, a public-school teacher in San Francisco:

i'm telling you both this now
if i am ever in a 'persistent vegetative state' please let me die
do not have a feeding tube put in me
and in no uncertain terms: do not let the united states government get involved.
xoxo

No public official is going to tell me how to xoxo my sister. No church, no court. The Schiavo case has asked us to look at our own definition of life, not at some formless notion cobbled out of the Bible, medical textbooks and impersonal sentiment. My sister's throaty laugh, her prodigious knowledge of history, her garrulous nature: that's the true picture of her, the one with the light in her eyes. She's counting on me to make certain that image is not replaced by something empty and depleted. She's counting on me to safeguard her dignity and her humanity, which are one and the same.

Many of us feel the way she does. Once the feeding tube was removed, polls showed that the majority of Americans believed Terri Schiavo should be allowed to die. That's probably because they've been there. They are the true judges and lawmakers and priests. They've been at the bedside, watching someone they love in agony as cancer nipped at the spine, as the chest rose and fell with the cruel mimicry of the respirator, as the music of personality dwindled to a single note and then fell silent. They know life when they see it, and they know it when it is gone.

Call of the Wild

Night came on and a full moon rose high over the trees, lighting the land until it lay in ghostly day. And the strain of the primitive remained alive and active. Faithfulness and devotion, things born of roof and fire were his, yet he retained his wildness and wiliness, and from the depths of the forest a call still sounded.

Anticipation

Tick tick tick....2 more weeks to go.

We went to VT last week so The Frenchman could do his song and dance to impress the faculty at UVM as to what a great addition he would make to the team. Tappity tap tap.

I am both stressed, terrified, and hopeful. Am I ready to uproot my life and move to VT? Well why the hell not - I've been moving every 3 years since graduation. Although the plan was never to adopt this gypsy lifestyle, it just worked out that way.

Man plans, God laughs.

Haiku - Part 1 (from Joe)

In memory of Noman - put to sleep Feb 2005.





A handsome devil
I'm inbred to perfection
Why am I skittish?

Running forever
outside is my new inside
paws covered in mud

Going for car ride
That needle intimidates
stop tossing dirt on me

I buried my bone
suddenly have limp carcass
now I am the bone

Hiding in bathtub
displays spastic devotion
The noises scare me

Swimming in mud lake
Scratching Scratching Scratching pause
Scratching scratch again

Going back to car
Leave you to find where I've gone
Fear me when I yelp

Feeling Bad One day
Perhaps time for some new pills
These aren't Scooby Snacks!

That Guy

My cubemate across the cube-hall is "that guy." The guy who copies our boss on every email he sends me so that there is a record of our interaction. The guy who sends me email despite the fact that I sit here, literally 5 feet away from him, all day long. He is that guy who comments on my commings and goings ("Getting in early today?" or "Heading home eh??") as though he was keeping a physical log of my work hours. And sadly, might be doing just that.

Worst Party Ever

So for six months, The Frenchman and I have avoided horrendous work related social functions. We finally succombed Friday night as a young group of attractive French couples from work suggested a seemingly inocuous dinner party. I was slightly apprehensive but as we approached the condo and heard laughter eminating from the open windows, my hopes rose a bit. Then we walked in.

The entire group clammed up like a bunch of teenagers when the teacher enters the room. They all stood in unison to face the door as the American intruder (me) entered French territory. They all politely introduced themselves and we were hastily shuffled to a seat and offered some strange alchololic smoothie.

Turns out, about half of them were only slightly comfortable with the English language. The rest of them decided to avoid the awkwardness and spent the rest of the evening in silence. So The Frencheman, the few English speakers, and I proceeded to make awkward party chit chat for the next hour or so.

Dinner itself offered some reprieve as the French speakers all congregated at one end where they could politely continue on in French without offending the interloper. Thus I was at the end with a bunch of French PhDs who were vociferously debating the benefits of lab tests over complex computer models while I stiffled a yawn about every 5 minutes, all the while desperately pretending to be interested. I would have amused myself with alcohol except that there was a single bottle of wine for the entire table of 9 so it seemed rude to refill my small plastic glass. We had brought a nice plant as a housewarming gift. Should have brought wine.

I had hoped to be home by 9:30 but the endless rounds of food never ceased to come from the kitchen. First dinner. Then the cheese plate. Then ice cream and chocolate cake. Then cookies. All would have been lovely had each new plate of food not created a barrier to our polite departure.

But things didn't really get fun until one of the younger party members switched gears from work to "What is wrong with Amercians and their rediculous (insert -> healthcare, minimum wage, foreign policy, etc.)." Or my all time favorite, "How could you people re-elect Bush?"

All of a sudden I was a spokesperson for all America and all French side conversations stopped while I defended various aspects of American life. I had to stifle my knee-jerk response (if-you-don't-like-it-go-home) and kept a big smile plastered on my face with all of the realism of a beauty pagent winner. I frantically searched for data points vaguely remembered from the last time I read The Economist at the gym to defend our capitalists-centric healthcare system while I tried to dispell them of the notion that if you aren't insured and you show up at the hospital with a gunshot wound that they will simply send you home with a bandaid. And then send you a bill for $500 for said bandaid.

Eventually there was enough of a lull in conversation that The Frenchman was able to throw me a lifejacket and we graciously made our way to the door. At this point most everybody was ready to go although we clearly were the first to depart and nobody else had left the building by the time we pulled away. So it had that definite feeling of a group of people who paused just long enough to chat about the people who had just left. Or so my paranoid self seemed to think.

Dorian Grey

A long time ago an older friend of mine (who was then older than I am now) told me that at a certain point, your self image freezes and no matter how much older you get, in your head you still think of yourself as that person. I thought it was a strange point to make, as I stood there thinking that he was OLD (he was probably 37 at the time). Only now I am looking at my soon-to-expire passport photo and realizing that I don't really look like that person anymore. Nothing major, subtle changes, small lines when I smile, a thinness around my face. And I see that my older friend was right. In my head, I am still the girl in the passport photo.

My roomate is almost 10 years older than I am and he all but insists on dating women at least 5 years younger than I am. He seems oblivious to the fact that when you're 25 years old, 40 is ancient. I don't care how cool a car you drive, or what designer stores you shop in. So clear is his mental image that he is seemingly incapable of adjusting to the fact that no amount of situps will make it real.

But anyway....maybe I am just a little sad that next week I actually will look like my passport photo, and not just in my head.