Thursday, May 26, 2005


New Ferns, 2005 Posted by Hello

Yet Another Chapter in the Ongoing Smelly Saga

I have little time, so this will be brief:

I came into work today to discover my computer had no power. A few other nearby outlets were also tits up. Turns out Miss Smelly had overloaded the circuit, plugging in two (TWO!) space heaters out of the same outlet (remember, this is a very old building, and you have to be careful with where you pull power from). One outlet was apparently for her; the other for her 2-gallon fish tank.

She left after lunch yesterday for an appointment, not returning, and left the heaters running all night long. It was three hours this morning before the lads in Plant Services appeared, to unlock the breaker box and get my computer up and running again. I suppose I could have called the president, but I figured two nuisance calls in 24 hours from our department wasn't going to do much for the case for my salary raise.

My director BCC'd me late yesterday on his note to her, and her response. His was basically a 5 paragraph essay on the theme of 'WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING???' In her response, I could practically hear the close-to-tears-stammering - and utter lack of understanding of exactly why calling the president yesterday to bitch about the lack of heat was a truly bush move.

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In other, more exciting, and sort of nervous news, we're off to the Cape tonight to visit with family - especially Craig's brother and wife who are out here from California and who we haven't seen in nearly two years. And yes, this weekend is when the nuptial news gets spilled - so wish us luck!

Pray for sunshine - or at least, for warmer rain.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005


Self-portrait in the Locker Room, 2005 Posted by Hello

Miss Smelly, Strike 2

It wasn't bad enough that she smelled - or worse, that I had to be the one to tell her so. We knew when we hired her that there was going to be a maturity issue, but we were willing to gamble on that. I think we just came up snake eyes.

Our college has embarked on a long-planned project to update an ancient boiler that keeps our building (sort of) warm. Unfortunately, the work on this project has coincided with the coldest spring on record. In short, we're freezing our nads off in here this week, and I might get more work done sitting in the car with the engine idling.

On Monday we really noticed the cold in the building, but since it was built in 1865, it has a long and almost affectionate history of being either nipple-erectingly icy or stultifyingly sweltering. I for one was rather concerned about the latter with the presence of Miss Smelly a few feet away. Some Einstein had the windows wide open in the ladies' room, which I called Plant Services about (we are unable to reach them ourselves to be closed). Later that afternoon our idiot janitor (a woman who proves that all lesbians are not intellectually evolved human beings) cranked it open again because she said it gets stinky in there. I yelled at her and told her we could worry about that when the mercury finally found its way to 70 degrees again, not when it's barely 45. Miss Smelly began wearing her coat in the office. OK, I admit, I don't feel the cold as acutely as others do, but her coat suggests that there is a large vagrant dog out there, naked and shivering without the shaggy mounds of rank black fur it normally sports.

Tuesday comes and it's still very cold in the office. I've taken to digging out a wool suit from the winter to stay warm, and I've had two cups of tea by noon. My typing is slower and less accurate, from bluishly stiff fingers. Miss Smelly says to me, 'Aren't you cold?', as I sit huddled in my woolens. I should have thought that was apparent, but since I wasn't wearing leftover furs from the set of Conan the Destroyer, I suppose I had a rather laissez-faire tropical look to myself.

Wednesday arrives, and the wind and rain are pelting down, the mercury still parked stubbornly below 50. I run into Miss Smelly on my way into the office - I am quite late getting in today owing to the lateness of last night's tragically horrific recruiting fair in Boston. She yells at me through the stinging rain - 'We have space heaters in the office! Woohoo!' I smile faintly and continue walking towards my building. When I finally get in there, I don't notice much overall difference - after all, how much warmth can a heater the size of a toaster put out? There is, however, a workman in the office talking to the head admin. When he leaves, we learn that Miss Smelly's answer to the cold in the building was this: call the president of the college. Direct. On the phone.

Jesus Christ. She has no idea how this makes us look. It's not that you don't talk with the president, but you have to know WHEN it's worth your while - and HIS - to talk with him. You don't blow your calls on stuff that should be directed to other offices which can actually DO something about it.

As I said, it's a maturity thing. She hasn't developed a fine enough sense of appropriate behaviour. She has no style, no elegance, no poise. No sense! I realize these things come with time, but the more I observe her, the more I realize how far behind she is. I definitely don't want to go through another hiring process for that position - and honestly, her actual work is fine - but we have got a long way to go to groom Miss Smelly, and this goes way beyond bare midriffs, shampoo, and deodorant.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005


Pumpkin, 2003 Posted by Hello

The Dog and Pony Show

One of the least enjoyable things - OK, probably THE least enjoyable thing, apart from my dismal salary - about my job is recruiting at MBA forums. These are events where all the poor stiffs like myself from all the other schools and I are crowded into a room, where we spread our polyester banners and colourful literature (lots of pictures and glossy paper) over tables and try to convince people to fork over $40K (or $50K, or $60K, or more, you get the picture) for an MBA. Yes, you too can be a jet-setting star consultant for Goldman Sachs! You can get the corner office overlooking the river! You can be the CEO of Enron! The world is your freaking oyster, once you have our MBA on your resume.

What it comes down to is this: it's very difficult to sell something that you don't believe in. I should know - I have an MBA, but worse, I've worked in the business education industry for over ten years now (I shudder, even writing that). I know how those average starting salary figures are derived (can you say 'massage the data until it fits'?). I know how they create rankings in national publications (your dean and my dean are going to play golf this weekend and agree to bump each other up while dissing all these other schools). I know why some people, from some schools, get those coveted brass ring jobs while most MBAs end up barely making more than they did before they started, slaving away as the junior-junior assistant to the janitor in some backwater stinkhole of a company about to go under, wondering how the hell they're going to pay off their student loans.

Tonight I have to do another such event. This means I'll be pulling my case of literature through some nameless parking garage at some faceless, concrete institution of higher learning, spreading my wares over the table, and attempting to seduce everyone who walks by to stop and talk with me, like some whore in a red-light district. I might as well climb on top of the table myself and put my legs up in the stirrups.

The prospects always ask these great questions, like, "What job will I get when I graduate?" I dunno. Who are you willing to blow? Or, "What are my chances of getting in?" For that school over there, pretty much next to nil unless you have a GMAT score in the high 600s or your Daddy sends a big fat cheque to their latest capital campaign. Our school, on the other hand, will take anyone with their own hair and teeth, as long as you pay the tuition.

My favourites are the crackpots that show up at every one of these events, and go around collecting logo pens from all the different schools like they're trophies. They hang around with ratty shopping bags full of stuff they've pulled out of dumpsters, sliding up alongside you to stammer and nod as you talk with real prospects, which they quickly scare off, and then stay at your side for another 20 minutes talking about how the government screwed them back in '81 and one of these days someone's going to pay for it.

Probably me, I figure.

All of the school reps keep their perma-grins on their face and feign exuberance in front of anyone who remotely fits their target demographic. They teeter in their heels, if they're rookies, dying to rub their feet or take their shoes right off (a horrific faux pas). The seasoned ones know you wear flat shoes to these things - three hours on your feet harkens back to summers slaving away at retail.

Some schools always have a lineup in front of their tables - the ones which have the money to spin their PR machines faster and better than anyone else, and have so many media contacts that they keep their names permanently in the spotlight. Repetition, repetition - that's how branding works. The rest of us, who work for various permutations of 'Last Chance University' pick up those who get tired of waiting in front of Harvard, or are quickly blown off by their perfectly coiffed admissions rep.

It's the shittiest part of my job, and the one I try to avoid like the plague. Statistics show more and more that fewer prospects are attending these fairs, because they do their research more directly through the internet. But we're all scared to be the ones NOT there, just in case. We need the bodies more badly than the military needs fresh meat right now.

Monday, May 23, 2005


Private Path, 2005 Posted by Hello

I'm getting very impatient with this drizzle. Have I become spoiled, living out here? Have I become used to intermittent sunshine throughout the spring? This weather is so much like home, I should be feeling nostalgic. Instead, I just feel cold and damp and annoyed about it all.

My open-toed shoes have been brought out from hiding and displayed expectantly across the shelf in my closet. Likewise, my motorcycle sits in the garage, protected from the rain, waiting for the clouds to part so we can go out and play together. Yesterday I baked three batches of biscotti to warm up the kitchen, with little lasting effect (and now, there are three batches of biscotti to tempt my pre-marital waistline...the horror...the horror...).

Thanks to the nearly exclusively male history of the college where I work, there is only one washroom on our floor for women - this building is one of the originaly buildings, and you either bake or freeze in it - no in between. Someone opened the window to deal with the smells that accumulate in that washroom...but now of course it is like peeing in an outhouse in February in there. I was afraid I was going to stick to the seat.

There's no immediate end in sight. I've made two sundresses in the last month, hoping against hope there'll be some time to wear them soon. Now I'm starting to think I'd better make some kind of wrap or shawl for the morning of the wedding, or I'm going to freeze in my dress out there on the beach. Maybe I'd better find an umbrella too...

Check out the ten-day weather forecast.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005


Parallel Parking Diagram Posted by Hello

How I Learned to Parallel Park, Despite Axel F.

Last night Craig and I were in paroxysms of laughter until midnight owing in part to a story I told him about how I learned to parallel park to the tune 'Axel F.' from Beverly Hills Cop. I repeat the story here for you. I am, unfortunately, unable to make my blog play the song automatically for you, but you can find a free midi file of it here if you want (scroll down the list and find 'Axel F'). I am not responsible for how long it stays ingrained in your brain afterwards as a result. Here goes:

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Late spring, 1984

Mom and I have come to an empty parking lot at the stadium at the University of Victoria to work on my parallel parking skills before my upcoming driver's exam. Nice wide open space, no other cars around - but lots of lines on the pavement marking out parking spaces, so I can pretend that there are cars around and have to work my way into my space without hitting any of them. Near a grassy bank, there are spaces set up perfectly for parallel parking practice: one in front of the other along a long stretch at the edge of the parking lot. Mom tells me to imagine that Car A is in front of the space that I want to be in, Car B is directly behind the space I want, and Car C is behind Car B (for no apparent reason). She gets out of the car and heads up to sit on the grass and watch (see above post for illustration).

I'm 18. Dad's found me a 1972 Pinto as a starter car, so at least I will have something to drive to my summer job at the Butchart Gardens. It's 10 different shades of shit brown, with orange fur on the dash. It's ugly, but it will be mine...once I get my license. For now, I'm using Mom's Ford Escort - standard transmission - to learn on.

I wheel around the parking lot and turn up the radio. The sun is shining on a warm afternoon. I'm in the car alone, driving all by myself. I can almost pretend that I'm out there on the streets myself, so cool, music playing, going where I want to go, when I want to go there. The song ends and a new one begins: 'Axel F.', the theme music from the hottest movie of the year, Beverly Hills Cop.

I pull up alongside Imaginary Car A in the parking lot while Harold Faltermeyer's staccato synth music begins bubbling in my head. I check my rear view and side view mirrors. I'm grooving in the seat. Buh, ba, bu-bu-BAH-buh, bu buh, ba, bu-bu-BAH-buh, bu bu bu BAH bu bu-bu-bo bu-buhhh...

Oh yeah, parking...

I get myself midway up the side of Imaginary Car A, just like it says in the Registry of Motor Vehicles (RMV) Handbook. I crank my wheel over and shove the stick into reverse and start curling back into my space. But I can't get the music out of my head...and I peel back probably a little more abruptly than I should.

I check to see where I am in relation to Imaginary Car B. Looks like plenty of space to me. I start to crank the wheel over in the other direction to straighten out my car, and rev it quickly as I move back. Buh, ba, bu-bu-BAH-buh, bu buh, ba, bu-bu-BAH-buh, bu bu bu BAH bu bu-bu-bo-bu buhhh...my shoulders are moving and my head's bobbing in time to Axel F. The car reacts to my slightest move and it's going exactly where I tell it to.

I put the car into first again. Seems like I have to go a long way forward to line myself up right in my space. The spaces must be longer than I thought, but then again, Mom's car is pretty small. This would probably be harder in Dad's van, but I don't worry about that. I pull the car up, without popping the clutch even a little. I don't see what the big deal is about parallel parking. This is easy -and even fun. Axel F. is still playing when I bring the car to a full stop. I don't turn the car off because I want to keep hearing the song. Buh, ba, bu-bu-BAH-buh, bu buh, ba, bu-bu-BAH-buh, bu bu bu BAH bu bu-bu-bo-bu buhhh...

I get out of the car and look at my parking job. It's perfect. I'm lined up right in the middle of the space, barely six inches from the curb. Straight as an arrow. I smile up at Mom. "Whaddaya think?" I ask, completely cocky.

"Well," she replies calmly, getting up and pointing to the spaces around the car, "Car A has lost its rear end. Car B has no more front end, and you backed into it far enough that it pushed Car C into Car D."

Car D? What Car D? From the look Mom's giving me, the existence or non-existence of Car D is obviously not the point. I can see I'm going to need a lot more time at this. With the radio off.

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Post Script: For the record, I am now a pretty shit-hot parallel parker, music or no music.

Monday, May 16, 2005


The Happy Dance Posted by Hello

Come on, get happy

Recent encounters with a number of folks whose spheres frequently intersect with mine have had me thinking more lately on the subject of passion. I'm not referring to sweaty bodies and Barry White crooning in the background, but more about the stuff that electrifies your imagination, makes you seek out more and more of it (helplessly or unconsciously sometimes), and simply put, just plain makes you happy.

It long bothered me that I was having difficulty finding 'the thing' that did it for me. The one thing I would always get jazzed up about. I expected lightbulbs to go off or the voice of God to explode in my head and say 'Hey, dummy - open your eyes. This is what you're supposed to be doing.' I'd see other people who had found their own passion, and honestly, I was very jealous.

I was the 'good all-rounder' in school. Jane of all trades, master of none. I could competently churn out a critique of beat poetry, dissect a sheep's eyeball, or even hack my way through a Grieg nocturne with enough effort. But always, it was as though there was a veil between my heart and any of these things - frequently a veil of indifference. Nothing resonated. Photography changed that - but I don't want to talk about photography at the moment.

I discovered that passion like this was much like learning, as I got older, how real love comes upon you. Some people are literally hit by the thunderbolt; the heavens open and they can't help but run towards something, compelled like salmon moving upstream. For me, it was a slow realization. Something that had always been there began to look different - or more correctly, I began to look at it differently. And then it was literally like going 'Oh. NOW I get it.'

No matter how it happens, though, the consequences, in my experience, are the same. If you truly love something, if you're truly passionate about it and not just dabbling in it, you go after it with everything you have. You don't let obstacles get in your way. You don't allow negative thoughts to stop you or whine about how hard something is. Your greatest happiness comes when everything is coalescing around that which you're passionate about. While sometimes things are frustrating, your heart gives you no choice. You're compelled to do everything you can to keep going, excited, shameless, constantly seeking out more and more of it. Passion doesn't make excuses. When you love something that much, you're so absorbed in your own pursuit of it that you don't let the unknown beat you down. You jump right in, fearless, moth to the flame. If you don't feel that way about something, chances are very good it's because you're not passionate about it. It's not your path.

Even when the thing about which someone is passionate holds little interest for me, I nearly always find passionate people more interesting, and more energizing for my own passions. They're terrific people to be around because they're positive, and they inspire you. Life is a wonderland for them; new experiences ignite their creativity. They don't cringe in fear of the unknown: they embrace it. We gather around those who make us feel that way, and avoid those who sap our spirits with their negative energy.

If I could give anyone one piece of advice, it would be this: find the thing that makes you incredibly happy, and do it, regardless of what anyone else thinks. And if you don't know what that is or what you're doing doesn't make you feel that way, keep looking.


Sentry, 2005 Posted by Hello

Friday, May 13, 2005


Virginia Beach Bug, 2005 Posted by Hello

Chocolate Bites Back

If you've followed this blog at all, you know that I have a serious predilection for serious chocolate. I don't have a lot of difficulty walking past a Hershey bar. That ain't chocolate. But really good, dark, high-cocoa content (somewhere around 70% is optimum for me)...that's another matter.

One of our faculty returned from Denmark today with several boxes of such chocolate. Bad news when you're faced with the prospect of a wedding dress in six weeks. For hours I resisted the call. Finally I broke down...carefully peeling back the tissue and beautiful paper and gazing at the beautifully crafted little jewels in the tray. Some were wrapped like cones with tiny marzipan flowers on one end like a bouquet. Others sat elegantly in understated foils with a thin ribbon around their middles. The aroma was intoxicating.

I selected one. One, I told myself. Just one. You've been good all week.

I brought it back to my desk and let it sit in front of me for a second, letting it fill the air around me with a heady chocolate perfume. Even through its foil wrapper, it was unmistakable. Carefully I pulled back the little ribbon, pear green (how very modern), and slowly peeled away the pale gold foil without tearing it. The chocolate was a dark silky rectangle, regally embossed. I bit into its end...then spat it all over my keyboard.

The chocolate was filled with some foul liqueur, harsh and potent and completely at odds, in my opinion, with the texture of the chocolate. I hate liqueur chocolates. My keyboard is now sticky with it, and the chocolate, all of it, is in the garbage. I feel like the promise of really good sex was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of an elderly, talkative, chain-smoking neighbour.

The chocolate smell hangs in the office, mocking me.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

The Egg

Throughout the work week, Craig often rises much, much earlier than I do so that he can catch the commuter train into Boston. At 5 am, you can normally count on me to be groggy and incoherent. This morning, however, Craig managed to snap me to attention as I shuffled bleary-eyed from the bathroom, still asleep through the entire process of attending to the urgent need to pee.

'Look what Kitty brought in,' he said, placing a smallish, white speckled egg into my palm.

How odd, I thought. About the size of a robin's egg, but not the right colour. Too large for some of the birds that usually begin nesting around the house at this time of year. Whose is it? And HOW did Kitty get it?

The egg had long been out of its nest, but was completely perfect in every respect. No cracks or holes. Heavy for its size. Cool to the touch, though. No chance of trying to jumpstart what had already been halted. I could feel the embryo inside tumbling mutely within the shell. It made my heart pang a little, even though I was primarily curious about its origin and how Kitty had managed to bring it into the house unscathed. More to the point, why?

Now, Kitty has brought in many strange things in the time I've known her. I've nearly trampled upon mice, moles, voles, thrushes and sparrows, toads, and once, even a small bat. This one has me stymied, though. All the other critters were most certainly slain by our little huntress - and I have no quarrel with that. It's a part of the cat contract one must accept. I am trying to picture, however, our Kitty picking up an egg, gently cradling it in her mouth, maneuvering through two cat doors, and laying it gingerly upon the linoleum. It would have been quite a mouthful for her, and something would have had to inspire her to pluck it from the grass, or a nest, in the first place.

I doubt I will ever know how it all went down. I must content myself trying to identify which bird's egg it is.

Kitty came upon me later in the morning after I returned to bed for another hour of sleep, crying for her breakfast as usual. I found myself looking at her like she was a creature I had never yet met.

Monday, May 09, 2005


Squish, 2005 Posted by Hello

I do...or more correctly, I will...

This past weekend my boyfriend - I should probably say my fiance - and I took a little roadtrip up the Maine coast to where we plan to get married in about six weeks' time. We had selected a location without either of us having ever been there, based on some photos a coworker of Craig's had taken and its position on the map: on the beach, in a place that sort of reminds me of home (British Columbia), and on the route of our planned wedding trip/honeymoon destination: Nova Scotia. So, we'll be married in the U.S., on July 1st, which is Canada Day, and then proceed up the coast to Canada, which we'll likely hit on the 4th of July - American Independence Day. For a Canadian girl and an American boy, I think we were both pleased with the confusion imposed by the calendar.

Part of our weekend involved meeting with the notary (Maine doesn't use Justices of the Peace) who will be performing the ceremony, and starting the process of writing our vows. Taking the plunge, as it were, really hits home when you start to think about the words you want to say to one another. Maine has no laws or requirements about what is said at the marriage ceremony - it's entirely up to us. We could recite the entire script of the movie 'Airplane' if we so desired. Since it's just going to be the two of us there, with no family and scant witnesses, there isn't any need to say a lot of explanatory stuff to a big audience. This is going to be some of the most intensely personal writing I ever do. Where to start? The notary showed us numerous samples of previous ceremonies he'd performed, so we could get an idea of what we might want to include in our vows - and I think that was very helpful. I also think our vows are going to end up being markedly different from them in several respects. Some of them were so serious ("I promise to respect you always...and never take you for granted...and oh, did I mention I really respect you?")! Some seemed rather banal...full of cliches and meaningless, overused phrases ("My love for you is as endless as the ocean around us..." Gag!). Our marriage is a very personal event, and what I say to Craig that day needs, I think, to be very clear about how I feel, why I feel that way, and what I hope for in our future. In my own words, with a little support from writers and artists who I feel resonate with me on the subject.

For the record, I think the site is beautiful. We had originally hoped to return to B.C. later this summer and be married out on the west coast, but my schedule scuttled those plans. Somehow, though, we've managed to find a beach with a rocky shore, driftwood, tall dark conifers, seaweed and barnacles...not unlike B.C. at all.

So there it is. For those of you who weren't aware of our plans, I suppose the cat's out of the bag. Go easy on Craig, will ya?

Tuesday, May 03, 2005


Crab Traps, Maryland, 2005 Posted by Hello

Monday, May 02, 2005


Screwing Around with Photoshop's Hue and Saturation Tool! Posted by Hello

And this time I mean it!

Seriously, honestly. I really am going to get some work done this week. Really. I know if I put it off any longer someone's going to start asking some very uncomfortable questions. Like, "why isn't the web page updated with the material I gave you last month?" and "where is the promo copy for the XXX MBA guide (names concealed to protect some overblown corporate behemoth)?"

I can answer these questions, sort of...but the answers aren't going to make anyone happy today.

I promise myself I will get it done this week, just to get the guilt monkey off my back. Really.