I first started Lake Loop about six months ago. Prior to that, my blogging experience had been limited to casual contributions to a group blog that my Mom had set up to share family photos. Mom and Sis both had blogs that I would check out every now and then. It got so whenever I sent a funny email, I’d hear about it: “you should be blogging that.”
Then I got laid off. All of a sudden, I had a lot more free time. I started spending more time with my friend, the internets. I caved to the pressure, and started my own blog here at Lake Loop. I didn’t really know what to expect. I have discovered a great community populated with wonderful, smart, funny, kind and supportive people. It’s truly been a super experience.
Despite all that, I still suffer waves of paranoia about the whole blogging thing. As much as I love all you random strangers I have become so fond of, the thought of people I know finding and reading the blog kind of squicks me out. I keep an eye on my Sitemeter and when I see mysterious local hits, I always get particularly spooked. Initially I had been careless with real world place names, so I went back and assigned more pseudonymous names to locales I had mentioned. I changed the name by which I reference my mate from his real world name to SodaBoy, and chose a handle for myself.
Now it’s my turn for the change. I have been blogging all this time using my real world first name. It is a very common first name for women of my generation (as noted elsewhere) and that knowledge made me feel somewhat secure. After all, if there are millions of us out there, no one will know it’s me me. However, the thought of having my real name out there and simultaneously working seems a little too risky for me. The last thing I want is people from work reading this. The horror.
To the introductions... Hi, I'm BerryBird. It’s nice to meet you!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Good News!
This morning was my second interview with Prospective Employer. Except truthfully, I can't call them that anymore. How about simply Employer? Yes, that's right... I got the job! Of course I am hugely excited, although perhaps even more impatient than before. See, the system is a little odd there. I don't yet know the terms of the job: the salary, the benefits, or even the exact start date. They are going to send a letter to my house this week to make the formal offer. Nothing is official, not until the human resources people make it so.
I have never been hired under such strange circumstances before. Honestly, it makes me slightly uneasy, but everyone there was very positive and upbeat, and I have no reason to be so paranoid. The interviewer said she wants me to start next week, told me a little bit about two specific projects they will have me working on right away, and took me around the office introducing me to future colleagues. When I saw the two people who had done the interviewing the first time around, they were very friendly and excited to see me again.
I have a lot of hopes invested in this job opportunity. It is a professional position, directly related to my college studies. I had virtually given up all hopes of finding such work locally, and was scrambling to come up with viable options. All previous work I've done in my field has been out of state: in Michigan, Minnesota, and Massachusetts. My last job, in the gas chromatography lab, was not in my field at all, and I only got that because of my general science background. I am so happy to be moving in the right direction again.
Although it is in my field, this new job has aspects of it that will be utterly new. I will get to learn so much. Now I can only wait and see, again! And hope... I hope the terms of the offer are to my liking, though I am so desperate for work now, it is hard to imagine turning them down. I also hope my skills haven't become too rusty in the last four years of disuse. I feel like I should be studying.
I have never been hired under such strange circumstances before. Honestly, it makes me slightly uneasy, but everyone there was very positive and upbeat, and I have no reason to be so paranoid. The interviewer said she wants me to start next week, told me a little bit about two specific projects they will have me working on right away, and took me around the office introducing me to future colleagues. When I saw the two people who had done the interviewing the first time around, they were very friendly and excited to see me again.
I have a lot of hopes invested in this job opportunity. It is a professional position, directly related to my college studies. I had virtually given up all hopes of finding such work locally, and was scrambling to come up with viable options. All previous work I've done in my field has been out of state: in Michigan, Minnesota, and Massachusetts. My last job, in the gas chromatography lab, was not in my field at all, and I only got that because of my general science background. I am so happy to be moving in the right direction again.
Although it is in my field, this new job has aspects of it that will be utterly new. I will get to learn so much. Now I can only wait and see, again! And hope... I hope the terms of the offer are to my liking, though I am so desperate for work now, it is hard to imagine turning them down. I also hope my skills haven't become too rusty in the last four years of disuse. I feel like I should be studying.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Silly Sign Saturday: The Golf Edition
First of all, I need to dish out some acknowledgements here... Murray over at Signs of the Times has an entire blog dedicated signs that are a little bit 'odd.' Anyone who hasn't been there before should hightail it over for some good belly laughs. Also, Jenny F. Scientist included a funny elderly crosswalk sign in her week-in-photos post yesterday that may have just pushed me over the line to share a few silly sign spottings of my own.
Secondly, I feel the need to add the disclaimer that I am not a golfer. Rather, I am the weird girl skulking around the golf course with a camera. Look out!
Secondly, I feel the need to add the disclaimer that I am not a golfer. Rather, I am the weird girl skulking around the golf course with a camera. Look out!
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Conch Shell
Just last week, my maternal grandmother died. She and I were quite close. I haven’t fully processed this grief, and have yet to write about it here. Living vicariously, though, I have been paying especial attention to other what other bloggers are writing about grief. Mary wrote a few days ago about the joy and comfort she gets from using items that once belonged to departed loved ones. Then today, Phantom Scribbler shared with us the frightening tale of a mercury spill and the sadness she is feeling over the loss of a plate. As I read her tale, I recalled my panicky feelings when I thought I’d lost my conch shell.
I was eleven years old when I experienced my first death in the family. [And yes, I am aware how fortunate I am to have been spared earlier losses]. It was my paternal great-grandmother (GGM) who had passed away, at the advanced age of 99 years. In my memory, she was always tiny and wizened, but I gather she was a fiercely strong woman in her younger days, and I love hearing those stories. She retained quite a bit of independence in her old age, shoveling her own driveway and patching her own roof well into her nineties.
She lived in an old farmhouse that had been built in 1822, by our mutual ancestors. She had inherited the family farm with an obscene level of debt, and fought tooth and nail to keep the land in the family. Whenever we went to visit her, she would be sitting in a rocking chair by the wood stove. It was probably the very same wood stove into which she put her twin sons to keep them warm after she gave birth at home in 1911: my grandfather and his twin brother were born weighing just over two pounds each.
Eventually GGM broke her hip, and spent her last few years living first with my grandfather, and then finally in a nursing home, so my memories of visiting her at the old farmhouse are not very clear. I remember the big, thick molasses cookies she would always give us kids, and the French doors leading into a parlor where Sis and I would bang away at the piano while the grown ups visited.
From her estate, my Dad selected one conch shell each for my sister and I. Conch shells are sort of incongruous for this part of the country; we are not near any oceans, and unfortunately I do not remember any stories explaining their origin. These particular conch shells have the tip of one end sliced clean off, and can be played like a bugle. Apparently, GGM had used the conch shells to call her dogs.
They were left to my Dad, because growing up, he was the only one to master the trick of playing them. I myself never learned to play, although Sis did, perhaps translating some essential skill from her flute lessons. SodaBoy can also make it bellow. Although I never learned to play, I have always treasured the beautiful shell, and the memories and stories of the woman it evokes. Sometimes I have used it as a doorstop; other times it has graced shelves as a bookend.
After we moved this last time, I couldn’t find the conch shell anywhere. I tore through closets and boxes, and not finding it, became more and more distraught. I became convinced it was one of the many items that had been lost in the move, or accidentally left behind. Like the dish towel printed with blue kitty cats, given to me by my step-mother as a thank you gift for pet sitting services, which may still hang on the refridgerator door in the old apartment. While I wasn’t particularly happy about any of the missing items, I was truly devastated to think I’d lost the beautiful old conch shell, my only physical memento of GGM. I hurled many a cruel invective at SodaBoy, foisting all blame on him.
Months later, when I finally rediscovered the conch shell, I was flooded with relief. Some guilt, yes, for having falsely accused SodaBoy, but mostly just a lightening of spirit. I still have that little piece of GGM, not just in my unreliable memory, but something real, something solid, something tangible.
Something beautiful.
I was eleven years old when I experienced my first death in the family. [And yes, I am aware how fortunate I am to have been spared earlier losses]. It was my paternal great-grandmother (GGM) who had passed away, at the advanced age of 99 years. In my memory, she was always tiny and wizened, but I gather she was a fiercely strong woman in her younger days, and I love hearing those stories. She retained quite a bit of independence in her old age, shoveling her own driveway and patching her own roof well into her nineties.
She lived in an old farmhouse that had been built in 1822, by our mutual ancestors. She had inherited the family farm with an obscene level of debt, and fought tooth and nail to keep the land in the family. Whenever we went to visit her, she would be sitting in a rocking chair by the wood stove. It was probably the very same wood stove into which she put her twin sons to keep them warm after she gave birth at home in 1911: my grandfather and his twin brother were born weighing just over two pounds each.
Eventually GGM broke her hip, and spent her last few years living first with my grandfather, and then finally in a nursing home, so my memories of visiting her at the old farmhouse are not very clear. I remember the big, thick molasses cookies she would always give us kids, and the French doors leading into a parlor where Sis and I would bang away at the piano while the grown ups visited.
From her estate, my Dad selected one conch shell each for my sister and I. Conch shells are sort of incongruous for this part of the country; we are not near any oceans, and unfortunately I do not remember any stories explaining their origin. These particular conch shells have the tip of one end sliced clean off, and can be played like a bugle. Apparently, GGM had used the conch shells to call her dogs.
They were left to my Dad, because growing up, he was the only one to master the trick of playing them. I myself never learned to play, although Sis did, perhaps translating some essential skill from her flute lessons. SodaBoy can also make it bellow. Although I never learned to play, I have always treasured the beautiful shell, and the memories and stories of the woman it evokes. Sometimes I have used it as a doorstop; other times it has graced shelves as a bookend.
After we moved this last time, I couldn’t find the conch shell anywhere. I tore through closets and boxes, and not finding it, became more and more distraught. I became convinced it was one of the many items that had been lost in the move, or accidentally left behind. Like the dish towel printed with blue kitty cats, given to me by my step-mother as a thank you gift for pet sitting services, which may still hang on the refridgerator door in the old apartment. While I wasn’t particularly happy about any of the missing items, I was truly devastated to think I’d lost the beautiful old conch shell, my only physical memento of GGM. I hurled many a cruel invective at SodaBoy, foisting all blame on him.
Months later, when I finally rediscovered the conch shell, I was flooded with relief. Some guilt, yes, for having falsely accused SodaBoy, but mostly just a lightening of spirit. I still have that little piece of GGM, not just in my unreliable memory, but something real, something solid, something tangible.
Something beautiful.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
A Hopeful Update
Prospective Employer finally called back this morning, and scheduled that second interview I am so desperate for. Huzzah! Next Tuesday, I'll be strutting my stuff once more. I am glad I have the weekend to mentally prepare, because I'd talked myself into the dumps a bit, and while I feel much better today, I'd like to be a little more confident come interview time.
[I had basically convinced myself that I am a total poser lame ass who doesn't deserve gainful employment of any sort of respectable variety. See what I mean about needing a little boost?]
I still have nagging doubts because of the time lapse between my first interview and the call back (ten days). I did email the interviewers a thank you note and link to a writing sample the day after my initial meeting. I received a very positive response practically instantly, assuring me they'd be back in touch soon. Nine days later is NOT soon in my book. I feel like they maybe offered the job to someone else, who turned it down, and now they are falling back to me. SodaBoy has been trying to comfort me all along, saying they were just busy and they would call eventually. Score one for SodaBoy, I guess.
Now to the part where I ask for advice... I only have one suit, which I wore to the first interview. I do have several sweaters that look nice under the jacket. Do I wear the same suit with a different top under it? Or completely separate dress pants with a slightly less formal sweater/jacket piece? Both pairs of pants are black and would look identical to an untrained eye. The interviewers were dressed comfortably in corduroy and plaid. My backup fancywear is still much dressier than office casual. What do I wear?
[I had basically convinced myself that I am a total poser lame ass who doesn't deserve gainful employment of any sort of respectable variety. See what I mean about needing a little boost?]
I still have nagging doubts because of the time lapse between my first interview and the call back (ten days). I did email the interviewers a thank you note and link to a writing sample the day after my initial meeting. I received a very positive response practically instantly, assuring me they'd be back in touch soon. Nine days later is NOT soon in my book. I feel like they maybe offered the job to someone else, who turned it down, and now they are falling back to me. SodaBoy has been trying to comfort me all along, saying they were just busy and they would call eventually. Score one for SodaBoy, I guess.
Now to the part where I ask for advice... I only have one suit, which I wore to the first interview. I do have several sweaters that look nice under the jacket. Do I wear the same suit with a different top under it? Or completely separate dress pants with a slightly less formal sweater/jacket piece? Both pairs of pants are black and would look identical to an untrained eye. The interviewers were dressed comfortably in corduroy and plaid. My backup fancywear is still much dressier than office casual. What do I wear?
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Feeding the Birds
I am getting really discouraged because I haven't heard back from that prospective employer I interviewed with last week. I guess the interview didn't go as well as I had thought. That's the trouble when you view the world through rose-colored glasses. Only I am not known for being especially optimistic; I must be getting desperate. See, I thought when they said things like they could market my skills and how I had much more experience than other applicants, I thought that meant something good. It wasn't just them being polite and me lapping it up. Or maybe it was. The bottom line is they haven't called back.
So I am feeling a little poopy. Watching the birds is one of the only things cheering me up these days. I got a bird feeding complex for Christmas, a big stand that hold three different types of feeders. There is the house-shaped one that holds black oil sunflower seeds, a cylindrical one that dispenses nyjer seeds, and then the peanut feeder. We couldn't find any unsalted shelled peanuts when we were buying birdseed, so got cracked corn instead. The corn is not very popular; we'll have to look elsewhere for the peanuts. We didn't get many visitors at first, with the unseasonably warm weather, just a few friendly chickadees. Once it got cold, other birds showed up.
It is so fun to look out the window and see a rainbow of species jostling for seeds. We regularly get gold finches, titmice, chickadees, nuthatches, chipping sparrows, cardinals, and woodpeckers. The house finches were late to the party, but now show up in droves. I think the blue jays will show up once we get some peanuts. I wish I understood their behavior a little better though. Some days it's a mob scene out there, with every feeder full to capacity and a queue of hungry birds fluttering around the birches waiting for their turn. Other days, it is completely desolate. Today, for example, I have not seen a single bird. Where are they all hiding?
So I am feeling a little poopy. Watching the birds is one of the only things cheering me up these days. I got a bird feeding complex for Christmas, a big stand that hold three different types of feeders. There is the house-shaped one that holds black oil sunflower seeds, a cylindrical one that dispenses nyjer seeds, and then the peanut feeder. We couldn't find any unsalted shelled peanuts when we were buying birdseed, so got cracked corn instead. The corn is not very popular; we'll have to look elsewhere for the peanuts. We didn't get many visitors at first, with the unseasonably warm weather, just a few friendly chickadees. Once it got cold, other birds showed up.
It is so fun to look out the window and see a rainbow of species jostling for seeds. We regularly get gold finches, titmice, chickadees, nuthatches, chipping sparrows, cardinals, and woodpeckers. The house finches were late to the party, but now show up in droves. I think the blue jays will show up once we get some peanuts. I wish I understood their behavior a little better though. Some days it's a mob scene out there, with every feeder full to capacity and a queue of hungry birds fluttering around the birches waiting for their turn. Other days, it is completely desolate. Today, for example, I have not seen a single bird. Where are they all hiding?
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Basketball Confessions
I was going to jump right into a rant about how I hate day games, but I realized that would make little sense in the context of this space, for I have never outed myself as a basketball fan. So there it is: I am a fan of the Hometown University’s mens basketball team. SodaBoy and I transitioned from fair-weather fans to something a little more serious a number of years back when HU won the NCAA title. Before that we’d tuned in to a few games here and there, but when the team would start losing, we’d bail. The year of the National Championship they never started losing. It was hard to not get caught up in that excitement.
For me, it all started much longer ago than that. It goes back to spending time with my Dad as a kid. I grew up in a small town outside current hometown. Distance had more meaning when this area was first settled, and Childhood Village was a completely separate place, with its own little downtown. It was not originally a suburb of current Hometown, but the automobile changed things and the suburbs are spreading. During my lifetime it has always been an easy commute between CV and current hometown. Dad has been a season ticket holder to HU basketball games for maybe 25 years now.
He had two tickets, and would rotate through game day companions. It was always a big day for Sis or I when it was our turn to tag along. I remember parking in Tall Trees Cemetery right after the Thriller video came out. I’m not sure I would have admitted to the zombie fear, but there’s no denying I was hyper-vigilant on that particular nighttime walk through the graveyard. We never bought the overpriced venue food, but would often stop on the way home at a locally-famous hot dog stand in a neighboring town. The most exciting part of this was the spicy ginger beer we'd get along with our hot dogs. Soda itself was exciting enough in those days.
I recently had occasion to examine an old diary I kept in seventh grade. It was not one I considered “real,” because it was an assignment for school. Periodically the teacher would collect them, and then read and grade the journals. I think the grade was just a participation sort of thing; as long as we wrote something, it didn’t matter what we wrote. So in a struggle to find a topic I was willing to share with my teacher, I wrote about basketball. And pretty regularly, too: apparently I was watching all the games then. Something changed in high school. I don’t know if the team hit a slump, or if I didn’t want to hang out with Dad anymore. Maybe I just lost interest.
Throughout high school, and college, and even graduate school, I watched very little sports of any kind. I was a huge fan of the television series Northern Exposure in college. The syndicated reruns would come on weeknights at 11 pm, the perfect time to unwind after doing homework. There is a scene where Holling VinCoeur says to a very pregnant Shelly Tambo, “For people to judge a man's worth and his very manhood according to the way he feels about sport, and not to recognize it for the piddly, inconsequential goings on that it really is…” Yes, that’s right: inconsequential goings on. I just loved that. It was my answer for years whenever sports came up.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from watching big games when the team was playing well. In college, I watched the game where HU made it the Final Four, and loved the excitement when the team won and all my neighbors poured out into the street. It is the excitement that gets to me still. I love the energy of a live game, dressing in team colors, cheering the team on. I love the hometown traditions, the drunken rowdiness, the crowd screaming bullshit in unison at bad refereeing calls. I even love the wave. How cheesy is that?
One thing I do not like one bit: daytime games. I want to watch the game, but I hate turning on the television before sunset. It feels wrong somehow. It disrupts the natural flow of the day. In my mind, television is for evening hours. I don’t like matinees at the movies either. I always get all disoriented if I emerge from the theater and it is still light outside. Disoriented and cranky. I can’t fathom why games are scheduled during the day. It must be advantageous for someone. I wonder how the players feel about it.
OK, I better run along now... I don’t want to miss the game.
For me, it all started much longer ago than that. It goes back to spending time with my Dad as a kid. I grew up in a small town outside current hometown. Distance had more meaning when this area was first settled, and Childhood Village was a completely separate place, with its own little downtown. It was not originally a suburb of current Hometown, but the automobile changed things and the suburbs are spreading. During my lifetime it has always been an easy commute between CV and current hometown. Dad has been a season ticket holder to HU basketball games for maybe 25 years now.
He had two tickets, and would rotate through game day companions. It was always a big day for Sis or I when it was our turn to tag along. I remember parking in Tall Trees Cemetery right after the Thriller video came out. I’m not sure I would have admitted to the zombie fear, but there’s no denying I was hyper-vigilant on that particular nighttime walk through the graveyard. We never bought the overpriced venue food, but would often stop on the way home at a locally-famous hot dog stand in a neighboring town. The most exciting part of this was the spicy ginger beer we'd get along with our hot dogs. Soda itself was exciting enough in those days.
I recently had occasion to examine an old diary I kept in seventh grade. It was not one I considered “real,” because it was an assignment for school. Periodically the teacher would collect them, and then read and grade the journals. I think the grade was just a participation sort of thing; as long as we wrote something, it didn’t matter what we wrote. So in a struggle to find a topic I was willing to share with my teacher, I wrote about basketball. And pretty regularly, too: apparently I was watching all the games then. Something changed in high school. I don’t know if the team hit a slump, or if I didn’t want to hang out with Dad anymore. Maybe I just lost interest.
Throughout high school, and college, and even graduate school, I watched very little sports of any kind. I was a huge fan of the television series Northern Exposure in college. The syndicated reruns would come on weeknights at 11 pm, the perfect time to unwind after doing homework. There is a scene where Holling VinCoeur says to a very pregnant Shelly Tambo, “For people to judge a man's worth and his very manhood according to the way he feels about sport, and not to recognize it for the piddly, inconsequential goings on that it really is…” Yes, that’s right: inconsequential goings on. I just loved that. It was my answer for years whenever sports came up.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from watching big games when the team was playing well. In college, I watched the game where HU made it the Final Four, and loved the excitement when the team won and all my neighbors poured out into the street. It is the excitement that gets to me still. I love the energy of a live game, dressing in team colors, cheering the team on. I love the hometown traditions, the drunken rowdiness, the crowd screaming bullshit in unison at bad refereeing calls. I even love the wave. How cheesy is that?
One thing I do not like one bit: daytime games. I want to watch the game, but I hate turning on the television before sunset. It feels wrong somehow. It disrupts the natural flow of the day. In my mind, television is for evening hours. I don’t like matinees at the movies either. I always get all disoriented if I emerge from the theater and it is still light outside. Disoriented and cranky. I can’t fathom why games are scheduled during the day. It must be advantageous for someone. I wonder how the players feel about it.
OK, I better run along now... I don’t want to miss the game.
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