…I would always have a bag of pistachios in the cabinet. That’s an expensive nut, the pistachio. Though I do sort of wonder if their appeal would be diminished if I had access to them all the time, as opposed to once every four years which is how often I let myself splurge on them now.
I have done a few sprint triathlons. Five, to be exact. I’m not particularly good at them, but I’ve improved my time with every race. (I’m not going to share m results from my first event, but let’s just say I left plenty of room for improvement). The first two races I did with assorted family members. The three after that I’ve done with a friend who fell victim first to my extraordinary powers of persuasion, then to her own competitive nature.
My first few races were throwaways. Just a dipping of the toe. But the last two events I’ve done are significant in that it was in preparation for these races that I actually started to take the time to learn something about swimming, biking and running. I began to give consideration to things like form and technique and work-out schedules that increase in difficulty from week to week. I think the official term for this combination of mental and physical exercises is “training”. I’m far from mastering any of the three disciplines that make up a triathlon, but I’m at the point where I feel like I’m ready to really push myself.
Which brings me to the thing I just did. I signed up for my first Olympic-distance triathlon.
I blame my triathlon partner-in-crime for this. The race was her idea and like a lemming off a cliff, I am following. The event we selected is the Blue Lake triathlon. Prior to actually signing up, I must have visited the website and reviewed all of the race details on six different occasions. Imagine, then, my surprise when mere seconds after completing the online registration I received an instant message from my friend that said, “Hmmm, looks like we can’t use our iPods for this race”.
Let me be clear. I do NOT run without my music. If my iPod battery dies, I stop dead in my tracks. It doesn’t matter if I just got to the gym and have only been on the treadmill for 15 seconds. No music, no running. This is a non-negotiable aspect of my training. The moment I began even considering doing an Olympic Tri, I started a special playlist in iTunes. Panic-stricken, I immediately went back to the event website to confirm this cruel restriction. And there, in a paragraph not detected in any of my previous site visits, I saw it. This line, in particular, caught my eye: Disallowing headphones is not intended to be a punishment, but to keep you both safe and having all your mental faculties focused on the business at hand.
Let me assure you, without music to push me through the 6 mile run my mental faculties are going to be ALL OVER THE PLACE.
Since making this horrific realization, I have received several helpful suggestions. “Sing to yourself while you run!” “Listen to your playlist over and over and maybe it will become so ingrained in your brain that you’ll think you’re listening to it!” These are all nice ideas, but they are obviously geared toward someone who has only a minor dependency on music. I assure you my reliance is much, much more severe.
1.5 k swim; 40 k bike; 10 k run. That was supposed to be my incredible personal feat. But not anymore. Now I must dig deeper. Now I must find a way to embrace the scattered, frantic mess that is my mind’s song. I don’t think there’s a training plan for that.
And by “love”, I mean work. Because in theory, you should love what you do for a living, right?
At least a few times a year, I stumble across a job that I absolutely HAVE to get and a mini obsession is born. More times than not, the job involves beer. This latest time is no exception.
While scouring the job listings on Craigslist (an entirely different obsession that may or may not be discussed at another time) I found my dream job. Or the job I would hope to dream about if I slept in spurts long enough to sustain any kind of dream cycle. The title of the position: Assistant Brewer. The company: Walking Man Brewing.
One of the reasons I moved from San Francisco to Portland was to try to get involved in the North West’s craft brewing industry. I’ve been homebrewing for ten years and this seems like the perfect chance to get my foot in the door. I meet all of the job requirements listed, and the part-time schedule is perfect since it will give me time to continue my freelance work (meaning I can actually pay the bills, since the brewing job itself probably pays minimum wage). All signs point to this being absolutely perfect.
But here’s the thing about signs. My experience has been that when things start to look like they are going to fall into place, they most definitely blow up in your face.
Example: Two weeks after moving to Portland I applied for a job with Rogue Brewing. It was for a sales assistant position, but I’d be working above the brew pub and learning about the business. I had a phone interview. It went great. They said they were going to bring me in for an interview just to make sure the manager liked me. They said they’d call at the beginning of the following week to set it up. That Monday morning my Dad died. I flew to SF, where I stayed for two weeks, and by the time I got back the Rogue job was long gone, I was desperate for work/money, and I ended up taking a job as a project manager for a company that built websites for funeral homes. That job choice, along with growing debt (or more accurately, expanding standards of living) set me on a career path far, far away from the beer brewing business.
The moral of the story? Sometimes it can look like the stars are aligning in your favor, when really they are just huddling up and forming a plan to kick your ass.
I’m not one to give up, though. So I applied for this Assistant Brewer job as soon as I saw it. And up until the moment when my likely rejection notice arrives, my thoughts will be consumed by all things Walking Man. How long will it take me to drive to the brewery in Stevenson, WA? When the weather gets bad, will I need an all-wheel drive car? How will I look in their t-shirts? Will I be allowed to wear my SF Giants hat at work, or will I have to wear a hat from their brewery? Will I get to pour beer sometimes at the pub? (I do so love to pour beer). Will the head brewer try any of my home brew? Will that be embarrassing?
My questions could go on and on. And they probably will, because realistically, I’ll never hear from the brewery one way or another. If this were a job for an interactive agency I’d get a call back right away, but to the folks in the beer industry my profile doesn’t scream HIRE ME. It doesn’t matter though. I can’t stop myself from trying to get jobs like this one.
And someday, I will.
… I would buy sliced olives. Whole olives from a jar are great for many things, like martinis or for putting them on all of your fingers to make monster hands. But sometimes when I am making tuna salad, pasta salad, green bean salad, other dishes that end in “salad” I need sliced olives. And slicing them by hand is a bitch. Sliced olives cost more than whole olives even though machines do all the slicing and it can therefore be no where near as bitchy a process. Many people pay for convenience. And I would too; if I had a million dollars
Corned Beef. That was the last thing I ever talked to my dad about. It was St. Patrick’s Day, and I’d just moved up to Portland two and a half weeks before. I was making the standard St. Paddy’s day meal in my little NW apartment and rather than ask my mom or my cousin or anyone from the Irish side of my family, I thought it best to consult my Slovakian father. This made sense, you see, because my dad often took the lead in special occasions meals– Easter brunch, Christmas Eve dinner, birthday BBQs, etc. I don’t think he liked corned beef (or anything Irish for that matter, with the exception of his three part-Irish children and his part-Irish wife), but he sure did prepare it well. So I called and he walked me through the steps for cooking it and we got off the phone pretty quickly because he had the flu and needed to rest.
And that was it. Four days later I got a call from my mom at 7:30 a.m. saying paramedics were at the house because Dad wasn’t breathing. Several minutes after that, another call saying he was gone. That was six years ago.
In the week leading up to the anniversary of my Dad’s death I decided to read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, a book about how she handled life after her husband died of a sudden, massive heart attack. I probably could have picked a better time to read that book. There were other choices on my Kindle that I could have read. A few classics. The latest from John Irving. Some book about a dog. But I didn’t choose any of those. There’s probably a reason for that. Most of the time I think about all of the memories I have of my dad. But this time of year, more than any other, I think about all that he’s missed, and all the things I’ll never get to say to him.
I think a lot about everything that has happened in the past 6 years that he would have enjoyed, or found funny, or been proud of. He would have been impressed with my used car buying skills– with how I walked out of the dealership just like he taught me and made the salesman conduct the final negotiations from the parking lot, where I sat in my car with the motor running until he gave me the price I wanted. In my retelling of the story, I would have left out the part that revealed the only reason I was at the dealership was to be secret shopper for the ad agency I was working for, and that I hadn’t intended to buy a car but found myself caught up in the moment.
Of course there are other things that I don’t mind him not knowing. Like that 2 out of 3 of his kids have been unceremoniously dismissed from their jobs in the past couple of months, and that these same two remain more or less directionless as far as career aspirations go. He also would not likely be impressed by the condition of my lawn or the fact that I only let my chili simmer for ten minutes before serving it.
There are days when I find myself lost in overwhelming sadness when I think about him. I’d like to say that those moments occur with less frequency now, but I’m not sure that’s true. I have gotten better about forgetting that he is dead, which is good because it can be awkward to back out of a conversation with someone that initially indicates that my dad is alive and well and available for, say, dental advice. I just got a new phone, my 4th one since he died, and for the first time I didn’t program his cell number into the address book. See, I am making progress.
Oh, poor original wood door from 1927. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You deserved a painstaking refinish. After 84 years on this earth, you had earned a meticulous sanding and a loving, careful paint application. Instead, you got a half-ass rush job. But why?
Well, for starters it was the very last thing to be dealt with on a bathroom remodel that managed to take just over 1.5 years. 1.5 years is an awfully long time for any bathroom remodel, I would imagine. But a remodel on a room that takes up no more than 24 square feet, and a room that plays a very important daily role in one’s life in terms of functionality should, I’m thinking, be accomplished on a much more succinct time line. Again, I’m speculating here, as this was my first bathroom remodel. At any rate, whether typical or not, the project took 1.5 years so by the end it should come as no shock that I just wanted it to be done. Hasty decisions were made. Corners were cut. And the door came at the end of it all.
Actually, let me back up. The door initially came towards the end, but well in advance of some other finishing touches. But, like many aspects of the project, the door came with its fair share of issues. These issues were resolved over time (nothing several days, a pair of goggles and a tiny chisel couldn’t handle) but nonetheless pushed the finishing of the door to the very last thing that needed to be accomplished before the remodel could be considered complete. So I just threw paint on it. I was even too lazy to go 7 blocks down the street to the hardware store to get a roller so I took a scroungy brush that I had and haphazardly applied layer after uneven layer of paint to it until a large percentage of the dents, scratches, chips and other imperfections had been sufficiently masked. In effect, I gave it a cheap cover-up. Like I said, the door deserved better. But, I figured, the door lived through the Great Depression and therefore was no stranger to let downs, unfairness and general suckiness.
The real thing I’d like to discuss here is why the remodel took so long. I could spend time going through the last 1.5 years, talking about job changes, interior design indecision, financial short-falls. All of those were a factor, but they are not what perplexes me. What perplexes me is that it took 3 entire weeks after leaving my full-time job to finish up the last few rather simple tasks of the remodel. What was I doing with my days that I was not able to fit in mounting a piece of trim and painting a door? I have been working- both on existing client work and on securing new projects- but that takes up only 5-6 hours a day. I’d love to say that it’s because my new fitness regime is occupying a few hours each day, but that would be a straight lie. Where does the time go? Let’s see if we can find the answer to that by identifying places where the time does not go:
It just goes. The realization that time just slips away may be disconcerting for many people. It’s particularly so for me, as I spent several years earning a living as a project manager. I’ve been told I was even good at it. Clearly, I am no longer. Or at least not when it comes to my own life.
So a new goal is born: To find a way to manage my days or weeks; to sufficiently allocate time between the things I really want to do, the things I don’t physically want to do but really want the end result, and the things I just have to do whether I like them or not.
I think this is a good goal. I know it is a necessary goal. And if I manage to achieve it on some level, it should bring me closer to getting the things I want and need out of life.
Or at least bring me closer to embarking on a kitchen remodel that takes less than 7.25 years to complete.
Today I’m down in my dark, cold basement cleaning my office (or more specifically, identifying the source of an ant outbreak and windexing the crap out of the army making its way up the leg of my desk). There are SF Giants posters to hang on the wall, radio stations to be programmed into the stereo on the shelf behind me, adjustments to be made to the desk chair I’ve had since the 3rd grade; all things to make my workspace conducive to my latest endeavor: self-employment.
Self-employment. There’s a fine line between self-employment and unemployment. Or maybe there is no line at all. Maybe it’s just a matter of viewpoint. On optimistic days I’m self-employed. On pessimistic days (which I’m guessing are right around the corner), I am unemployed.
Today, is a good day. An optimistic day. Today is the day that, for better or worse, I start to take more control of my life.
The end is uncertain
And I’ve never been so afraid
But I don’t need a telescope
To see that there’s hope
And that makes me feel brave-Owl City
July 1st is the perfect time to begin something new. Half of the year is over, so even the most committed and focused people have long since lost their enthusiasm for the resolutions born on January 1. Looking back through the posts on this blog, I am reminded that my inner fire was squelched on January 5. Perhaps this is why of the five goals I laid out for the year, only one has been accomplished. As for the remaining goals, one is not now, nor was it ever, realistic. The other three I suppose are still possible but they seem pretty unlikely, plus, I am feeling distracted and unsettled so it seems like now would be a good time to start something new. Otherwise, I’m going to lose my freakin’ mind.
Idea
July to June
Objective
Keep a log of 4 different activities in my life for one year (July 1, 2010- June 30, 2011)
Trackables
Point
None
Well, maybe there’s a point. I either currently spend or would like to spend a lot of my time doing the four things listed above. These are things, I believe, that make me happy. So why not see how much I really get to do them in a given year? Seems like it could be a tool to give me some perspective on just what I am doing with this life of mine. And right now, perspective seems like a very good thing.
I’ll be keeping track of my totals on a separate blog. Because if there’s one thing the internet has taught me, it’s that you can never have too many half-ass, poorly designed, self-indulgent blogs floating around cyber space. If you want to follow along, you can view the results here, or access the site in the right sidebar at any time.
It’s been about a month since I’ve written on this blog. Looking back at the title of the last post- “System Overload”- I can say that the same feeling of being overwhelmed continues to dominate my little world.
There are ways in which I have settled down at my job. Parts of what I do feel comfortable. Other parts feel way over my head, but the sickly feeling that accompanies having no idea what I am doing is consistent enough that now it just feels like part of my daily routine- walk dog, drink coffee, break out in cold sweat while reviewing to-do list at work, go to gym, and so on. Almost everyday I find out that something new has been added to my plate. Or maybe these things were always on my plate, but just safely hiding under the “and other duties as assigned” clause of my job description.
There are definitely some awesome things about the new job. For example, I seem to come home with a new work-related t-shirt almost every week. Since t-shirts are my favorite thing in the world, this makes me very happy. G, however, is not as impressed with the amount of swag that has entered the house during my first month of employment. Surely she will change her mind when the compliments start rolling in on the company-issued metal lunch box that I generously gave to her, and pack her sandwich in every day.
Enough about my job. It’s the Saturday of a 3-day weekend, so who wants to think about work?
As of today, it is 2 weeks until my half marathon. The farthest distance I have run is 8 miles. That was 3 weeks ago. I’m not great with numbers, but I am pretty sure that means I am screwed. I know it sounds like I have totally messed this up, but only part of it is my fault. And the part at fault is my hamstrings. Ever since my 8 mile run, I’ve had problems with my hamstrings that have manifested themselves through pain in my lower back. This is probably due to one of two things. It could be the horrific running form that I have mentioned before. Or it could be because I am getting old. Both reasons make me mad so who really cares which one it is. G has been giving me stretching exercises and if I can get up to 10 miles before the race, I may try to pull out the whole distance. I’ll have to make sure I bring work home with me that weekend, as it’s unlikely I’ll be able to walk for a while after the race.
One form of exercise that does not give me pain is bike riding. This is great because once I get past this ill-fated half marathon thing, I think it will be fun to ride my bike a bit more. Or at least ride it in the great outdoors, as opposed to on a stand in my basement, which is where I usually ride. I had already been thinking it would be a good idea to get my bike out of the house, but my recent bit of good luck solidified this idea. G and I were at Hopworks (our home away from home) attending one of their Mug Club parties. Neither one of us even knew there was a raffle, until they started pulling names for prizes like t-shirts and 22oz bottled beer. Imagine how excited we were when I won the grand prize, which was a $500 gift certificate to Bike n Hike!
I think it would be cool to get a city/commuter bike, and start riding to my office in Clackamas. I’ve only spent a little time looking at their bikes online, but so far these two are looking pretty sweet:
All this typing about Hopworks has got me craving a Rise Up Red. Off I go…
I made it through two weeks at my new job and it’s safe to say my brain is officially fried. The good news is that I think I am really going to like this job. The potentially bad news is that everyone there is so excited about the company, and there is so much to do, that I could easily be putting in 12 hour days, 7 days a week if I don’t make a concentrated effort to maintain some kind of work-life balance.
Here’s a quick recap of some of the work-related things that have happened in my first two weeks:
All in all, it was a pretty successful couple of weeks. I just need to get past the extreme stress and fatigue that seem to accompany the start of all new jobs. I need my energy so I can get outside and increase my distance running. The half marathon is fast approaching, and at the rate I am going now, I am going to be one sad camper during miles 7-13.