Monthly Archives: October 2004

Sadly like a Law & Order episode

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I had this freaky dream the other night that made me think I’m starting to get clucky. (I realise this is a self-fulfilling whatsit, because I sort of want to start getting clucky, so I probably made it happen, but still. I like it when my subconsious turns out to be going along with my conscious. And yet. Oh, just read on.) It was fairly freaky though (the more so now I think back and try to remember it), and very vivid.

I had a baby, in this dream. A girl, I think, and I was so happy and got this warm glowy feeling when I held her, and she was all happy and smiley and sweet. She talked to me, too, even though she was only a little baby. But evidently I hadn’t had her long and I didn’t really know much about babies. To wit, we went on a drive and put the baby in the boot of the car for safekeeping. (I’m not sure who “we” was. My mother might have been there. Which really indicates how silly this dream was, because my mother knows about babies. At least, she had me, and she’s always tutting because some baby in a buggy as we pass is too hot or too cold or has the sun in its face and the mother isn’t realising. So I don’t think she’d let me do that to my baby.) At some stage I decided I should feed her, and I took out my boob and tried, but I don’t think she wanted it or something. Anyway, it all devolved sadly like a Law & Order episode and my baby died because I hadn’t fed her because I didn’t realise she was hungry. Or something like that. It was a bit confusing, to be honest.

So I woke up feeling guilty but also suffused with all this fuzzy glowy love for my baby.

Heh. This reminds me that my ex-flatmate had a dream once where I had a baby and I gave it to him to hold and he dropped it on the ground and the head shattered into a million pieces. And he thought “Fuck. I’ve killed her baby. She’s going to be livid.” This was hilarious, but maybe it’s all in the telling.

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If shopping distresses you, don’t read this

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Three words. Burlington. Coat. Factory. Why did nobody tell me about it before? I’ve seen the ads, and I know they say they have more than coats, but I always assumed it was, you know, some suits and jackets as well or something. Anyway, I’d only ever seen these establishments way out near outlet malls when I was busy with more important things like outlet Gap or Old Navy, but since I now pass one on the way to and from work every day, I thought I could easily spare ten minutes one day to pop in and check it out. So yesterday, having got off work early in return for dropping into a reception for just long enough to be seen by the relevant higher-ups, I did.

Truly, a wonderland. A cavern of delights. A revelation that so many things could be brought together under the all-encompassing banner of Coats. Directly inside the door were rows of watches. What have I needed for several weeks? Exactly that. Okay, so none of them were just what I wanted, but still. Watches! In the Coat Factory! Cheap!

The next thrill was the tempting “holiday gifts” area full of pretty hatboxes and photo albums and coordinating useful things. Really, if air transport wasn’t an issue, everyone would be getting a pretty hatbox (or three! they fit inside one another!) for Christmas. As it is, I don’t think I want to use the hand-luggage allowance for large, gift-wrapped, empty boxes in awkward shapes. But still. And photo albums too – I need one for the wedding photos. Of course, I’m particularly picky about what that should look like, and none of these quite fit the bill. But still.

And then, rows and rows of hats. And scarves and gloves. (In southmost Texas, where it’s still over 90F at the end of October. Who the heck buys these?) And bags. Lots of bags. Oooh, fake Louis Vuiton, how I love thee. Or I would, if I was a person who liked that stuff. (No offence. I wouldn’t particularly want real Louis Vuiton luggage either, except maybe if it’s really well made and durable and it was free or something.) But bags make great presents, I think, because they’re the sort of thing you can use more of, and you’d like several of, but you don’t actually need any more than the basic, say, two. One large, one small, both black. Maybe one dressy. And one red or tan or something. Hmm. Come to think of it, I can nearly always justify a new bag. But I’d be happy if someone gave me one for Christmas, if it was cute and a bit unusual, and the right colour, and not obviously fake-designer.
So, score.

I turned left, towards the heart of the store. I had to slash my way through the undergrowth of admittedly fairly nasty clothes, past some cords that might have been nice there for a moment, but weren’t, down by the banks of underwear (underwear! in the coat factory!), alongside the towels and the shower fixtures (what? this is getting ridiculous), and I emerged, victorious, to find the holy grail that hadn’t even occurred to me in my overstimulated state – shooooooes. And boooooots.

I surveyed the aisles of footwear regretting all that time I’d spent at Payless when there was a place like this just down the road. Gingerly, I picked my way along the rows, trying not to look too hard at anything lest I found I had to have it. This was just a reconnaissance mission, you understand. There were some lovely tall brown boots, but I don’t need brown boots, and I definitely don’t need tall boots in Texas, and anyway I just bought boots last week. And there were some nice pointy shoes, but the heel was too high to be at all practical for everyday wear. (I do try to be practical. I just fail sometimes.) And there were some very nice Timberland runners, but I have two pairs of runners that are still quite respectable. If they’d been ten dollars cheaper I’d seriously have considered trying them on. I made a mental note and moved on.

And there, near the back of the cavern, just before all the Baby Depot stuff, I reached Mecca. The coats. Dizzy with shoes, I’d practically forgotten that there would be coats in this coat factory too. Rows and rows of ski jackets and raincoats and windbreakers and parkas and anoraks and fleeces and puffy jackets and puffy full-length coats and car coats and pants coats and fur coats and fake-fur coats and suede coats and sheepskin coats and leather coats…I staggered a little under the weight of the responsibility: I had to look at all these coats and not buy one, or even want to buy one.
So, as it turned out, that wasn’t so hard. There was a really nice short red wool coat, but the arms were too long and I reckoned I would need a petite, which wasn’t there. And it was $70, which while excellent value for a lovely red winter coat, is not so cheap for a coat I don’t need because I live in Texas and I have a long grey coat sitting at home for use at Christmas. But if it were to be on sale and available in the petite…well. There might have to be some relogicizing done.

Mental notes all in present and correct, I headed for the hills before my resolve broke. I’d seen enough. Everyone may be getting presents from the coat factory this year. Then again, maybe not. It’s a veritable Aladdin’s Cave of almost really quite nice stuff, at almost great prices, that I almost might want some of, some day. But if you see any nice dark-red coats, let me know.

Good Texas. Niiice Texas.

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Texas is a long way from anywhere, and it’s roasting hot and there’s no discernable downtown, but I suppose it has a couple of things going for it.

For instance, at home I went through a couple of phases of going swimming after work once or twice a week. To do this, I’d get on my bike at 5.30, ride to Rathmines in whatever raining or wind or pleasantness the weather was throwing at me, and go to the not-very-nice public swimming pool. Paid my 1.80 (very reasonable), changed in the somewhat basic changing rooms, put my stuff in a basket, taking care to cover up keys and purse with a nice topping of beach towel, and handed the basket to the attendant, who’d give me a rubber band for my wrist or ankle indicating how long I could swim for. If it was summer (and it was more likely to be, because that was why I wanted to get a bit fit – for “fit”, read “thinner”) the pool was invariably filled with screaming schoolkids and teenaged foreign students, shrieking and pushing each other in until the lifeguard yelled at them. I’d swim lengths, but not in the cordoned-off lanes, generally, because that was where the serious swimmers were, who did the crawl and would plough into a slow-moving breast-stroker like me. The last few meters in the shallow end involved a lot of ducking and weaving every time to avoid all the kids and families and loitering teens. (Yes, teens can loiter in a swimming pool. They can loiter anywhere.) The water was slightly chilly, and probably had more than a tinge of urine. Anyway, after 20 lengths I’d feel very virtuous and pull myself out, conscious of everyone watching my retreating ass as I went back through the sheep-dip thingy for my basket. (Maybe they were. They probably weren’t. But I always watched everyone else, so I expect they were.)

A quick shower and back to the privacy-free changing rooms, and the regular comment to self about how much harder it is to put on a bra when you’re damp. And wishing I’d brought a pair of tracksuit bottoms so I didn’t have to put all my work clothes back on again. And taking my towel-dried hair and mascara-run face (oops) back out into the chilly Dublin May, to find an irate man to whose bike I’d accidentally locked mine about to call the police to bring a hacksaw and chop it up. (Okay, that only happened once, and they’d probably have chopped my lock rather than the bike. But I was very careful after that to check the lock from all angles, like a magician proving that there are no strings holding up the floating box with the lady inside.) Finally the tough haul up the hill (not steep, but long) home to the flat. Even if it was raining at this stage I probably wouldn’t bother with the waterproofs, because I was damp already.

In contrast, there’s here. Here, I get home, hang out on the sofa (mmmm, new sofa) a bit, see what Rachel Ray’s up to, and think I’ll go for a swim. I put on my togs in the comfort of my own bedroom, throw a t-shirt and a pair of shorts over them, and pad over to the pool in flip-flops, with a towel and possibly a book under my arm. Forty seconds later, I’m opening the gate to the pool area. There’s nobody else there, because it’s a weekday in October, and that means pool season is over for Texans, apparently. I swim as many lengths as I want, with nobody to get in the way. Then I sit on a sun lounger if there’s still some warmth in the air (as there often is, because it’s southmost Texas after all) and dry off a bit and read some before knotting the towel round my waist, putting the t-shirt back on (some semblance of modesty, please) and heading home to shower and dress in the comfort of my very own home.

Okay so I haven’t been to a bar since we left Pennsylvania, so there’s nothing here I’d consider to be a normal restaurant, so it’s too damn hot outside and too feckin’ cold inside. But the swimming is good.

Actually, a twofer

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It is perhaps the case that I need to write for a while just to get into it. Then I should scrap the first two paragraphs (at least) and go with the rest, by which time I’ve actually arrived at a decent theme for myself. It is also perhaps the case that I should excise the word “actually” from my vocabulary. At least for the time being.

This is pretty much the opposite of my tactic when I need to write a specific piece – a memo or a document or something concrete and work-related. Then, my introduction is always crappy. So I forget the polite introductory stuff for the moment and start straight in at the second paragraph, getting down to exactly what it is I wanted to say (or ask, or describe or whatever). Then, when I can see what I’m saying, it’s much easier to craft the right introduction as a final step.

I’m quite proud of my work memos – I like to think they’re models of diplomacy, cunningly crafted to attain the result I want while making the recipient feel like I’m going out of my way to help them. (My ex-boss once said as much. In that department I think we all enjoyed a little well-written subtle emotional blackmail. For the good of the group, you understand.)

In that vein, I wrote a masterpiece of subtlety today, trying to get my clutches into some work I have an eye on. It did at least get a response, which was the most basic aim since the recipient had been ignoring previous more workmanlike missives, but I didn’t win the war. I hate getting brusque e-mails. I hate people who don’t address me but just start straight into it (unless they’re good friends or it’s part of an ongoing exchange). I really hate people who don’t sign off at all, and just let their signature line (or the From field, for goodness sake) do the talking. Bah. These people, they have no finesse, no ettiquette. She didn’t even bother to Reply All, so I had to forward her reply to my boss, who I’d copied on the original so he could admire my skill and dexterity in handling these delicate matters. (I fear it’ll be lost on him. Not so much with the finesse himself, electronically.)

What I did in my summer holidays

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I was reading back yesterday over my old entries (and for someone who never updates, I almost have a respectable number) and I decided that, in the interests of any unknown readers I may one day have, I should actually provide a little up-to-date information.

So, we got married in July. We did not have a rehearsal dinner (unless you count the four of us – bride, groom, best man, bridesmaid – going for something to eat after the rehearsal; but nothing big and official and paid for by in-laws). I spent the evening before my wedding accompanying my Dad to pick up relations from various points of arrival, and then helping entertain said guests because they all felt they couldn’t go to their allotted B&Bs until the last one, who was on standby from London, finally showed up. Around midnight, I think, Bridesmaid and I pled girly obligations and went to do our fake tan and stuff, and everyone took the hint and sodded off, much to my parents’ relief. I slept lightly and was awake by about 6am, doing pilates on my bed and thinking I should really get some more sleep.

Anyway, the wedding was fab and I won’t go into details. Everything went smoothly and even when the priest decided at the last minute that he’d love to come to dinner, that was easily dealt with at the hotel by the wonderful staff, who treated us like royalty. Our photographer was such a lovely man and such a nice addition to the day that I wouldn’t have cared (much) if all the photos came out duds. (They didn’t, though.) Dinner was yummy, there was lots of dancing, and everyone said I was beautiful. There’s something about your wedding day that allows you to just take compliments that would otherwise feel ridiculous and accept them graciously as your right, just for that day.

It all went far too quickly, but I was perfectly sober all night and thus remember as much as I possibly could. We ended up in the residents’ bar at 3am – just because we could – eating chicken sandwiches and finally taking my shoes off. (My shoes were great too. Pretty, and not at all uncomfortable.)
See, it was all lovely.

Anyway, after a bit of a honeymoon at home we went back to Pennsylvania, and two weeks later moved to Texas. We never managed to have the big moving-out party we’d been promising to have, but we did get rid of all the furniture and pack everything and manage to leave an empty and somewhat clean house behind us (not counting the basement, which wasn’t part of the deal; and hey, we took away the ping-pong table). We forgot the bike, though, so it’s still sitting down there.

So now we’re Texans. We have the licence plate and the drivers’ licences to prove it. We (nearly) have health insurance. We have a bank account and jobs and a beautiful new sofa and lots of lovely (and not so lovely) wedding presents on both sides of the Atlantic. We have our tickets to go home for Christmas too, when we can bring some of the several Waterford Crystal vases back to the shop and get something we actually like.

And that pretty much brings you up to date.

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High efficiency

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I just wanted to mention that if I’m only going to have half a day’s worth of work to do in this here new job, I wish they’d let me make it be the second half. Getting up at 6.30am is not happy-making to me. Anything with a 6 in it will always just feel far too much like special-occasion, going-to-the-airport early, not weekday normal early. And anyway, since I regard the first hour as time when they can make me sit here but I’m damned if I’m going to do anything more useful than read the news and putter around some web sites – because it’s just wrong to start work at 8 – it would all be so much more efficient if I could come in at, say, 10am, and leave around 4. I’d do the same amount of work and not spend all this ridiculous time faffing around feeling guilty. Of course, they’d have to pay me the same. Or more, because think of the resources I’m saving them, like lighting for my desk and electricity for my computer.

I thought this new job was supposed to keep me busy. I thought they had 65 manuals just sitting around waiting to me written. But they feed them to me in dribbles instead, and I can’t even claim any more (pathetic as it was) that I may be surfing for muffin recipies, but I’m also doing valuable phone-manning duty.

I’m too efficient, clearly. I need to take over the world, or something.