Annoying things about Halloween '06

1. The girl who came back to my door three times, I kid you not. And she didn't even change costumes.

Me: You're back?
Her: Yeah!
Me: For seconds?
Her: Yeah!
Me: . . . . .

I gave her more candy. I didn't know what else to do. This is why I'm not a parent.

2. The painful realization -- painful to me, at least -- that Joe is afraid of going outside. And the doorbell. And children. I have never seen Joe scared of anything ... except this ... and I've got the battle wounds as a souvenir.

3. Feeling old. I saw this little chica dressed in '80s garb: legwarmers, neon striped shirt, punk rock black gloves, pink streaks in her curled-up hair. Black eyeliner and bright pink lipstick. I remember when that was actually cool. Now it's a costume. It's karma. I never should've dressed up in my '50s poodle skirt or '60s hippie garb, then gone around and flaunted it in front of people who actually remembered the '50s and '60s.

... But yeah, that girl who wanted three pieces of candy, that's pretty annoying.

Don't drink the alcohol. No, really.

Been meaning to show you guys this pic for a while. The restaurant was dim and the only camera I had was my cameraphone, so if you can't make it out, the sign reads "Denatured Alcohol: Free Testing Service." Funnyfunnyhaha.

So tomorrow is Halloween, and I'm still not quite sure what I'm going to be. I'll figure it out in the morning and take a picture of myself. ^_^

And now I am off to make dinner. Minestrone with soy sausage and some spinach tortellini. Also, I'm talking to Carrie in the first time in, like, forever.

Hey, what are you guys going to be for Halloween? I need suggestions.

Aww, man(atee)

If you've read or watched the national news in the past three or four days, you've probably seen one of two Memphis stories: The almost-nasty Senate race between Bob Corker and Harold Ford Jr. OR the very lost manatee that swam 750 miles up the Mississippi from the Gulf to Memphis.

I feel sorry for the manatee. I mean, I can only imagine how he must feel: cold, sick, separated from his herd and all alone. But when one TV station on Tuesday reported manatees are notoriously hard to catch (or, as the story says, "noriously hard to catch"), I had this sinking feeling Mr. Manatee wouldn't be sticking around.

And sure enough, he's given the slip to Memphis and SeaWorld rescuers. I hope he's okay.

One TV weatherman/punster called him the Invisible Manatee. Har har.

Also, our marine friend has been nicknamed "Hugh" -- You know, Hugh Manatee? :D Not that it's a new joke; in fact, somebody's already written a song called "Hugh the Manatee."

More bank shenanigans

Let's analyze a letter I got from the bank today:

We have been advised by VISA that a retail merchant has inappropriately stored magnetic strip data on certain credit and debit cards. One of those cards is your SMARTY Debit card ending in (my last four digits).

Yes, it's really called the Smarty card. It's a teachers' credit union, and Smarty the Owl is their mascot. My debit card has a big Smarty on it, and more than once I've had cashiers ask me, "So, you're a real smarty, huh?" Clever. I've never heard that before.

No fraud has taken place on your card.

To make the sentence super-believable, we put it in bold.

The only information that could possibly be compromised appears to be your name and card number. No compromise of your personal information such as address, social security number or birth date has taken place.

Phew -- they only stole my card number. For a moment there, I was afraid they'd found out my birthday, too.

This is not a high risk compromise, but the potential for compromise is present. In this situation, we close the card for your protection and reissue you a new card. We do not know the name of the merchant in this case.

And that's a good thing too. This is the -- hmm, is it the third or fourth? -- time in the last couple of years in which my debit card has been "potentially compromised" and I've been issued a new one. Last year, I nearly blew a gasket. Frankly, if I knew the name of the merchant in this case, I'd have a few choice words for them ... probably starting with a great big What the hell?!

Smarty, you're such a card! As I said in my post last year, if I wasn't so lazy, I'd look for another bank. They're benefitting from my complete lack of motivation.

PARTAY!

Johanna and I are bee-yoo-ta-ful!

Clear your minds and visualize your Happy Place

I have post-vacation syndrome.

When I was a kid, Mom comforted me on the first day back to school each year by reminding me, "After you've been in there a couple of hours, it'll be like you never left." And she was right: That knot in the pit of my stomach went away in no time after I caught up with old friends and met new teachers.

So what's the difference between going back to school after summer vacation and going back to work after a week in Florida? Well, everything. On the first day back at school, I remembered why classes flew by -- I was having so much fun! On the first day back at work, I remembered why 10-hour days fly by -- I've got a lot to do. And it just doesn't end. But that's not a bad thing. I'm never bored and there's plenty of mentally stimulating stuff to do.

Still ... the ocean ... she calls to me ...

It's finally getting cold(er) outside -- my thermo-sensor-matic is registering at a pleasant 47F. Thought it was kind of funny how the Floridians were walking around in jackets when it dropped to about 65F. I laughed at them. Ha, ha, silly beachy folk! You wouldn't know cold if it walked up to you wearing a nametag that read "Hi! My name is Cold!" Then I came home and, whaddya know, people here are wearing jackets too.

Here's the dealio. On my way out of the office today, I was struck by a gut-wrenching thought: This is your last winter in Memphis. Gulp. The last one? For real? I'm entering the Season of Lasts -- my last quick-but-beautiful autumn, my last Christmas, my last almost-snowfall, my last sneezy spring, my last Memphis in May barbecue cooking contest, et cetera ad nauseum.

I didn't realize the prospect of leaving would hit me so suddenly ... and hard. Huge questions loom. When will we leave? Where will we go? What will I do?

Okay, time for an Internet pool. You guys predict my life in about a year, and whoever's the most accurate wins something nifty. Maybe i'll hijack the Conoco sign and replace Kevin's name with your own.

Check out the gas prices

In unrelated news, YAY KEVIN!

Back to the grind

Vacation's over. Why is that always so hard to say? There just wasn't enough time. I'd wanted to drive down to see Carrie (it would've been an additional six hours each way), and I wanted to walk on the beach a couple more days.

Paul and I shared the condo with my parents and grandmother, and it was nice to spend some time with them. This is the second October our family has vacationed in Destin. Does that make it a tradition yet? I want it to be. It's something to look forward to.

Saturday morning, we realized we didn't have a picture of all of us together. So we crowded around the camera as Paul held it at arm's length. Cute, huh?

Of course I didn't want to come home, but I missed my girls. It's been good to see them and hug them. (I'm sure they've enjoyed begging treats off of us again, too.)

Hurm. I guess I'd better eat breakfast and get ready for work. It's cold and rainy, and I'm not looking forward to contending with traffic. At least I've got several hundred sunny beach photos to keep me company. :)

The view from here

Sunsets and dolphins and crabs and lots of sand. Tomorrow: USS Alabama and the National Museum of Naval Aviation.

Meet Delilah, Princess and Lili:

Facing the firing squad

I wake up at 5:45 a.m. to the sound of Paul coughing. He's sick -- perfect timing, the day before we leave for vacation. Eh, might as well get out of bed, I tell myself. No sense just laying here next to the Great Germ Factory.

So I wander to the den, plop my butt on the couch and wearily turn on the TV. It's cold. I'm longing to be back under the covers. The DVR whirs into action: first the audio, then the picture ...

... and then I see it. Fire. A block from my office. The oldest church in Memphis is burning, and the embers apparently -- so the anchors say, at least -- have traveled four blocks and ignited a $45 million, three-building rehab project to bring condos and retail to a thriving Downtown area.

The nausea washes over me. This hits too close to home. I run and wake up Paul. "Hon, I know you don't feel good, but I need you to see something." And, for what seems like hours, we gaze at the TV footage. It's sickening. The national news picks it up.

"If you work Downtown, call ahead and make sure your office is open," one local station advises. "I wouldn't even bother coming Downtown," another says. And then my boss calls. I let the voicemail pick up. Be at work at normal time, she says, sleepily. I guess the news waits for no one, I tell myself.

Paul goes back to bed, too sick to go into work. I get ready and leave the house, stomach in knots. Then I turn around and go back for my inhaler and nebulizer -- want to err on the safe side in case the smoke bothers my lungs. Stupid asthma. Stupid fire. Stupid smoke. But the drive in is easy, and parking's not a problem. My office building is the last before the police/fire barricade.

The building smells like smoke. I pull my inhaler out of my bag -- must be new, since it's still in the box, I think. But the box is empty. I picked up the wrong one. Now I'm 20 miles from home, in a smoky building, and without an inhaler. I order an emergency refill.

An hour passes. I wander from The Closet to a window and watch the smoke rising from the ashes. I question whether its possible for an ember to travel four blocks. Then I grab my keys and head for the pharmacy. Breathing is underrated.

A police car is blocking traffic down the street -- further away from the fire -- so I roll down my window and flag down the policewoman, who's talking to another driver. "If I leave my office, can I get back down here?" She shakes her head slowly. "No guarantees," she says with a thick drawl. Fantastic. I need my medicine, but I might not be able to get back to work. It's a risk I'm willing to take. So I'm not surprised when I return from the pharmacy and see her blocking off the street. I pull the car into a cobblestoned alley and bypass her police car. I'm sure she can write me a ticket, but why bother?

Hours pass; I can't shake the nausea. I was just there yesterday, walking to lunch. I swallow hard. Looking through a window isn't helping. I need to see it in person -- to satisfy my curiosity and put my mind at ease.

So I talk Rosalind into shooting photos. We hike to Court Square. We slowly make our way toward the now-demolished church (shown in the above picture). I hold the camera bag while Ros snaps away. The steeple is gone, the belltower scorched. A half-dozen photographers gather at the edge of the barricade. I sit on a curb to decompress. An elderly lady hobbles over and sits next to me.

"That was my church," she says, distraught. Many members of the 185-year-old congregation are huddled near the building, waiting on the arrival of the bishop from out of town. I point to a window, the only one not blown out by the heat or water pressure (in the photo, it's on the left side of the church). "That was stained glass," she tells me. "It was -- they all were -- beautiful." I look at the brownish fused glass and try to picture Christ in beautiful shades of red and blue. I can't see it.

And after a while, her white-haired husband is helping her stand up. It's time to leave. It's over.

A historian on the radio muses about the fires. It's ironic, she says. The oldest building in Memphis has ignited the second oldest building. The only 19th century structures Downtown are total losses. Already, one architect is giving the Phoenix Rising speech. I can't decide if it's crass or comforting.

And now I'm home, packing for Florida. It's been a long day. Paul's still sick, still coughing. I need to be awake in five and a half hours so I can drive. And yet I can't shake the image of that old woman, voice waivering, speaking of the church as if it were her child.

The TV news loops the footage of the fires. Incredibly, no one is injured, they say. At least not physically, I think. I know a lot of people are hurting tonight, and now I've had a first-hand glimpse why.

... In bed

I've been spending the week playing SQL Goddess in preparation for going on vacation. (Okay, might as well spill the beans: I'm going to Florida next week. Brother-in-law will be housesitting, so please don't go steal my root beer.)

Being SQL Goddess forces me to use the SMARTY McSMARTYPANTS side of my brain, which kind of hurts after a while. So I'm taking a break.

And there's no time like the present to share the latest batch of fortune cookie fortunes I've collected:

• Your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded.
• Keep an eye out for someone special.
• Your path may be difficult, but will be rewarding.
• You cannot put the same shoe on every foot. Try amending your plan.
• Use your natural talents to obtain more.
• You will receive unexpected support over the next week. Accept it graciously.
• Pain is not a bad thing; it is simply something one attempts to avoid.
• Life is a series of choices. Today yours are good ones.
• You have so much to be thankful for.
• Good things are being said about you.
• You have sound business sense.

/end fortune cookie goodness

YOU CANNOT PUT THE SAME SHOE ON EVERY FOOT, okay, buddy? And if the shoe doesn't fit, you must acquit. Or buy a shoehorn. That works too.

So much packing to do -- and so much pre-trip excitement. But first: data. Lots of it. Right now. Back to work.

... I lubs you guys. Have I told you that lately?

Goodbye Boots

Boots died this morning. I'm devastated.

I remember crying so hard when Johanna's dog died a few months ago, because all those feelings, everything she said ... well, it's what I would've said if I'd been writing it. And now it's me.

It was never supposed to be me.

I knew today was going to be the day. Last night, I dreamed Boots was here -- the house where he grew into the obnoxious, stinky loudmouth who could charm his way out of anything -- playing with Fred and Joe. I'd like to think it was his way of telling me he's okay.

This afternoon, my parents buried him with his favorite toy, a collectible bear he stole from me and carried around on a shoelace like a dead mouse. Fondly known as the "mouse-bear." He went crazy if he lost it.

Oh, I hope his sister, my older cat, is going to be okay. She's always been more like a mom to him, much the same way Fred babies Joe.

Enough babbling. I'm going to go love on my girls ... who are also obnoxious, loud, stinky, and charming. They've got big pawprints to fill, but they seem to be on the right track.

RIP Boots 1989-2006