The entry for March, odds are.
By now you're probably thinking it takes a miracle for me to post on LJ, but that's not it at all. It only takes something marvelous for me to post on LJ. And lucky for you, just such a thing recently arrived in my inbox. My Russian friend from Goethe writes: "Rachel!!!! are you good at boys' physiology- ok, at American boys' physiology? I just feel so stupid!!! " My brain leapt immediately to psychology, which makes much more sense. After landing, however, it looked back and thought a moment. 'Wait, maybe she really meant physiology… what the hell is physiology?' Dictionary to the rescue: "a branch of biology that deals with the functions and activities of life or of living matter (as organs, tissues, or cells) and of the physical and chemical phenomena involved -- compare ANATOMY." It's that last "compare ANATOMY" that does it, of course, because a Russian teenager asking me for insight into the anatomy of the American male would be the single most misguided use of the internet I had ever witnessed. Though when you think about it, even the psychology angle is pretty damn bad.1
It turns out that my new job involves mostly 1) tons of printing, 2) lots of phone calls from vague, wrong, or irritated people, and 3) handling registrations for various training classes, which breaks down into 3a) making sure we only overbook to the proper degree, 3b) making sure we collect the fees from our students, and 3c) writing a shocking number of rejection letters. 3c) is mostly the result of our spreading the classes around the state, even though at least 25% of Georgia's population evidently lives within a 50-mile radius of Atlanta. So I wind up turning away from the metro-area classes about 500% of the number of students who ever enroll in the far-off classes - and this despite our making the metro classes larger in the first place. In other words, my stack of refunded applications for the Atlanta classes is at least as thick as my stack of accepted applications, and either one of those bunches is nearly as big as the accepted stack for all the other classes combined. I can't help but feel that this is not an efficient use of our (my) time.
Speaking of which, last Thursday and Friday we had a company retreat up at Stone Mountain. Much like the bridal shower (which of course you remember from the last entry; it's only been six weeks), that experience was not nearly so painful as I anticipated. There was only one moment when I felt truly that I would pay to be elsewhere, and oddly it was not when, first up in our game of company-themed Pictionary, I unfolded the paper slip and discovered I had to draw "perky."2 It was when we were split into groups and told to develop a performance around "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" (the whole retreat was spring-training themed). Not only do I loathe that sort of thing, but it also brought back the memories of my elementary school musical, Baseball Daze. I can still sing a couple of the songs, but oddly enough I have forgotten3 the number most closely associated with my personal role, that of a rapping umpire. Everything except the shame, clearly.
As far as team-building goes, I'd call it a success. The venue was also a winner, offering as it did free snacks at every turn and a very large, up-close view of the (abrupt, ugly) mountain. I can't be as enthusiastic about the central goal of long-range planning, not simply because I'm not personally committed to the company, but because there was no explanation of how we could possibly - dependent on our current staffing, resources, and the various laws of time and space - begin, much less carry out, any of the projects we discussed. Also: 9 uses of "think outside the box" on the first day. Because you know I was counting.
Back on the positive side, though, I finally walked up the mountain after almost a quarter-century living in Atlanta. Last time I had the opportunity, it was the Fourth of July in, maybe, 1992, and I refused to go up because it looked like it was going to storm. (I was terrified of thunder and lightning, and also fireworks, which leads me to ask what the hell I was doing at Stone Mountain on the damn Fourth of July, except that I know perfectly well I was crouching on a blanket, covering my eyes and ears, up until I ran to the car and hid behind that.) This time my only difficulty was not having any idea where the trailhead was; I added significantly to the experience by parking on the wrong face of the mountain entirely, when it turns out there's a lot right at the bottom of the trail. Honestly, though, I bet the warm-up/cool-down did me good.
The hike isn't hard, especially compared to freaking Maine, though the scenery leaves an enormous amount to be desired, and small children need to refrain from running up the mountain in front of me, although I doubt they'll listen to me if they won't listen to gravity. Luckily Thursday's rain had cooled things off, plus it was wildly windy towards the top. Coming down, I stopped with the family I'd been walking near to watch a huge black vulture-y bird struggle to land in one of the little groves of scrubby pines. His problem was that as long as his wings stayed even partially open, the wind kept him up like a kite, hovering several feet off the mountain. He had to steel himself to fold his wings and plummet more or less in the direction of a branch, but he managed it eventually. I on the other hand found the trip down much easier, even with the wind in my face.
Two weekends (?) before that, I flew out to Texas to see where Virginia lives. Answer: another very flat place. But this flat place (Corpus Christi) is different from the last (Robinson, IL), because it is chock-a-block with glossy black birds called grackles. Grackles were the first thing I saw upon exiting the terminal, and the last before leaving town; every lawn had its contingent, and in the evening they roosted in the trees in alarming numbers. I need not tell you that their beady eyes flash with a certain intelligence. Unable to find a collective noun for them, I narrowed the possibilities down to "an ominous of grackles" and "a looming of grackles".4 "An unsettling" or "a surveillance" would also be accurate.
Also flying about Corpus are large numbers of pelicans, which are terrifically unlovely birds. I guess I've never watched a pelican eat before, because the motion they use to toss fish from beak to gullet is memorably disgusting. It's hardly their fault, and it apparently works, but it's like watching a cat throw up in reverse. The mind recoils. Redeeming them, however, was a long black bird (a sea grackle, we both agreed) that didn't just dip for fish - it dove for them. It disappeared entirely under the water, only to surface ten seconds later and many feet away. Sea grackles can fly and swim, which bodes ill for me personally, but also ensures the act of ingestion takes place underwater so I don't have to watch.
Also also flying about Corpus are several squadrons (or whatever) of Navy-pilots-in-training, but that's Virginia's lookout. I just worry about the birds.
Hey, anybody want to see a picture of Butters?
Outstanding.
On a final note, I went shopping for wedding dresses Saturday (i.e., dresses to wear to others' weddings), and let me be perhaps the first to say: thank you, American obesity epidemic. Yes, I would like to see my fellow citizens consume less and exercise more, but for God's sake don't start without me: thanks to your sheer numbers, it is now profitable to make - and therefore possible to find - a plus-sized dress that is not a straight ankle-length shift with a little matching jacket.5 I have owned and worn so many of those (Easter '97, for instance, or NHS induction/graduation '00), and every single one felt like a sandwich board that said "Fat kid…" on the front, and "… or schoolteacher?" on the back. Suddenly it is possible to find larger versions of different styles (imagine!), right there in the mall, and I was so grateful I nearly enjoyed the experience.
True, when I came home my mom immediately told me the dress I bought is "too formal," and then offered to loan me one of her jack 'n' sacks, like I might have overlooked the genre by accident. At the time I was torn between mirth and rage, but when she came home from a shopping trip of her own today with five dresses for me to try on, four of them jack 'n' sacks and all of them different sizes, because she doesn't shop for me anymore and doesn't even know what size I am, I had to come down on the side of hilarity.6 Point taken, Mom. And no.
1. For the record, after sketching in the cultural context surrounding her particular dilemma, I concluded that boys are confusing and passed swiftly on.
2. I drew two naked women in profile - a compare/contrast sort of thing. My team got it almost immediately.
3. Or repressed the shit out of.
4. I'm positive it's okay to make a collective noun with a substantive adjective, and for that matter with an adjective no one has dared substantivize before.
5. To be known from now on as a jack 'n' sack.
6. On the other hand, dress #5 is a very flattering version of something I tried on yesterday and liked, only black instead of red. And just $19.99! No idea what I'll do with a dancing dress, but I might keep it anyway.
It turns out that my new job involves mostly 1) tons of printing, 2) lots of phone calls from vague, wrong, or irritated people, and 3) handling registrations for various training classes, which breaks down into 3a) making sure we only overbook to the proper degree, 3b) making sure we collect the fees from our students, and 3c) writing a shocking number of rejection letters. 3c) is mostly the result of our spreading the classes around the state, even though at least 25% of Georgia's population evidently lives within a 50-mile radius of Atlanta. So I wind up turning away from the metro-area classes about 500% of the number of students who ever enroll in the far-off classes - and this despite our making the metro classes larger in the first place. In other words, my stack of refunded applications for the Atlanta classes is at least as thick as my stack of accepted applications, and either one of those bunches is nearly as big as the accepted stack for all the other classes combined. I can't help but feel that this is not an efficient use of our (my) time.
Speaking of which, last Thursday and Friday we had a company retreat up at Stone Mountain. Much like the bridal shower (which of course you remember from the last entry; it's only been six weeks), that experience was not nearly so painful as I anticipated. There was only one moment when I felt truly that I would pay to be elsewhere, and oddly it was not when, first up in our game of company-themed Pictionary, I unfolded the paper slip and discovered I had to draw "perky."2 It was when we were split into groups and told to develop a performance around "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" (the whole retreat was spring-training themed). Not only do I loathe that sort of thing, but it also brought back the memories of my elementary school musical, Baseball Daze. I can still sing a couple of the songs, but oddly enough I have forgotten3 the number most closely associated with my personal role, that of a rapping umpire. Everything except the shame, clearly.
As far as team-building goes, I'd call it a success. The venue was also a winner, offering as it did free snacks at every turn and a very large, up-close view of the (abrupt, ugly) mountain. I can't be as enthusiastic about the central goal of long-range planning, not simply because I'm not personally committed to the company, but because there was no explanation of how we could possibly - dependent on our current staffing, resources, and the various laws of time and space - begin, much less carry out, any of the projects we discussed. Also: 9 uses of "think outside the box" on the first day. Because you know I was counting.
Back on the positive side, though, I finally walked up the mountain after almost a quarter-century living in Atlanta. Last time I had the opportunity, it was the Fourth of July in, maybe, 1992, and I refused to go up because it looked like it was going to storm. (I was terrified of thunder and lightning, and also fireworks, which leads me to ask what the hell I was doing at Stone Mountain on the damn Fourth of July, except that I know perfectly well I was crouching on a blanket, covering my eyes and ears, up until I ran to the car and hid behind that.) This time my only difficulty was not having any idea where the trailhead was; I added significantly to the experience by parking on the wrong face of the mountain entirely, when it turns out there's a lot right at the bottom of the trail. Honestly, though, I bet the warm-up/cool-down did me good.
The hike isn't hard, especially compared to freaking Maine, though the scenery leaves an enormous amount to be desired, and small children need to refrain from running up the mountain in front of me, although I doubt they'll listen to me if they won't listen to gravity. Luckily Thursday's rain had cooled things off, plus it was wildly windy towards the top. Coming down, I stopped with the family I'd been walking near to watch a huge black vulture-y bird struggle to land in one of the little groves of scrubby pines. His problem was that as long as his wings stayed even partially open, the wind kept him up like a kite, hovering several feet off the mountain. He had to steel himself to fold his wings and plummet more or less in the direction of a branch, but he managed it eventually. I on the other hand found the trip down much easier, even with the wind in my face.
Two weekends (?) before that, I flew out to Texas to see where Virginia lives. Answer: another very flat place. But this flat place (Corpus Christi) is different from the last (Robinson, IL), because it is chock-a-block with glossy black birds called grackles. Grackles were the first thing I saw upon exiting the terminal, and the last before leaving town; every lawn had its contingent, and in the evening they roosted in the trees in alarming numbers. I need not tell you that their beady eyes flash with a certain intelligence. Unable to find a collective noun for them, I narrowed the possibilities down to "an ominous of grackles" and "a looming of grackles".4 "An unsettling" or "a surveillance" would also be accurate.
Also flying about Corpus are large numbers of pelicans, which are terrifically unlovely birds. I guess I've never watched a pelican eat before, because the motion they use to toss fish from beak to gullet is memorably disgusting. It's hardly their fault, and it apparently works, but it's like watching a cat throw up in reverse. The mind recoils. Redeeming them, however, was a long black bird (a sea grackle, we both agreed) that didn't just dip for fish - it dove for them. It disappeared entirely under the water, only to surface ten seconds later and many feet away. Sea grackles can fly and swim, which bodes ill for me personally, but also ensures the act of ingestion takes place underwater so I don't have to watch.
Also also flying about Corpus are several squadrons (or whatever) of Navy-pilots-in-training, but that's Virginia's lookout. I just worry about the birds.
Hey, anybody want to see a picture of Butters?
Outstanding.
On a final note, I went shopping for wedding dresses Saturday (i.e., dresses to wear to others' weddings), and let me be perhaps the first to say: thank you, American obesity epidemic. Yes, I would like to see my fellow citizens consume less and exercise more, but for God's sake don't start without me: thanks to your sheer numbers, it is now profitable to make - and therefore possible to find - a plus-sized dress that is not a straight ankle-length shift with a little matching jacket.5 I have owned and worn so many of those (Easter '97, for instance, or NHS induction/graduation '00), and every single one felt like a sandwich board that said "Fat kid…" on the front, and "… or schoolteacher?" on the back. Suddenly it is possible to find larger versions of different styles (imagine!), right there in the mall, and I was so grateful I nearly enjoyed the experience.
True, when I came home my mom immediately told me the dress I bought is "too formal," and then offered to loan me one of her jack 'n' sacks, like I might have overlooked the genre by accident. At the time I was torn between mirth and rage, but when she came home from a shopping trip of her own today with five dresses for me to try on, four of them jack 'n' sacks and all of them different sizes, because she doesn't shop for me anymore and doesn't even know what size I am, I had to come down on the side of hilarity.6 Point taken, Mom. And no.
1. For the record, after sketching in the cultural context surrounding her particular dilemma, I concluded that boys are confusing and passed swiftly on.
2. I drew two naked women in profile - a compare/contrast sort of thing. My team got it almost immediately.
3. Or repressed the shit out of.
4. I'm positive it's okay to make a collective noun with a substantive adjective, and for that matter with an adjective no one has dared substantivize before.
5. To be known from now on as a jack 'n' sack.
6. On the other hand, dress #5 is a very flattering version of something I tried on yesterday and liked, only black instead of red. And just $19.99! No idea what I'll do with a dancing dress, but I might keep it anyway.