Tony Blair on The Daily Show

Did you click on the title of this post? I sure hope so. Otherwise this entry will make no sense. It's a link to the second half of Tony Blair on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

Some facts to be aware of:

1. I am a Liberal Democrat.


2. When hearing George W. Bush speak, I often become embarrassed to be American.


3. I throw all of my support behind Barack Obama.


4. I've had dreams about being... more than friends with Jon Stewart. 

But listening to Tony Blair--former Prime Minister of England--speak about his relationship with W. and his reasons for going to war in Iraq, I get concerned. And not for the reasons you may think.

I want to trust my president. I want to believe that he is the best qualified individual for the job. I want to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he will act with the best interests of the country in mind. And I want to feel like we, as the American people, are all in this together.

When Tony Blair speaks about the insanely controversial topics listed in this video... I feel that. I trust that he knows more than me about these subjects. I believe he's making well-informed decisions. I know he's not only thinking of himself, but of the good of his country. And I start to think about how quickly I can renounce my citizenship and try to retain a British Visa.

This is the oppressive regime we broke away from over 200 years ago? Is it too late to say we're sorry?

What makes me concerned when I watch this video is that the policies Tony Blair outlines here are entirely in line with the Bush doctrine--a doctrine that I've come to know as the Guidebook for How to Make a Once-Great Nation Fall into an Irrevocable State of Disrepair.

So why is it that I can listen to Tony Blair and a.) not cringe nor b.) vehemently disagree?

My fear is that something is very wrong with our country--and it's bigger than the letter W. 

What good is democracy if our elections aren't about issues but popularity? If our political leanings don't have anything to do with individual thought and everything to do with mob mentalities? And if the leader of the free world (and the guy he's hired to take care of the money) don't have to be accountable anyone? 

Democracy. Ha. More like traveshamockery.

Red Light Rendezvous

I ran my first red light yesterday.

Well, OK. Not my first. But this was the first time I ran a red light and a camera flashed in my face.

Twice.

I was on my way to the gym, and normally, I'm not speeding to get there. But at the particular intersection I bolted through, if you get stuck, it feels like an eternity before you get a green light again. You try doing nothing for 3 minutes. It's hard. So, it's not that I was in a hurry so much as I was fighting against boredom.

In any case, I ran the damn light and felt incredibly guilty immediately afterward.

I skulked into the gym--confessing to the man behind the counter what I'd just done.

"Hi there," he said.
"Hi," I answered, handing over my card to get scanned.
"How are you doing tonight?" he asked, clearly just looking for small talk.
I erupt.
"Not great, actually. I just ran a red light. And I'm sure they took my picture. And I'm about 10 days away from having the accident I got into two years ago removed from my record--only I've messed it all up because of that stupid intersection about 2 blocks down."
"Oh, bummer," he replies.
"It is a bummer," I say.
He hands my card back.
"Well, have a nice workout," he smiles, obviously not wanting to engage me further.

Can you blame him?

So I do my little hour on the treadmill. There are signs posted everywhere that say the maximum time on cardiovascular machines is 30 minutes. But no one was waiting. And since I'd already broken the actual law, I had little to no trouble rationalizing my increasingly devient behavior.

After I was through I exited through the back and began my sojourn to the car. When I opened the door to the parking lot I saw three cop cars and 8 cops outside my gym.

Oh. My. God. I thought to myself. They're here for me.

I caught eyes with a few of them and they smiled. They made no movement toward me and they weren't waiting by my vehicle. Strange.

Just wait, I continued. When they see you get in the Cadillac, they'll ask why you were in such a rush that you felt the need to endanger the lives of everyone else at the intersection.

But they didn't.

I got into my car. I turned over the engine. I drove out of the parking lot. And the cops didn't care. I don't even think they noticed me.

I was safe.

But was the rest of Solana Beach?

Doubtful.

Afterall, there are maniacs like me roaming the streets--and the entire city police force is apparently on a perpetual coffee break in a gym parking lot.

A+

Being the kind of person that I am, it comes as no surprise that my blood type is A+. Coming from a girl who's self esteem is so wrapped up performance, I'd really expect nothing less of myself. Or my blood.

I didn't know my blood type until last week--when I decided to give blood for the first time in 6 years.

"Oh, it's been a while," said the nurse at the blood mobile.

"Yes, yes it has," I replied.

"Well, with such a drought between donations, this will be like your first time all over again."

She smiled sweetly and began gathering her supplies: needles, latex gloves, some tubing.

"You didn't faint did you?"

"Oh, God. No. I was fine. A little woozy. But nothing major."

"That's good. This mobile is too small to have people falling over."

(So much for the supposed sympathy that comes with being a first timer.)

"I don't think it should be a problem," I offered.

She smiled again and asked if my arm was comfortable.

I nodded yes, took a deep breath, and relaxed into the chair she'd prepared for me. As I did so, I noticed my arm would be more comfortable if it moved ever-so-slightly to the right. So I moved it. The nurse's back was turned. And it didn't seem like a big deal. Plus, I was giving my blood. I figured I should be as comfortable as possible.

With eyes in the back of her head and a sixth sense for any kind of limb activity, she turned around as if someone had spilled an entire IV of platelets.

"What are you doing?" she barked.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I'd be more comfortable like this."

(Why was I apologizing?)

"You can't just move your arm. Now I have to start over."

Start over?, I thought. But nothing's begun.

She then jammed me with a plastic needle cover. 

"What was that?" I cried.

"I have to do that so I know where your vein is," she said--defensively.

"I don't understand," I said, shaking my head. "Can't you see where my vein is? It's the blue thing underneath my impossibly white skin."

(OK. So I didn't actually say that. But that's what I thought.)

Eventually we got the kinks worked out, and she started to draw blood. 

I'll have you know that I was done donating in under 5 minutes. That's right. 1 pint in less than 300 seconds, despite the abuse from the RN on the mobile. Thank you very much. 

A+ is right. 

A Recipe for Bad Dreams

1. Falling asleep to the Olympics
2. Watching too many Olympic events
3. Chicken fingers and french fries for dinner at 9 pm
4. Eating frozen yogurt before your fatty dinner

Allow me to elaborate.

A few nights ago, I had the most ridiculous dream of my entire life.

I was in China at a McDonald's with my friends Beth and Wendy--and few athletes. (This is no surprise considering it's one of my goals to get Beth and Michael Phelps together.)

Well, we'd finished our Big Macs and it was time to start packing up. I grabbed my tray and headed for the trashcan. But as I turned around, I saw Beth and Wendy get into a white, unmarked van and speed off with the athletes, effectively stranding me in the Chinese McDonald's.

To make matters worse, everyone left a bunch of their crap on the table--purses, wallets, dog collars (??!!)--and so, being the good Samaritan that I am, I figured I'd at least put the stuff in my bag to give to them later.

But, everyone in the restaurant started to give me the stink eye. And hide their personal effects.

I had a stunning revelation: They thought I was stealing.

I went over to one of the patrons.

"I'm not stealing, you know," I defended. "I'm cleaning up after my friends."

She didn't understand what I was saying--and clearly spoke no English. Muttering something in Mandarin, she knelt down and handed over her wallet.

Great, I thought. Now they really think I'm a thief.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, an enourmous Chinese man with two rottweilers came over to us. I thought he was going to release the hounds, but he merely asked for the dog collars that had been left on the table. Not remembering who the collars belonged to in the first place--and thanking God I was not the victim of a canine attack--I handed them over immediately.

I decided it was time to try and get back to my hotel, so I gave the crouching lady her wallet back and headed for the door. Only to run into my Uncle Joey and his partner Antonio on the sidewalk. I was saved!

I started to tell them my sad, sad story--but then Antonio picked a fight with a local.

"You're in the way," said the local. "I'm trying to cross the street."

"Figure it out," Antonio said smugly.

The local reached into his pocket. I could tell it was going to get ugly.

And then I woke up.

I, Idiot

Reasons why I know, deep down, I'm smart:

1. I have two degrees.
2. I graduated from one of the top-rated UC schools in the system.
3. I can work with and understand Excel.
4. I regularly watch the Nightly News with Brian Williams.
5. I never voted for George W. Bush.
6. I married someone who makes me laugh.

And yet.

Somehow I managed to grossly misread my confirmation email for the Nike Women's Marathon this October. Turns out, I'm actually running the half, not the full.

This is infinitely better than the other way around.

And yet.

I've been training and mentally preparing myself to run 26.2 miles.

Am I ready? Absolutely not. Am I disappointed? Ever so slightly.

Better to find out now than the day of, I suppose. That would be a post for the ages.

Why The Office is Reality TV

I know what you're thinking.

Oh, great. Another comparison to a television show I haven't watched in months...

But this latest comparison is a gift I feel compelled to share.

I just received an email:

This Friday August 8th 2008 marks the beginning of the Beijing Olympics. A time when the world comes together regardless of color, language and race to celebrate the Olympic spirit of Unity, Friendship, Progress, Harmony, Participation and Dreams.

To celebrate the spirit of the games, we are holding an Olympics of our very own. Join us on Wednesday August 20th for a series of competitions starting at 1 PM. Gold, Silver and Bronze prizes will be awarded at the end of the games! More information coming soon!!!

Games include:
0 Golf putting challenge

0 Wiffle ball toss

0 Treasure chest grab

0 Paper airplane throw

0 Ping pong ball toss

"The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well."

It might not be flonkerton, but it's close.

Wanna see how close?

Here's an article from wikipedia.

Quarter Life Crisis

Nobody warns you that your mid-to-late 20s/30s are as difficult as they are. And really, they are difficult.

Why are we so afraid to admit that?


It totally makes sense. There's a lot of life to live during these 10 years--what with graduating college (and/or grad school); trying to find a first, second, or third career; searching for a partner and a place to settle down; breaking away from your family of origin; surviving your first layoff; moving every other year (or at least it feels that way); the list could go on.

No wonder so many of us struggle with depression, anxiety, and delayed adolescence. Who in their right mind would ever want to be an adult and enter the real world with all its responsibilities and stress?

So far, I've found few things I truly enjoy about adulthood. They are numbered here, in no particular order:

1. Getting married to my best friend
2. Ice cream for dinner
3. Bed time is any time
4. Super Mario Brothers 3 = the best video game. Ever.
5. Non-school reading
6. Wine
7. Eating out with friends
8. Weekends

In the end, I think change is always at the root of crisis--whether it's emotional, professional, or ecological. And the funny thing about change is that as it's taking place, it feels constant and overwhelming. Perhaps that's why these years are so hard. Instead of transitioning from one grade to another, we're moving into the rest of our lives. Which can be likened to losing baby teeth, learning to walk, and taking the BAR all at the same time. Add this to being denied loans from the bank of Mom & Dad, and I'd say crisis is the perfect way to describe it.

But here's the other funny thing about change: It can also bring hope--thank you Barack Obama.

So, to all my fellow Quarter Life Crisis Managers out there, I salute you. This sucks and it's hard. But it's temporary.

OK. This is weird, right?

Some back story
I'm training for a marathon. I know. I know.

"Why are you doing that?!" you cry.

The truth is I meant to sign up for a half marathon. But this particular race is so popular, that your participation is determined via raffle.

Yes, raffle.

And because I'm running in a group (Yay for Jennie and her mom!), the all-knowing powers of the Nike race put me in the same race as them. Even though I requested to be in the half.

Thus, I'm training for this because if I don't, I'll hurt myself and potentially die. Not to mention be out a $100 if I decide to bail.

The real story
My training schedule told me to run 8 miles yesterday, so that's what I did: 4 miles out, 4 miles back. And I was really enjoying myself--I was pleased with my pace; the sun was setting, making my surroundings beautiful; and the people I passed on my way seemed genuinely happy with their evenings.

That is, until I saw this one guy, who was kind of a creeper. Allow me to explain.

I'm running along and I see him standing in his driveway. He's maybe 40. Maybe. Nice looking. Salt and pepper hair. Wearing jeans and a button-down striped shirt--like most men in San Diego who are about to go out. But he's just standing there. Not on the phone. Not with anybody. Just alone in his driveway.

As I approach, he looks right at me and says, "I love that."

Completely baffled I smile, laugh, and turn my face down.

And as I run past, he says, "Thank you."

What?

My New Goal in Life:

Stay-at-home Motherhood.

I'm not lying.

Don't get me wrong. Office work is fine. And I know that being a stay-at-home mom is extremely difficult; and you begin to miss adult conversation; and you sometimes question what it is you're doing with your life; and your self-esteem can sometimes plummet; and you begin to wonder if you'd ever be able to get back into the working world because life seems to be passing you by...

But here's my conundrum: I spend most of my time at the office feeling inadequate; questioning my self-esteem; wondering if this job will be eliminated with the corporate downsizing that seems to have taken America by storm; stressing out because I've potentially done something wrong; etc.

Given that I'm anxious and worried at the office anyway, I think I'd rather be anxious and worried at home. It's just that simple.

This will not be happening any time soon, considering I'm our family's sole source of income. But this whole "working" thing... I just don't know if I'm cut out for it. I'm really good at hanging out. Like really good. And I'm good at playing with babies. And doing errands. And paying bills. And drinking coffee. And exercising. And the things I'm not good at--cooking, laundry, cleaning--I feel I can learn how to do them better. Especially if I'm trying to be better for my family.

Trying to be better for my family... Is there anything more noble?

My mission is clear:

1. Help Chris finish his PhD
2. Get pregnant
3. Go on maternity leave
4. Never come back

Potential timeline for new life goal:

1. PhD = December 2010
2. Pregnancy = January 2011
3. Maternity leave = July 2011

That means I have 3 more years in the office.

3 more years.

Dammit.

Summer Hours? Ha.

Publishing offers very few perks. The pay is abysmal. The work is constant. The stress is high. The recognition is almost non-existent. But, we get free books from time to time, and of course, there's the summer schedule. Most publishing houses slow down during summer--and if their employees work an extra hour or so during each day of the week, they can take a half day on Friday.

This is, seriously, so wonderful.

When I came to my new company, I was told about a new schedule that is being tried out by many of the departments here. Employees work an extra hour or so during the day, and then, they make arrangements with their coworkers and take every other Friday off.

Every. Other. Friday.

That's, like, 26 more vacation days a year.

And when your company considers "sick days" and "vacation days" the same thing (in this case, both are considered Paid Time Off), those 26 extra Fridays become very, very important.

Naturally, my department is not participating in this program.

"It's a customer service issue," says my supervisor. "We have to be available."
"But, wouldn't we still be available? We could stack the days so that someone is always here," I plead.
"No."

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

A bad decision

Remember that episode of The Office when Jim decides he wants to ride his bike to work and he shows up, sweaty, tired, and disgusting? Or maybe you'll better remember the office 5K when everybody runs in order to find a cure for Rabies? You know, when Kevin forgets his running clothes, Michael almost passes out, and Andy's nipples start bleeding?

Well, bring to your mind the image of a sweaty office worker.

And then, picture my face.

For some ungodly reason, I decided it would be fun to go for a 3 mile run at lunch today. It's actually not a bad idea in theory. The weather's beautiful; I'm training for a marathon; I'm not doing much at work because my boss is on vacation. Etc.

These are all valid reasons why an extra long lunch was a good idea.

But the aftermath of a 3 mile run in 80 degree weather is a messy affair. And when you discover that the office "shower" your HR person told you about is nothing but a janky, scary, dirty dorm shower at best, you come to immediately regret your decision. As well as curse the name of the HR person who seems to have deliberately led you astray.

(Upon showing me the ladies room on my first day:
"Oh, so do a lot of people shower here?" I ask.
"Yes, actually. There's a group of ladies who walks twice a week. And they use the facilities after their exercise. It's fairly common," he lied.
I've come to find out that no one actually does this. In fact, there isn't even a walking club.
Awesome.)

"So Jessie--what did you do?" you ask.

I sat at my desk until my heart stopped pounding and my body stopped pouring buckets of sweat out of every orifice. I tried to think cool thoughts and drank an impossible amount of water. And, after about an hour, I changed back into my office clothes. My hair is a greasy, greasy mop.

What. a. day.

Something incredibly rude

My aunt's wedding reception was a huge success. There was dancing; there was drinking; there was debauchery; and there was family I hadn't seen in at least 15 years. All of Oma's living brothers and sisters made the trip with their spouses and kids. It was pretty incredible to have all those Dutch people in one room.

And you know what they say about us Dutch: "If you're not Dutch, you're not much."

The toast went all right, too. Although, there was some kind of a/v miscommunication, and so a slide show of Oma started going while I was in the middle of the speech. And then, the birthday cake was brought out prematurely. Not wanting to take up anymore time, I wrapped up early. It was never about me in the first place--I just wanted to make sure that Oma felt honored. And she did. So, yay.

But, literally, I had the most ridiculous interaction ever in my life right after the toast. This random woman approached me, and here, verbatim, is our conversation:

Woman: "Can I just say, you are so DUTCH!"

Me: "Oh gosh, thanks?"

Woman: "You have the blonde hair and the curves."

Me: "Haha. Thank you."

Woman: "And you also have the ankles."

Me: "I'm sorry. What?"

Woman: "I was looking at you and said to myself! 'Yep! She's got the big ankles, just like the rest of us!' Don't worry, honey. Everyone in this room has them. I've got them, too."

(At this point, she picks up her leg and shows me her enormous cankle.)

Me: "Haha, yeah. I guess it's just our Dutch curse."

Never before have I wanted to hit someone so badly. For the first time, I wished my life was a movie simply so I could have a dream sequence in which I'm pummeling another human being to the ground--and enjoying it.

Why, in the name of all that is holy, would one woman say something like that to another? I mean, seriously. Now that a couple of days have gone by, I can recognize how freaking hilarious this is. (Which is why I'm sharing it with all of you.) But if I read it in an essay or saw it in a movie, I would have dismissed it as completely unbelievable.

Well, I'll be the first to admit I was wrong. Once again, truth is stranger than fiction. Literally, I couldn't make this shit up.

A toast to Oma

My aunt is having her wedding reception tomorrow (she and her husband got married in December at City Hall, but they've planned the big blow out party for this weekend). Like any reception, this will have toasts. Only, I've been asked to toast Oma, instead of the bride and groom, as she's decided to make the trip down.

Seeing as how this is an experimental writing forum, I figured I'd post what I'm planning to say. And if any of you have any advice about how to improve this little piece, I will be forever grateful.

With no further ado:

It's not every day that you're asked to write a little speech that encapsulates the importance of a person so dearly loved. And truly, Oma--Jo--Mom, is just that. Her courage and faith are the cornerstones of our family. And the fact that she's here celebrating with us tonight is a miracle unto itself. She's already defeated two types of cancer and survived the German invasion of Holland during World War II. Tough as nails and with a true spirit of adventure, she spent her honeymoon immigrating to America as she knew there was no future for her family in Holland. And, on top of that, she raised 7 happy, well-adjusted children and mentored 5 adoring grandchildren who will always love and support her. She's strong-willed, independent, and fearless, to say the least. And because of this, the Vermeulen brood is a force to be reckoned with. (Just ask anyone who's married in.)

In addition to her remarkable character, Oma possesses a faith that is so real and deep, it's contagious. And her commitment to loving service is inspiring. We see this demonstrated in her decades long relationship with Meals on Wheels, an organization that delivers food to needy families; her steadfast church attendance; and the 3 x 5 note cards with uplifting (and challenging) sayings that she sporadically sends to friends and family. Some of my personal favorites are:

• The goal of faith is not for us to get into heaven, but rather for heaven to get into us.
• If you judge people, you have no time to love them.
• [Add more]

But Oma is nothing, if not a party animal and her presence this evening confirms this. I can safely say that I've never known another person battling bone cancer to travel the lengths that she did to get here.

So, to you, Oma--Jo--Mom, we raise our glasses. You are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the youngest 80-year-old I know. And with each day, you teach us more about life and love. Here's to you.

This might be on THE OFFICE next season

I just walked into the break room to find my friend painting a miniature pony. This was a task she was assigned to do. For her job. She's getting paid to do this.

Stunned, I walked up to her and said, "Um, wow. What are you doing?"

"I have to paint this pony for the catalog. They want to take a picture of this kit we're promoting. I got to paint a dragon a few months ago," she said while brushing.

"That's amazing," I offered. "I just compiled a spreadsheet," I said, slightly deflated.

Eyes focused on her task and her brows ever-so-coolly raised, she replied. "Oh, I know. That was me yesterday. Sometimes I feel like my life is one big Excel document."

But you're painting a pony right now, I thought to myself. How is your life anything like an Excel document?!

Instead I responded, "Yeah. I know what you mean."

Hello, again

Sorry for the delay. I've gotten some nudges about my lack of postings lately. And I do apologize. But, like every writer, I have an excuse: I was on vacation!

I spent a week with Oma in Oregon; that was life-changing to say the least. She told me stories about her past I'd never heard (the details of which I'll post about later). And I got to tell her how much I love her--and how I wish she could live forever. As the words were coming out of my mouth, I couldn't help but think to myself: "Damn, I'm lucky. Isn't this the conversation people always wish they could have had?"

Last but not least, I also got to spend some quality time with Chris at Stanford. Good food, good friends, good times.

I'm back now and have started the new job. This place can only be described as Initech. You know, the fictional corporation from Office Space? I literally deal with TPS reports and Excel spreadsheets all day every day. (A friend of mine suggested I get a red Swingline stapler. I think this is a must.) And, after my first day, I can safely say I had a nervous breakdown.

At least now I know the warning signs: the tightness in the chest; the overwhelming urge to cry; the feeling of utter helplessness; nausea; etc.

A positive side effect of this breakdown, however, was the stunning revelation that I'm no longer emotionally invested in my work. I will pass my days at this place. I will learn the tasks well. I will participate in office gossip. I will arrive and leave on time. And I will hopefully make some friends.

But really, I've officially stepped out of a career and into job.

Here's a highlight from day 2:
I'm sitting at my cube, waiting to get instructions about what to do. I decide I should catch up on my celebrity gossip, even though my computer screen faces the hallway and everyone walking by can see it. I see what perezhilton is up to, but when I try to visit the site, an error message appears saying that [my username] was trying to access pornography.

What?!

I immediately close the page, whip my head to see if anyone saw, and vow before God that I will never try to read celebrity gossip (unless it's found in the LA Times, New York Times, or CNN) ever again.

This is an excellent exercise if one is trying to increase their heart rate.

The end of an era

I had to change my outgoing voicemail at work today. This is what it now says:

"You've reached Jessie Colburn. I no longer work with [my company]. Please contact [my former supervisor] with any further issues or concerns. She can be reached at [her new number]. Thank you."

Amazingly, this was not the most difficult part of my day.

Everyone knows I'm emotional--even, no especially, when it's entirely uncalled for. I am that girl who cries at Hallmark and Mother's Day ads; that girl who gets teary in movie previews; that girl who weeps at the end of Mutt Dog, a picture book by Stephen Michael King, because the last line says: "And each night when Mutt Dog goes to sleep, he knows exactly where he belongs."

So it stands to reason, then, on the day I'm leaving my job--a job I've loved (and hated) for two and a half years--I would be a complete basket case.

Here's the funny thing about denial, though: It can be fantastic when dealing with extremely emotional situations. Up until it disappears and you're left with the haunting reality that this is, in fact, actually happening.

I was able to keep it together through most of the day--saying goodbye to coworkers who have become close friends; having my last lunch at the Yard House with my editorial pals (one of whom was a bridesmaid at my wedding and who remains one of my favorite people); even turning off my computer for the last time wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.

Strangely, the hardest thing was turning in my keycard to the acting HR representative, Marsha Brubaker. Marsha and I were not close office buddies. Our cubicles are on opposite sides of the floor and our assigned duties don't have much in common. We've bonded over our individual circumstances during this miserable transition phase, and for that I'm grateful. But I never would have guessed that she'd be the one to see me at my worst.

Handing over that key, though, was ridiculous. This was my first real office job. It was my first step in my publishing career. And over the course of the last six months, it has been ripped and pulled and forced into something that is utterly unrecognizable to me. This is not one person's fault; and I do not blame the new house that purchased ours. It's business and I understand that. But because the whole process has been drawn out for so long, a part of me doubted that it was actually coming.

And then I had to hand in my key to a place that no longer exists. It was more than just surrendering my access to the building. It was an acknowledgment that I can never actually go back to this place because doing so would mean traveling through time. Which--and I hate to be the bearer of bad news here--isn't possible yet.

Of course the office, and the job, weren't perfect. Everything is and was flawed. But these flaws were familiar and the work was incredible.

And dammit, it's hard to have it gone.

I just put a shoe in a trashcan.

So, my final day in the office is tomorrow. And I'm finally getting around to doing that "detail" clean I was asked to do weeks ago. I found some amazing items:

1. Lotion


2. Bobby pins


3. A stack of Post Its that I was convinced had vanished into oblivion


4. A Costco size bottle of Advil


5. Ribbon


6. Lip gloss


7. A picture of me in a Kitty costume from Halloween


8. 3 shoes

Yes. Not 4 shoes. 3 shoes. These are: a pair of brown loafers that had been sitting under my desk for, seriously, I don't know how long, and a single black pointy heeled pump with silver dangly things attached to the toe.

Those shoes were a gift from my friend Lauren (who quit about a year and a half ago). She didn't want to take them to New York when she moved, and thus, I inherited them. Them as in plural. I know she gave me the full pair because I've worn them a few times. But strangely, one of them has vanished.

Not having much use for a single black pump, I decided to throw it away. But it's a very weird thing to put a high heel in trashcan. It looks so out of place sitting on top of paper towels and other office trash. What else can you do with a single shoe, though? It's not like anybody else wants it or will have any kind of use for it. And really, throwing it away was kind of delightfully random.

I highly recommend it.

I love this.

You know your office is closing when Bocce Ball starts happening.

Yes, Bocce Ball.

There used to be a large section of cubicles that sat on the east side of our floor. However, the positions of the people who used to sit in those cubicles were eliminated. And henceforth, their former work spaces were dismantled and taken away. What's left is a large open area, bumpy and complete with obstacles, much like a park or backyard. Except, in an office, the objects to avoid are a little more industrious than, say, a tree, a barbecue, or a small child. When office Bocce Ball is played, which, as we all know, is infinitely more fun, we try to stay away from the broken copier, some forgotten bookends, miscellaneous employees who haven't yet been fired (well, at least not officially), etc.

Because I feel so inspired by this activity, I would like to take a moment and salute my Bocce Ball playing coworkers.

You have made lemonade with this bitter, bitter departure. And nothing says, "Wait. You still want me to work? HA!" quite like office sports.

Tonight my beer will be raised to you.

I just found out that my grandmother has bone cancer.

Which, in case you're not familiar, is one of the most painful types of cancer that exists. And like the over-achiever that she is, Oma has it in two places: her hip and her back.

She will be 80 years old in July and has decided to go the route of pain management as opposed to radiation or chemotherapy. There is also an incredibly invasive biopsy that she could undergo in order to find out the exact name of this thing that is eating away at her body. But (and I don't blame her) she's not interested in knowing the specifics.

"I have cancer and that's all I need to know," she says. "I'm not 36 anymore."

Allow me to put this in context.

Oma (Dutch for Grandmother) has already survived two types of cancer that were termed deadly in the early 1960s. In her thirties, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and shortly thereafter, with bladder cancer. At this point, chemotherapy and radiation were still relatively new. These treatments, while helpful in defeating the cancer, left massive scarring on her intestines--mainly because the levels were too strong and too high. So, effectively, it took the good with the bad. But at that time her options were somewhat limited.


"You can try these experimental treatments," said the doctors. "Or not. But if you decide to decline, you have about 2 months left."

Keep in mind, my grandmother had 7 children. And a husband.

"At that time, I didn't have a choice. Leaving my family wasn't an option. I never even considered it," she says. "But my life is different now. I'm 80 years old. My kids are grown. My husband is gone. And I'm in so much pain that I have no quality of life. "

If I were her, I'd go the route of pain management, too.

What started this whole sordid affair was a blood clot in her right upper thigh/hip area. At least, that's what the doctors thought. The clot (actually, the malignant tumor) resulted in some loss of feeling in her leg. This is especially bad when one is driving. And yes, Oma was driving when her leg started to go numb. She noticed something was wrong when she accidentally veered off road, and the donut shop she frequently bakes for started getting closer and closer. She thought she was hitting the break because she thought she'd moved her leg. But, really, she was gunning the engine and slamming on the gas.

And, despite the chain-link fence's best efforts, my grandmother's Ford Taurus was just too strong. And the car went careening into Mary's Donuts at a speed of 40 miles per hour.

No one was hurt and Mary didn't press charges. But Oma's license was revoked and her leg tripled in size as a result of the accident. The swelling still hasn't gone down, and this, among other things, is rather embarrassing for her.

But even in the face of her third fight with cancer, my grandmother is hilarious.

"I've never really been happy with my leg size. But at least now I have some options."

Not bad for a woman who's had to bury her husband and her youngest son.

Damn. I wish she could live forever.

Why My Office Is Sometimes Like Daycare

1. We read picture books.
2. I really look forward to snack time.
3. After a big lunch, we put our heads down and nap.
4. It's my friend Kara's birthday today. She wore a special outfit.
5. People steal things that aren't theirs.
6. We spend most of the day wishing we could go home.
7. Yesterday I got on a leftover dolly and surfed down the hallway.
8. My friend Morgan found a gummy plastic frog and and gave it to me; it only has three legs.
9. Next week we're having a special "Goodbye" breakfast with bagels and juice.
10. People cry here.

Seriously?

We have a Give-Away Table at our office. This used to house items like:

1. Movie passes that the marketing gals couldn't use
2. Extra copies of books from random mailings
3. Surplus office supplies
4. Leftover Halloween candy

But, given that our office is now closing, people are cleaning out their areas with a fervor I've never seen. And the items gracing the shelves of the Give-Away Table boggle the mind:

1. Office plants that employees no longer wish to care for
2. Stuffed animals
3. Occasional handbags and hats
4. An industrial size box of control top pantyhose--"ranging in color and size to suit the need of every business professional"

Wow.

A beginning

It seems only right to start something at the end of something else.

My office is closing next week, and so I figured I should start a blog.

Right now, movers are literally dismantling my cubicle. This is rather jarring considering I'm still here, trying to do work, typing on the computer, etc.

I have what--7 days left? My filing cabinets are empty; my drawers are clear; my personal effects from the bulletin board are taken down . . . and yet, there's a delicious irony about having my former workplace collapse around me.

I find myself in one of those curious places where I don't know if I should laugh or cry. It's actually hilarious that I'm still here in the wreckage--printing form letters and writing flap copy (among other things) for my bosses--when the walls are closing in. The awkwardness is laughable--and if it showed up on The Office I wouldn't be able to contain myself.

But I'm not Dwight or Michael or Jim or Pam. And because of that, there's a sadness to the whole ordeal that's ever-so-slightly devastating.

Ah, well.

At least, as my boss pointed out, there's more room in my cube.

"Maybe you should put in a beanbag chair and lounge for the next week," she
says.

Maybe I should.