tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39143510720607774842024-03-13T04:42:25.446-07:00Live from the 'BeanPaula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-3105907986577766202016-01-13T15:24:00.000-08:002016-01-13T15:24:21.932-08:00Live from the 'Bean has moved. Okay, it was beyond time that I did this... but now it's official.<br />
<br />
I have a new website (<a href="http://www.paulatreickdeboard.com/">www.paulatreickdeboard.com</a>) and my 'Bean blog (the old archives as well as what I'm writing now) can be found there, too.<br />
<br />
I'm not intending to delete this blog (and anyway I don't know how), so it's possible you may stumble across this down the road. Enjoy!--and then come visit on my new site.<br />
<br />
Cheers -<br />
<br />
PaulaPaula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-46019555854548462482015-06-12T06:31:00.003-07:002015-06-12T06:31:45.297-07:00Landline<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
(<i>This is an excerpt from my short story, </i>Landline. <i>Follow the link at the end to </i>Artifact Nouveau<i> to read the rest.) </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
telephone rings, its echo bouncing off my bare walls and faux-wood floors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
answer on the third ring, my voice creaky with neglect. “Hello?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 263.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is Mario there?”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
clear my throat. “I’m sorry. You’ve got the wrong number.” I click the “Talk”
button and replace the receiver, noticing for the thousandth time how silent
the room is, how there isn’t even another person’s breath to break the quiet. I
should turn on the television. I should become one of those people who watch
the Real Housewives of Wherever just to have something to talk about at work in
the morning, just to kill the silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chelsea,
my tabby, saunters into the room and rubs against my calves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the kitchen, I pour myself another glass of cabernet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next call comes two days later, at about the same time. I’m in the kitchen
washing my single plate, spoon, fork, knife and glass. I wipe wet hands on my
jeans on the way to the phone. “Hello?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
Mario there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ve
got the wrong number,” I say, and ease the receiver into its cradle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back
in the kitchen, a dinner plate is half-submerged in the plastic tub in my sink.
For a long moment I stand with my hips against the edge of the counter, watching
soap bubbles form and pop, and then I plunge my hands into the cold water to
finish the job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
normally don’t even answer my landline. I shouldn’t even have it anymore – my
professional and social contacts, such as they are, reach me through my cell
phone. Initially I told myself that I was keeping the landline for my mother, who
had always been slow to adapt to change. But recently, after fifteen years as a
widow, she’s moved in with a man ten years younger in Cleveland, a man with a
daughter still in high school. Now she has regular contact with teenagers – has
regular sex, sure – and her calls light up my cell phone with uncompromising
frequency, her cheerful messages overwhelming my inbox. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I’ve had to admit that I’m keeping the landline purely for old times’ sake – I
like the person I had been when that number rang regularly, for me or for
Henry. For a long time I’d kept the outgoing message that identified us as
“Henry and Clair” and found reasons to press play over and over, reminding myself
of that Clair, that version of myself. I’d even kept our ancient phone, manufactured
before ID display screens. If I had a therapist, I would pose the question: Is
$43.99 a month too much to pay for nostalgia?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most
days when I come home from work and listen to my messages, it goes something
like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hi! As a homeowner, you may qualify for a
lower interest rate</i> – Delete. I’m not a homeowner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is a message from Conservative America!</i>
– Delete. Not a conservative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you or someone you love</i> – and I
hesitate here before hitting delete. But there is no one, not anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-41079241858558261762014-11-07T20:39:00.002-08:002014-11-07T20:39:45.961-08:00Dear somewhat creepy man who whispered in my ear, "You're thinking too loud "--You have no idea.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
This girlPaula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-75549506103123888862014-10-16T14:28:00.003-07:002014-10-16T14:28:46.909-07:00Dear Angry Pacing Man Smoking a Cigarette and Talking on the Phone,It's not your finest moment --and believe me, I'm sympathetic. I'm not sure I can remember my last finest moment.<br />
<br />
But would you mind doing your pacing and loud talking somewhere else? Like maybe 20 feet away? Would it be too much to ask for 50?<br />
<br />
It's just that you're making me a bit nervous.<br />
<br />
It's just that being a bit nervous makes me feel like pacing, too.<br />
<br />
Thanks--<br />
<br />
Woman finishing cold cup of coffee who happens to be directly in your flight pathPaula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-24803351421168764692014-06-13T06:49:00.000-07:002014-06-13T06:59:17.814-07:00Blog roll -- What I'm Working On<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m back!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, actually—I haven’t been anywhere, but I’ve been finding it
a bit difficult to keep my blog going. It’s kind of a good problem, in a
way—I’ve been finishing one project and beginning another (more on that below),
but that’s meant I’ve been away from the ‘Bean for too long!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Recently I was invited by <a href="http://www.heathergudenkauf.com/">Heather Gudenkauf</a> to participate in a
blog roll, so this is the perfect time to make a return. If you don’t know
Heather’s books, you should definitely check them out. She’s the author of four
novels, including <i><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780778316336">Little Mercies</a></i>,
which releases on June 24. You’ll love it—I did!—it’s a
ripped-from-the-headlines story about the consequences of a single distracted
moment. I was thrilled to meet Heather recently at Book Expo America, and I’m
so excited for this book’s release. You can check out Heather’s website for her
answers to these questions. My answers follow…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> 1. WHAT AM I WORKING ON –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Right now, promotions are gearing up for <i>The Fragile World</i>, which publishes in October 2014. I was thrilled
to receive an ARC of the book recently—so now I know it’s real! It’s been so
much fun to visit with book clubs that have read <i>The Mourning Hours</i>, and I’m excited to introduce readers to my next
book, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I typically teach a summer session class, but I found myself
with unexpected (and welcome!) time off—so this is the perfect opportunity to
start researching and drafting Book #3. What sort of research, you ask? Well, this
month’s to-do list includes interviews with a paramedic, police officer,
prosecutor, defense attorney and school guidance counselor, and that’s just for
starters. I’m beginning to draft my ideas, which is always an exciting part of
the process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2. HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM
OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My work falls into what is considered the “literary fiction”
genre. I do write for adults, but my years of teaching junior high and high
school have given me an interest and a bit of insight into a younger voice. In<i> The Mourning Hours</i>, most of the story
is told from the perspective of a nine-year-old girl. In <i>The Fragile World</i>, the narration alternates between 16-year-old
Olivia and her father. I love to consider how the same event affects people
differently, depending on point of view. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Overall, the events I focus on tend to fall into the category of
“could-be-real”—things that could happen to real people, somewhere. I’m
interested in how people deal with tragic circumstances and ultimately pick up the pieces of their lives. Henrik Ibsen famously remarked that all the material
he could possibly need was found in the Bible and the daily
newspaper—essentially, there was enough material there for any writer to mine.
I think I would add to that list a close observation of the people I encounter.
Real life is pretty fascinating when you look closely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3. WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I haven’t had a personal connection with either of the topics I
addressed in my first two novels—a missing girl and a dead brother/son—but once
I started brainstorming about the ideas, I found that I became very attached to
the people in the story. (They are fictional people, yes—which is one of the
things that make writers a bit strange.) At some point, the characters do begin
to seem very real to me, and I feel this responsibility to do justice to them
in the telling of their stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I also write to share a good story with readers, of course. I
was a reader long before I became a novelist, and I am grateful to many authors
and books for making me the person and the writer I am today. It gives me
goosebumps to think my work might inspire a reader in the same way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4. HOW DOES MY WRITING PROCESS
WORK?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I mentioned that I’m in the “drafting” stage for my third book.
Right now I’m not so much writing the story as figuring out the backstory. Who
are these people, and what has happened to them before the reader encounters
them on page one? I have a file of questions to “ask” each character, and a
list of things I’ve learned about them. It may seem a bit tedious as a process,
but it allows me to really get inside the characters’ heads. When I fully
understand them, I can write them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once I’m into the story, I tend to set myself a word count goal
for each writing day. When I was writing <i>The
Fragile World</i>, I kept a Word document that was nothing but dates and
numbers—a way for me to keep myself motivated and encouraged during some long,
lonely hours. Day to day it never seems like much is happening with the story,
but to look back at 20,000 words written in the last month is kind of amazing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Most of my writing takes place in the coffeehouses nearby my
home in Modesto, CA. I’ve simply found that I can’t focus at home—my pets need
to go in and out, the doorbell rings, something from the refrigerator is
calling my name. Weirdly, the chaos of a busy coffeehouse bothers me not at
all, and it gives me a chance to do a little people watching, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5. AND THE OTHER PART OF THIS
QUESTION, HOW DOES MY WRITING PROCESS NOT WORK?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve heard—and read—about writers who outline their stories, so
that they know exactly what will happen next. I’m a bit jealous of this as a
process, but I have to say that it doesn’t work for me. I suspect that if I had
the entire plot outlined on a piece of paper, one of two things would happen—I
would be bored with the story and never actually write it, or I would decide to
change it all anyway as I went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Instead of a strict outline, I have a general idea of where the
story might go, which often includes a few specific scenes. I like to start
each day with an idea of what I’m going to write, but beyond that, I let the
characters and the situations speak to me. This is the best part about writing,
the serendipity. Just by sitting at my laptop with my fingers on the keys, some
unexpected discovery will happen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">PASSING THE TORCH—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, as part of this blog roll, I’d
like to introduce you to three writers I’m lucky to know. They’ll be following
up soon with their answers to the same questions…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I met <a href="http://aquafortis.blogspot.com/">Sarah Jamila Stevenson</a> around
publication time for <i>The Mourning Hours</i>.
Sarah is the author of the YA novels <i>The
Latte Rebellion, Underneath </i>and the recently released <i><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780738740584">The Truth Against the World</a></i>. She writes a fantastic blog about
books, which you should definitely check out!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last year I stumbled across <i><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781476724911">The Longings of Wayward Girls</a></i> by <a href="http://karenbrownbooks.com/">Karen Brown</a>, and fell in love with the story. It was Brown’s debut novel, although
she has equally wonderful collections of short stories. I think what attracted
me most to <i>Longings</i> was the balance
of child and adult perspective, and the way that the events from our pasts have
a hold on our present situations. Read this book! It’s fantastically gripping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.elizabethsearle.net/">Elizabeth Searle</a> is an eclectic
writer and fantastic mentor, and I’m lucky to know her as both. If you’re
fascinated by our celebrity-obsessed culture, you’ll love her novella <i>Celebrities in Disgrace</i> and her <a href="http://celebritiesindisgrace.wordpress.com/">blog</a> by
the same name. Recently, she published <i>Girl
Held in Home</i>—a ripped-from-the-headlines, could-be-real tale of domestic
terror. Elizabeth is on faculty at the Stonecoast MFA program (University of
Southern Maine), and I was fortunate to have an early draft of <i>The Mourning Hours</i> discussed in her
workshop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thanks for reading – and now, go
check out these other authors!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-87072423247302413312014-03-30T20:38:00.004-07:002014-03-31T09:12:44.326-07:00Spring Break (By the Numbers)Number of middle school classes visited to discuss writing career: 3. Number of times asked about favorite sport: 3. Number of times asked if I knew J.K. Rowling: 2. Number of times asked about scar on my arm: 3.<br />
<br />
Hours spent at IKEA West Sac with Kelly: 1.5 Impulse purchases considered: 63. Number of very tiny in-store apartments wandered through in amazement: 3.<br />
<br />
Sick husbands: 1.<br />
<br />
Dog walks: 12. Times dog pooped on walks: 27.5. Times ran out of poop bags: 1. (Sorry about that.)<br />
<br />
Books read: 3. Hours it took to recharge my Kindle: 6. (Why, I don't know.)<br />
<br />
Pinterest projects attempted: 2. Pinterest projects completed to satisfaction: 0. Time recommended for degreasing burner covers with ammonia solution: 15 minutes. Actual elapsed time of project: 6 hours.<br />
<br />
Plans foiled by rain: 2.<br />
<br />
Hours spent in search of perfect cage wedge sandals: 3. Estimated weeks before backordered wedges available: 4. Shoes purchased: 0.<br />
<br />
Number of nieces/nephews seen: 5. Adorable factor of said nieces/nephews on scale of 1 to 10: 10.<br />
<br />
Episodes of Fringe watched on Netflix: 22. (All of Season 2, baby!) Research papers graded while watching Fringe: 19. Number of times I paused to consider the implausibility of a fringe division of the FBI figuring out high-tech problems with 1982 technology: None. (Why ruin a good thing?)<br />
<br />
Carpets shampooed: 4.5. Pounds of pet hair dumped from vacuum cylinder: A very disgusting and thought-provoking amount.<br />
<br />
Number of mid-terms graded: 97. Number of times students used "bystandard" instead of "bystander": 2. Number of students referring to Claude McKay as "she": 5.<br />
<br />
Days too busy/lazy/inconvenienced to shower: 2. Time spent applying makeup: 20 minutes. Times asked if I was tired (presumably due to lack of mascara): 2.<br />
<br />
Trips to Yogurt Mill: 2.<br />
<br />
Number of paint swatches brought back from Home Depot: 12. Number of paint cans purchased: 0.<br />
<br />
Hours spent snuggling with WBD (world's best dogs): Many, but somehow not enough.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WHhFtt_c0Oc/UzmT8-WPPiI/AAAAAAAAADE/A2SgP37a9EQ/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WHhFtt_c0Oc/UzmT8-WPPiI/AAAAAAAAADE/A2SgP37a9EQ/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Hours until return to real life: 22.5.... and going fast.<br />
<br />
<br />Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-19396474010352842112014-03-19T06:26:00.000-07:002014-03-19T06:26:50.110-07:00Dear Stuttering Student,I've been there.<br />
<br />
We've all been there.<br />
<br />
What I want to say is -- there's something for each of us. It might not be a stutter or a stammer, but it comes out in other ways. My throat goes dry. Her hands shake. He trips over a word and loses his confidence.<br />
<br />
Or it's mental: The words on the teletype in our minds simply disappear, no matter how much we've rehearsed. The guy in the back of the room is smirking, and we assume the smirk is directed at us. We make a joke, and it falls flat. We don't intend to make a joke, but everyone laughs anyway.<br />
<br />
We lose eye contact. We lose focus.<br />
<br />
We decide we're wearing the absolute wrong thing. We think about a zit on the chin, which appeared only this morning. We didn't sleep the night before, worrying about this presentation.<br />
<br />
But what does it mean, really? Am I less of a person for my dry throat, for reaching for my emergency water bottle? Is she to be dismissed for her shaking hands? Are you somehow less knowledgeable because the words are trapped in your mouth, butting up against your teeth?<br />
<br />
Of course not.<br />
<br />
What I want to say is -- life goes on, and these small failures aren't the things that define us.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Professor D.Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-81279759446189738522014-02-19T03:44:00.001-08:002014-02-19T08:09:58.530-08:00Testing a Hypothesis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U1uuPWGfawY/UwSFRED-5uI/AAAAAAAAAC0/cr5UYPhfqKE/s1600/science+experiment+photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U1uuPWGfawY/UwSFRED-5uI/AAAAAAAAAC0/cr5UYPhfqKE/s1600/science+experiment+photo.png" height="236" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Today, this photo came across my news feed, accompanied by the usual witty comments. (Kudos to George Takei for introducing me to the best tri-fold display ever.) My sister B wrote, "I remember the crying and yelling and the 'Quick! Find some food I can put a drop of iodine on!'" Our friend T said, "The one time nothing in the fridge has mold on it!"<br />
<br />
I wrote, "In my case, 100% of the time, the parent actually did the experiment, and I provided the neat lettering for the board."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
It's not that I wasn't a good student, or a generally capable one. I liked school. I read even the chapters that weren't assigned. I'd always finished the novel our class would be reading for the next month in the first 48 hours.<br />
<br />
But the science project? Lord, have mercy.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Even though the science fair was something I knew was coming and could spot a mile away like a dust storm in a desert, I was somehow always completely unprepared. The trouble began with the whole idea of a hypothesis. Although I'd written down the term in my notes (highlighted, underlined, neatly aligned with the left hand margin), I couldn't fully grasp the concept.<br />
<br />
My mother tried. She deserves much more than this blog-post-of-thanks as her reward. Usually, our conversations in the month leading up to the science fair ended up with the two of us sitting at the kitchen table -- me crying because I couldn't figure it out and my mother looking like this time, she might just strangle me.<br />
<br />
Her questions ranged from the subtly encouraging, "But aren't you curious about anything?" to the subtly damning, "How can you not be curious about anything?"<br />
<br />
There was really no way for me to answer. It was true, I was lacking the essential curiosity to approach every science project I'd ever seen. Although I admired the chutzpah of my classmates who cut a planarian in half to chart its regeneration, I was more interested in how a person could cut a wriggling, innocent creature in half than what happened to said creature later. I didn't particularly care how fast things happened, or why they happened at all.<br />
<br />
In fact, each time the science fair rolled around, I nurtured serious doubts about my own intellect. What was wrong with me, that I couldn't summon a decent hypothesis?<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
What I came to realize over the years was that I wasn't defective (at least, not in any way that would cause great damage to my adult self), and that I was in fact curious. I was just curious about things that were of no use in the biannual science fair.<br />
<br />
For example, I was fascinated by people.<br />
<br />
"Don't stare," my mother would say, as I gaped at a woman talking to herself at a McDonalds. "That's rude." It might have been rude, but I could hardly look away. Did this woman know she was talking to herself? What was she talking about? Why was she alone? Had her talking-to-herself habit driven away all the people who loved her? Was she dangerous, or simply lonely?<br />
<br />
At school, I was curious about the social status of my various classmates. I was a little too weird to be one of the popular girls, although I was smart enough and pretty enough to blend in most of the time. Even at an early age, I could see that I laughed at the wrong things, and made connections that others didn't make and couldn't understand when I tried to point them out. But I wondered endlessly about the popular kids. Did they ever doubt themselves? Did they get their strength from within, or from the praise of others? Could popularity be achieved through hard work, focus and determination, or was it an innate quality?<br />
<br />
But there wasn't a way to graph loneliness or a method of growing popularity in a petri dish, so I was pretty much screwed.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
It was impossible not to do the science experiment.<br />
<br />
In thirteen years of teaching, I've met students who simply did not complete the single biggest project that had the largest effect on their grades, but this was never an option for me. Partly, this was out of respect for my teachers; partly, it was from the desire not to look like an idiot in front of my classmates. I attended a private school, and there must have been students who didn't complete the work from time to time, although I don't think I ever knew them.<br />
<br />
But mostly, not doing the science project was impossible because of my parents.<br />
<br />
Between the two of them, they possessed the ideal qualities necessary for success at the sixth grade science fair. Namely, my mother had all the scientific curiosity I was lacking, and my father could build anything.<br />
<br />
This explains the complicated "ball-bearing racetrack" I submitted one year -- sheepishly, because although it was extremely cool to run ball bearings down a four-foot ramp (constructed, sanded, stained and varnished by yours-truly's-father), I could not explain at all what was happening from a scientific standpoint.<br />
<br />
Another year, prompted by concerns about my father's smoking habit, my mother took the reins herself, and we (she) constructed a model of a human lung out of an empty dish detergent bottle filled with cotton balls. One of my father's cigarettes was taped to the spout, lit with an oven match (this was my favorite part) and then by squeezing the bottle, it was possible to simulate the experience of smoking. Over the course of this project, the cotton balls turned a nasty brown, and I secondhand smoked a few packs of my dad's Mores.<br />
<br />
I can't say my father was especially impressed by the clump of brown cotton balls or what this was meant to suggest about the state of his own lungs. Somehow, my father's apathy supported my impression that what I was doing was not actually science. I was not so much proving a hypothesis as making my father very, very mad.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Did I mention that my mother LOVES science?<br />
<br />
For the last decade of her life, even in retirement, she has been at the helm of her school district's annual Family Science Night. For years, she served as the science mentor for four elementary schools -- bridging gaps in the curriculum when the state became hyper-focused on reading and math. She had a permanent display in her classroom of what I liked to call "very cool science things" -- a petrified frog, the bones of such-and-such and the crystalline insides of a geode.<br />
<br />
Even today, I marvel at the postcards I receive from my mother, on her various jaunts across the United States with my father. In one, she might describe visiting a national park; in another, she is in awe of the display at a rock and mineral show. I don't have one of her postcards handy at the moment, but here's the gist:<br />
<br />
Paula --<br />
Having a wonderful time in Monterey. Saw a group of 200 sea lions. This is not a typical migratory pattern for the sea lions, due to unusual weather conditions in the spring. I have been taking long walks in the morning while your dad sleeps. Amazing amount of birds, squirrels, butterflies on paths.<br />
Love, Mom<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The truth is, I would like to go back to the science experiments of my youth and really do them, and get a grade that I (and not my parents) deserved.<br />
<br />
But while I've learned many things over the years, I suppose I haven't fully embraced the idea of scientific inquiry. I've simply adapted to my environment. I can upload and download; I can Tweet. I recently learned how to operate the Roku and even added a new channel to my viewing options. There's science at work behind each of these inventions, but it remains invisible to me.<br />
<br />
Any experiment I might conduct today would probably involve my pets and their eating habits. I can see it now: a graph denoting the number of times I cleaned up vomit, versus the amount and type of food consumed.<br />
<br />
Maybe I could get my mother to help me with the graphs.<br />
<br />
And I bet my father could build one kick-ass display.Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-20089770776395237132014-01-20T07:07:00.000-08:002014-01-20T07:07:37.812-08:00Live to Fall Another DayIf you know me, you know I'm clumsy.<br />
<br />
If you know me, you can probably call up a memory without too much difficulty: me sliding on the ice, walking into a doorway, banging an elbow or a shin. You might remember me on crutches at one sister's wedding and in the ER right before another.<br />
<br />
My clumsiness was a defined fact of my childhood, although it hid in other words-- like "uncoordinated" on my PE charts and "accident prone" on my medical ones. My parents were likely to introduce me to new acquaintances this way, explaining the bruises on my legs. "Oh, Paula? She's just very..."<br />
<br />
If this were a Lifetime movie, I would have had a serious illness (undiagnosed brain tumor, say) that caused my imbalance, or a ham-fisted brute who caused my bruises.<br />
<br />
But no. I had no underlying tragedy.<br />
<br />
I was just a klutz.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
I wish I could say that I outgrew my clumsiness, the way I'd outgrown other flaws and acquired new social graces -- through awareness and practice. After all, I must have walked through millions of doorways by this point in my life, and the experience should have taught me about the width of my own body and the width of the doorway and where exactly I needed to position myself for safe passage. For nearly fourteen years, W and I have had the same bed, and once or twice a day I round the corner and smack my lower thigh against the knob on the footboard. It's a sharp stab of pain, but it dissipates by the time I've made it down the hallway. There's never a new bruise to regret, because my thigh has acquired a permanent indentation in that very spot -- my body's way of protecting me from myself.<br />
<br />
Somehow, instead of acquiring the ability to avoid these little accidents, I've acquired the ability to clean them up quickly. I can clean up spilled liquid at warp speed. I can very efficiently retrieve a full stack of dropped papers. I have developed as Plan Bs all sorts of contingency plans for things that no one else might realize can go wrong. If I were to fall from this height... if the food does slosh out of this pan...<br />
<br />
But I haven't been able to stop myself from getting hurt.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Recently, W and I (community volunteers! activists!) were passing out fliers about an informational meeting. We had about 100 homes to cover, and I'd done most of them myself on an early morning power walk. The twenty or so remaining homes we were covering together, before splitting off to the rest of our respective chores for the day.<br />
<br />
We'd passed out fliers here before with no problems (barring the occasional heart attack from a dog behind a chain-link fence), so I grabbed my stack of fliers and W grabbed his stack of fliers and we took opposite sides of the road. I stopped to talk to an older woman who was moving to southern California, and from across the street, I could hear W introducing himself to a woman who was watering her neighbor's lawn with a hose from her own yard.<br />
<br />
I caught scraps of their conversation as I moved along to the next house. "... passed away recently...." and "... wanted to take a moment to invite you..."<br />
<br />
I was making good time when I started up a short sidewalk, hand already outstretched with the flier I would tuck beneath the doormat. And then, out of nowhere, the sidewalk jumped up and attacked me.<br />
<br />
Well, of course it didn't -- although that would be a more satisfying explanation for the fact that I'd walked on this same sidewalk at least a half-dozen other times before and always managed to avoid the slight uneven lip of cement near the front stoop.<br />
<br />
This time, moving at a good clip, my toe caught that patch of cement and I went flying with a surprised "Oooh!"I managed to catch myself with my knees and one wrist, which is to say, I managed to hit the sidewalk pretty hard. The hand holding the flier made it all the way to the front stoop, where a neat oval circle of skin had been cleanly sheared off my forefinger.<br />
<br />
As with many of my indelicate falls and stumbles and spills, there were plenty of witnesses in sight. The older woman next door, packing her bags and loading her car. The man at the next house, taking advantage of 70-degree weather and blue skies to wash his car. And of course, W and the woman across the street, still chatting with each other. I heard W say "Indian summer" -- a joke about our unseasonably warm January. Strangely, although I'd cried out, hit the pavement with a decided thud, and was now struggling painfully to a standing position, no one had noticed a thing.<br />
<br />
Once I figured out that all of my bones appeared to be intact, I walked slowly to the man washing his car and handed him a flier. I did this Wordlessly, because I was sure my voice would come out in a whimper. <i>I have skinned knees! My forefinger has been mutilated!</i><br />
<br />
W met me in the middle of the street. "Done already?" he asked and I shook my head. I held out my finger, which appeared to be too stunned to bleed, and W stared at it.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
At home, I closed the bathroom door, peeled off my jeans and took inventory. Each knee had two round, quarter-sized raspberries, one on top of the other. After a careful washing, I pulled out the plastic container that housed Band-Aids of twenty different sizes, plus antiseptic ointment, gauze and tape. It's a box that's come in handy for me over the years, since we moved into this house and I kept hurting myself (cuts, scrapes, splinters) during one home improvement project or another.<br />
<br />
This time, although my knees were smarting, what I mainly felt was anger at my klutzy self. It had been a while since I'd taken such a hard fall, so there was disappointment too, that I hadn't in fact outgrown this tendency. And resignation -- surely I would be the patient the nursing home attendants kept in a wheelchair at all times, motivated by a fear for my own safety and the desire to avoid expensive lawsuits.<br />
<br />
But it could have been worse, and it wasn't. I sighed, slapping the last Band-Aid into place.<br />
<br />
I would live to fall another day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-85098861640482208462014-01-11T09:52:00.000-08:002014-01-11T09:53:09.296-08:00A Story of SurvivalThe first sign that I was getting better came when I was still in bed, propped up by three pillows, a glass of 7-Up on my nightstand and the remote just out of reach. I was staring at the doorway, where a little clump of pet hair had gathered. It wasn't a new clump of pet hair; I'd been noticing it from this same vantage point every morning for weeks. Miraculously, it hadn't even grown in size, despite the fact that I hadn't taken a broom to our wood floors in ... I couldn't even say.<br />
<br />
But later that day, I began the slow process of getting out of bed (holding the wall, fighting dizziness) and slowly padding down the hall in my sock slippers, and on the way past the doorway, I stooped down and came up again, triumphant, with that wad of pet hair clenched in my fist.<br />
<br />
I was going to be okay.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
What happened was this: I got very busy, and then I got very sick, and then I stayed sick for a long time.<br />
<br />
Oh, I kept fulfilling my obligations. I taught all my classes. I went to meetings for one thing or another at night. I graded papers and planned lessons. I revised my novel and missed my deadline by only one week. The dogs got fed and walked; I scooped the cat litter. Somehow, Will and I kept each other fed, although he was struggling, too. Laundry more or less got done, although from one day to the next, I couldn't remember what clothing I'd worn. But it was growing harder and harder to summon effort for the most basic things. Every hour of grading papers required an hour of sleep for recovery.<br />
<br />
At one point, it got so bad that I called Will to my bedside, where I sat, surrounded by used Kleenexes. I'd been losing my voice off and on, and so what I told him came out in a hoarse whisper, which gave the occasion even more solemnity. "I want you to pay attention," I whispered. "I'm going to tell you all my passwords."<br />
<br />
Will's eyes grew wide.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The second sign that I was going to survive came when I was at the checkout stand at Walgreens, clutching a bottle of orange DayQuil, a quick fix for what ailed me. Passing over my debit card, I glimpsed my fingernails. They were long and ragged, haphazardly trimmed, faintly yellow. They were the fingernails you might expect to see on someone in a nursing home, or maybe a person who had been in a coma for years.<br />
<br />
I curled my fingers into my palms, not wanting the Walgreens cashier to see how low I'd fallen.<br />
<br />
At home, I clipped and cut and buffed and polished. I'd never really cared about my nails before, beyond basic maintenance; I can count on both hands the number of manicures I've had in my life, each preceding a major event -- wedding, interview, book launch.<br />
<br />
That night when I crawled into bed, I fell asleep admiring my champagne nails in the glow of the television set.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I coughed so hard and for so long that my doctor thought I might have cracked a rib. I'd definitely pulled a muscle on my left side; whenever I raised my left arm, a shooting pain zigzagged from my armpit to my waist. It was easier not to use my left arm at all for a few weeks, so I kept it tucked against my side while my right arm swung free. I felt like an amputee with a phantom limb, except mine was there -- just relatively useless.<br />
<br />
At one point, standing in the kitchen, I doubled over with a cough, and then realized that I couldn't straighten. Something was definitely wrong with my back. For a long time, I stayed there on the kitchen floor, eventually turning over so that my back was pressed against the linoleum. My pets wandered in, one by one, as if paying their condolences. LG brought me her rope toy and waved it excitedly in my face.<br />
<br />
That night, I whispered the ending of my book into Will's ear. "I trust you," I said. "If I'm not around to finish..."<br />
<br />
It was dark, but somehow I still knew he was rolling his eyes.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Ten days after I started taking antibiotics, I started feeling better. Small things, like walking the dog or taking out the trash, still exhausted me, but a three-hour nap each afternoon and eight hours of sleep each night seemed to help. "You can't make up for a sleep deficit," my doctor had admonished me, but I was trying, anyway.<br />
<br />
On that tenth morning, I woke up and put on a pair of sweats and my cross trainers. It took a while to find my gym bag, buried as it was beneath a stack of blue books and scraps of Christmas wrapping paper.<br />
<br />
My first steps on the treadmill were hesitant and slow; I'd forgotten how to move. It took a while to build up a rhythm, and I had to stop a few times for a wracking cough -- but I was going. I was moving.<br />
<br />
I was going to make it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-91467784108642707502013-10-07T07:47:00.003-07:002013-10-07T07:51:50.434-07:00Many Happy ReturnsThe city where I live has a bulky-item trash policy, which goes as follows: Twice a year, free of charge, you can schedule a curbside pickup of your unwanted junk. This doesn't necessarily stop people from dumping their unwanted junk in alleys or public parks or in someone's orchard on the outskirts of the city limits -- but if used properly, the policy works extremely well.<br />
<br />
If used properly, people dump their unwanted junk at the curb, where it lingers until someone picks it up.<br />
<br />
Recently, my mother came over for dinner and expressed concern about a heap of trash outside a home two blocks away.<br />
<br />
"Oh, they must be moving," I said, dismissively. <br />
<br />
I had passed the pile for the last few days on my walk with Baxter, and then later gone back with my car to pick two old windows out of the hoard. What I will do with these windows, I have no idea, although Pinterest has 2,477 suggestions for me. I could just as well have let them be, since I'm way too busy to refurbish old windows, and now I have two junky old windows in a corner of my backyard where old things tend to accumulate. I mostly hide the pile with a tarp; when I do remove the tarp -- to add another old thing to the pile of old things -- it's always surprising to see what's there.<br />
<br />
<em>Where did all this junk come from?</em><br />
<br />
Oh, yeah. From me.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Over the years, W and I have disposed of a number of things using our city's bulky-item pick-up policy: our first couch, which Baxter chewed to tufts of stuffing; a massive roll of 1970s-era carpet that had covered our original oak floors; a recliner with a sprung spring; a rusted wheelbarrow with a flat tire. <br />
<br />
Often, the things left out on the curbs never make it to the county dump, or if they do, it's by taking a more circuitous route. Someone passing by will decide they need the couch, even if its cushions are missing stuffing. Someone will decide that decades-old carpet that smells vaguely of death and strongly of pets is the perfect covering for their own floors. And someone, no doubt, has found a Pinterest project for a rusted wheelbarrow with a flat tire.<br />
<br />
On one occasion, the disposal truck came lumbering down the street and I tore myself away from my laptop to inform the driver that he was too late -- my junk had already been reclaimed.<br />
<br />
"It's amazing the trash people will pick up," the driver said, shaking his head. <br />
<br />
I thought this was a curious comment, coming from a disposal truck driver, but I feigned a shared incredulousness. "I know! Isn't it crazy?"<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Last spring, after sitting on our 2011 tax return for almost 12 months (which I felt must be some sort of national record), W and I decided to spring for a new couch, an L-shaped sectional that fit our front room much better than our current couch and had the added benefit of not being covered with cat hair.<br />
<br />
But what to do with the old couch? <br />
<br />
It still had life in it, I reasoned. We could give it to someone who needs a couch and wouldn't mind spending money on professional cleaning, Will suggested. And so, because the space could not bear two couches, we moved the old couch onto our patio.<br />
<br />
I'm ashamed to say how long it lingered there, looking more and more shabby every time I opened the patio doors. Suffice to say, before too long, it was now a couch that we would not suggest to any of our friends or acquaintances. Immediately, other things appeared on top of it - empty boxes, bags of trash that we were too lazy to bring to the actual trash can and instead dumped at this convenient halfway point. Leaves collected there. A neighborhood cat discovered it.<br />
<br />
Will and I had become the kind of people who have indoor furniture outside their home.<br />
<br />
"Oh, don't go out there," I said to a friend, who was wandering in the vague direction of our patio doors. <br />
<br />
"Why not?" He laughed. "Is that where the dragon lives?"<br />
<br />
"Worse," I said. "So much worse."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
After months of waiting for no reason at all, I made the thirty-second phone call to the disposal company, and they gave me a pick-up date. The night before the scheduled pick-up, W and I lugged the couch to the curb. I checked on it a few times that night before going to bed - or rather, I forgot about it completely, only to be reminded by its ghostly rectangular shape every time I passed the front windows. <em>What</em> is <em>that? Oh, right. Our old couch. Still there.</em><br />
<br />
But in the morning, before dawn, it was gone.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
In the crazy rush of last spring, W and I took my spring break to fly to Cleveland and drive back to California -- part of a research project for my second novel. We visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, spent a half-day wandering around Oberlin College, visited my hometown of Napoleon, Ohio and rekindled a decades-long friendship. We saw an aunt and uncle in Chicago and met a friend downtown for coffee the next morning. In Omaha, we had dinner with a college friend and his family. Okay -- so part research, part memory-lane.<br />
<br />
But in between, we drove, putting thousands of miles on our rented Toyota. When I drove, I sang or chattered to W or listened to one of thirty discs of Stephen King's Under the Dome. As a passenger, I took notes on the topography, the vultures that circled, the town names, the restaurant chains, the brown historical markers. We visited the landlocked lighthouse in Gretna, NE. We visited the pony express station in Gothemberg, NE. We saw Chimney Rock and Scott's Bluff (for you Oregon Trail fans). And we drove. And drove.<br />
<br />
Every now and then, on a lonely stretch of I-80, we would see someone's castoff belongings - armchairs missing a limb, mattresses that may well have fallen off someone's station wagon. It would be sitting on the side of the road, as lonely and poignant as Willa Cather's big plow against the sky - and then as we came closer, we would see that it was indeed nothing more than a pile of junk.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
After five days or so, we were back in California, heading south from Sacramento. It was full-on spring here, not the stinging sleet of Cleveland or the half-melted slush of Laramie, WY -- but <em>spring</em>. It was a good day to be alive. I began making a mental list -- laundry, pick up Bax from my parents, grade the papers I'd lugged across country and back without once glancing at.<br />
<br />
We took our exit from the freeway, and began wending our way through the few twists and turns to our house. Less than a block away, I braked and we both stared out the window.<br />
<br />
"Is that...?"<br />
<br />
It was.<br />
<br />
On the side of the road, bridging an overflowing gutter, was our couch.<br />
<br />
It had returned.<br />
<br />Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-12644029647812608252013-09-28T08:10:00.000-07:002013-09-28T08:10:12.717-07:00Traffic and other exciting things.Last week someone asked me: What happened to your blog?<br />
<br />
And I answered cheerfully: Nothing. It's still there, as far as I know.<br />
<br />
What I meant was: I really would like to be constantly updating my blog with interesting stories about my daily life and fictional accounts of other people's daily lives, but I've been swamped. (No, not literally.) But I've been busy and dutiful and productive in other areas of my life, which unfortunately has led to a major creativity suck. <br />
<br />
When I think of my life at this moment, I think of the to-do list on my laptop, which shrinks only to expand again five minutes later. <br />
<br />
Nothing on the list is funny. Nothing on the list is anything but "must do." It would be very boring to talk about the must-dos. <br />
<br />
It is almost as boring as the story I'm about to relate.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Years ago, W. and I were invited to the home of some people who I am fairly sure will never read this blog. We ate dinner and talked about traffic. And then we talked about traffic some more. And then - although I longed to excuse myself from the table and bang my head against the nearest wall -- we talked again about traffic.<br />
<br />
Apparently, there is a lot to say about traffic*, although absolutely none of it is interesting.<br />
<br />
W., sensing that I was nearing my breaking point, tried valiantly to change the subject, but to no avail. I tried bitchily to change the subject and this was still to no avail.<br />
<br />
We escaped before we could discuss traffic in other countries, or throughout human history, although I could see the writing on the wall. Make no mistake: it was coming, perhaps with another cup of coffee.<br />
<br />
On the way home, Will and I rode in silence. It seemed a cruel trick of fate that we found ourselves on the freeway with a few thousand other cars, but we bore this in silence. We both knew that the first person who mentioned the word traffic would have to be shot.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
This story is still not interesting, despite the passage of several years. It still does not make me smile.<br />
<br />
And if I told you about the stack of essays I was grading, and the tedium of revising my novel and yes -- the horrors of my two-hour daily commute -- you would not be amused, either.<br />
<br />
But don't worry, Live from the Bean will return. I will once again feel compelled to point out my own shortcomings and the shortcomings of others. There will be things to chuckle about and shake your head at. (There will even be the occasional sentence that ends with a preposition.)<br />
<br />
And maybe this will even be tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />
*If you're wondering, our traffic discussion included patterns, the fastest routes to just about everywhere, road construction that was happening, road construction that should be happening, commuting, potholes, hard and soft shoulders and the horrible driving skills of other people, some of whom happened to be women.Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-64041550466494114202013-08-28T07:16:00.003-07:002013-08-28T07:16:29.050-07:00Men are from Mars, Women are from Neiman MarcusOverheard: This conversation between two students.<br />
<br />
Male: You know, the basic difference between men and women is that men would never wear uncomfortable shoes.<br />
<br />
Female laughs.<br />
<br />
Male: Seriously. Men would never try on fifty pairs of shoes only to find a pair that looks good but makes each step a living hell. It would just never happen.<br />
<br />
Female: But I bet you like it when women wear high heels.<br />
<br />
Male: Well, I don't mind, but I've never honestly looked at a woman in flip-flops and thought, "She would be attractive if only she was wearing high heels." Women just do that to themselves, so they can impress other women. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Me, conscious of blister rubbing painfully against heel of cute shoe, files conversation away for further thought.Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-11174880155233871462013-08-17T14:19:00.004-07:002013-08-17T14:19:45.213-07:00Dear Man who came out of the bathroom still zipping up,<br />
Please note: That should really be done when you're still in the bathroom, before you wash your hands, before you unlock the door, before you step out into the hallway of this fine establishment, before you bump into me, before you say "Oopsie" (perhaps at your age, you should never say "Oopsie") and before I even have a chance to roll my eyes.<br />
<br />
Just a thought for next time.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Woman who should just give in and get a kidney infection, already<br />
<br />
Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-54420495525676459222013-08-16T10:38:00.001-07:002013-08-16T10:38:06.847-07:00Dear Woman with Braying Laugh,Yes, I heard you.<br />
<br />
From all the way over here.<br />
<br />
See? That's me looking up over my monitor, giving you a little wave.<br />
<br />
It's not meant to be a wave of encouragement.<br />
<br />
I'm sort of tempted, teacher-style, to wander over and ask you if you would like to share the joke with the rest of the class.<br />
<br />
Social conventions inhibit me, along with my deep suspicion that whatever it is, it isn't funny at all.<br />
<br />
Sincerely, <br />
<br />
Woman who can't believe she forgot her headphones todayPaula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-56037778958823335192013-08-09T20:35:00.002-07:002013-08-12T21:46:05.811-07:00A Tale of Two PassengersI fully admit it's my fault for not checking in 24 hours in advance. <br />
<br />
"Set an alarm," my husband told me, and I replied, "Yeah, yeah." But I knew I didn't need to set an alarm, because I would remember. I am good at remembering things. I have, in my time, remembered many things, some very important and some quite useless, like the license plate number of every car my parents have ever owned.<br />
<br />
But of course, I forgot this.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until we were on our way to the airport that I remembered. For my negligence, I was awarded a spot in the "C" group -- and, as we all know, C stands for center.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
By the time I boarded the plane, all the window and aisle seats were taken, as expected. After determining that there was a bathroom at the front and rear of the plane, I decided to take the first available seat. A quick scan revealed no infants in sight (although infants have a way of suddenly appearing on flights, from beneath blankets and small basketlike child carriers), so I stowed my bag (my beautiful red bag, which is so impractical and of which I'm so immensely proud) overhead and asked the occupants of Row 12 (two, benign-looking and vaguely "older" people, the sort who like to read or sleep on planes),"Is this seat taken?"<br />
<br />
This produced simultaneous shakes of the head from the man in seat A and the woman in seat C. Seat C was kind enough to stand, and I scooted past to wedge myself, water bottle, cell phone and book of true crime into Seat B. <br />
<br />
Seat C immediately settled into a book on her iPad (<em>Atlas Shrugged,</em> about five chapters in, I noted), and Seat A, who was borderline portly, flipped through the pages of <em>Skymall</em> magazine. They were both fiftyish, with graying hair and glasses. I had high hopes.<br />
<br />
We exchanged the usual pleasantries:<br />
<br />
Seat A: Boy, they really wedge people in, don't they?<br />
<br />
Me: Yeah.<br />
<br />
Seat C: At least it's not hot. The last time I flew out of this airport it was so hot. I mean, so hot, and there was no air on the plane, and everyone was getting testy.<br />
<br />
Me: That's awful.<br />
<br />
Seat C: But it's cool today, at least.<br />
<br />
Me: Right.<br />
<br />
Pleasantly but firmly, wanting to ward off further impending conversations about nothing, I opened my book. I happened to be on a chapter about a mortician-turned-brothel owner who was facing legal trouble at both businesses, and I wondered for the millionth time what in the world other people thought of me. But my rowmates didn't seem to think anything of me. Seat C returned to <em>Atlas Shrugged</em>; Seat A abandoned <em>SkyMall</em> to stare at the tarmac.<br />
<br />
It was promising to be a fine flight.<br />
<br />
***<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Seat A was asleep by the time we reached a cruising altitude, one of those carefree, full body sleeps where you don't care that your legs are spread far apart and wedged up against the hapless person in the center seat (me). Seat C was reading.<br />
<br />
A flight attendant came by and took drink orders, and woman
in seat C and I both ordered. Guiltily, I looked over at my sleeping companion in seat A.
Why guiltily? If he wanted a drink, he should have stayed awake, right? But it
would have taken no effort at all for me to nudge him (he was, in effect,
already nudging me), or to say near his ear, Did you want something to drink?
But I did neither, and the flight attendant moved on.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
When the attendant returned with our drinks later, the woman in the aisle
seat and I both unlatched our tray tables and obediently received our
plastic cups and square napkins. It was then that the man at the window woke
with a start and demanded to know why he didn't have a drink. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
What he actually said was, "Why didn't you order me a drink?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Um. This was very awkward, and a little shocking. If I prefer not to have a banal conversation with a stranger, I certainly don't want to be scolded by one. I thought ruefully of all
the other center seats that had been available at the time I chose this one.
Missed opportunities, all of them. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"Well, I didn't know if..." I began, at the same time the woman in
the aisle seat snapped, "You want a drink? Then you order your own
drink."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Wow. I was sitting so stiffly that I could feel each vertebrae of my spine. The guts of
this woman! She wasn't going to take anything from anyone, even a complete
stranger on a plane!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And then the man said, "You do this every time we fly. I ask you to wake me
up, and you just completely disregard me."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Without moving my neck, I glanced back and forth between them, the
Bickering Bickersons. A couple, although they had decided to sit with a (n
unsuspecting) buffer in between them, and to my observation had not
acknowledged each other's presence up until this point.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Huh.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"You've never ordered a drink for me," the woman insisted.
"But you expect me to..."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"Never mind, I'll do it myself." The man reached up to the call
light, jostling my left arm and therefore my entire body in the process. The
flight attendant, looking subtly annoyed, returned and took the man's request.
<br />
<br />
All that for a Sprite -- it hardly seemed worth it. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
***<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Somewhere over Wyoming, the man demanded the iPad and the woman obliged
with a noisy sigh, shoving it in his direction, narrowly avoiding my forehead.
I read studiously on, pretending to be invisible. (Maybe I really was.) When he
was through with the iPad, one red state later, he returned it with a similar thrust.
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
At one point he demanded gum; a stick of gum was produced and passed in his
direction. At another point she insisted on his iPod; the headphones came
popping out of his ears and the entire apparatus was passed over my head.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I decided that I hated these people. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I decided that they must have been together for years, miserable, keeping it
up for the sake of a shared mortgage, children, assets that would have been
difficult or costly to split. Or they had just had a particularly bad trip, one
in which her phone had dropped into a toilet and his luggage had been lost,
leaving him with no other options but to raid his brother-in-law's closet
for the duration. Maybe divorce was imminent. Maybe they were flying to Milwaukee to meet with divorce attorneys and a court-appointed mediator. Maybe
-- I was, after all, completely ensconced in a true crime tale -- one had
cheated, and the other had discovered the affair, and the whole sorry mess was
a raw wound, complete with lawsuits and allegations and late-night whispered telephone threats.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
***<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The descent into Milwaukee was smooth, our touchdown and deceleration
unremarkable. I clutched my cell phone and book in one hand, and tried to plan
how I would remove my beautiful but impractical red bag from the overhead bin
quickly without whacking another passenger on the head. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
That's when the woman stepped to the side, smiled sweetly at me, and said,
"You go ahead, honey. We're not in any rush."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I was happy to oblige, and scooted around her, made a heroic grab for my bag, and hustled
off the plane.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
For all I know, they're still standing in Row 12, arguing over whose turn it
is to carry the luggage.<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-70791096319024146152013-07-30T08:21:00.001-07:002013-07-31T15:32:07.631-07:00Dear Friends who discuss serial killers over dinner, Thank you for being you.<br />
<br />
And by "being you," of course I mean, being people who know about Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy and BTK and Ted Bundy, and don't mind discussing the gory details over plates of nachos, grande burritos and chicken enchiladas.<br />
<br />
Thank you for the extended discussion of Ted Bundy.<br />
<br />
I admit, I had been feeling somewhat exhausted from the day's activities and the night's reading, and when I heard his name I perked up, like a child who has been promised a soft-serve ice cream cone for being on her best behavior.<br />
<br />
"Ted Bundy just seemed so normal," you lamented. <br />
<br />
"And handsome," you added, sadly. <br />
<br />
Thank you for the moment of silence, in which we must all have been thinking: What a waste.<br />
<br />
I remember seeing a made-for-TV movie with Mark Harmon as Ted Bundy. I think it may have been my first serial killer movie, and I watched it with a pillow half-blocking my face. I was 10 years old at the time. (If you are interested, it makes a great late-night movie, and I'm also happy to share my recipe for kettle corn.)<br />
<br />
Thank you for not even noticing when the people at the next table exchanged worried glances and eventually moved to the front of the restaurant. <br />
<br />
All in all, it was a lovely evening.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Your sick friend<br />
<br />
<br />Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-54768095423789497682013-07-08T15:49:00.003-07:002013-07-08T15:49:37.773-07:00Dear Man Who Refuses to Say Hello --I'll go ahead and say it first: Hello.<br />
<br />
Well, to be technical, that isn't my "first" effort, or even my second, or eleventh, or thirty-seventh.<br />
<br />
Do you know that I pass you four or five mornings a week (at the end of a leash being pulled by a lovably overweight beagle), and that more often than not, I say "hello" or "good morning" or, when I can't bring myself to face your rejection, a tight-lipped "hi"?<br />
<br />
You have lived in the house on the corner for the better part two years. <br />
<br />
But you have never once replied.<br />
<br />
You could be a statue, really, hollowed out on the inside, with a spraying garden hose in one hand. <br />
<br />
I'm not looking for any kind of relationship, or any favors. I'm not going to start up a long conversation about crabgrass or the mistletoe growing in our trees or the weather. I can live with neither of us knowing each other's names. (Baxter, though, would like you to know his.)<br />
<br />
No, we don't know each other, except by sight. You are not the neighbor I'll come to when I've run out of eggs, and I'm (clearly) not your choice for a front porch-sitting, lemonade-sipping companion. But I do know that at 6:30 a.m., we are two of a very few people in the neighborhood who are dressed and ready to face the day.<br />
<br />
It just seems to me like the very least little thing we can give each other is this: Hello. <br />
Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-37259797938991030762013-07-04T16:29:00.001-07:002013-07-04T16:29:10.811-07:00Missing: One Large(ish) Remote ControlI have come to realize that few circumstances are more irritating than this one. Only half an hour ago, I had to stand up, walk to the television, locate a series of miniscule buttons, and then toggle my neck back (to locate the channel button) and forth (to check the channel itself), which has prompted this notification. This is how they did it in the old days, I remind myself. This is how my ancestors suffered, too.<br />
<br />
For all I know, the remote has been missing for a month. I've been busy, for one thing, and for another, it's baseball season, and I'm strongly encouraged not to interrupt the W's viewing of any baseball games.<br />
<br />
Yet today, I'm on vacation. There's a stack of essays to be graded, but they can keep until tomorrow, or Saturday, or Sunday night very late, or even Monday morning, when I'm frantically trying get ready for a week of teaching. It's 108 degrees outside -- at least according to my weather app, which is as close as I would like to get to experiencing today's weather. Three of my four pets are sleeping within arm's length.<br />
<br />
It's the perfect day, in other words, for mindless TV.<br />
<br />
And then W informs me that the remote is missing. It's been at least three days since he's seen it. I press further -- under the couch? behind a cushion? in the gap between the couch and the window?<br />
<br />
Negative.<br />
<br />
I probe further: Did you maybe take it somewhere else? Outside, into the bathroom, into the kitchen? Did you retrace your steps? When was the last time you saw it? Has anyone else been in the house? Would anyone have reason to take our remote control? Did anyone attempt to make contact with you, was a ransom sum proposed? Do you have reason to suspect -- <br />
<br />
But now I'm being ridiculous. It's not such an imposition to walk to the television and manually change the channel. <br />
<br />
Although it's even easier just to turn it off.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-92042623345364254712013-06-03T22:46:00.002-07:002013-06-04T06:28:05.071-07:00For Librarians Everywhere<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 3in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Napoleon Public Library<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">310 W. Clinton St.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Napoleon, OH 43545<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Dear Librarian:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Please accept this
autographed copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mourning Hours</i>
along with my thanks. I spent the first nine years of my life in Napoleon, Ohio
and many happy hours in the Napoleon Public Library. In 1983, I was even a top
reader in the Summer Reading Program, and I cherished the copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Charlotte’s Web</i> that I received as a
prize that summer. It holds a place of honor on my bookshelf even today. Would
I have become a writer if not for the people who introduced me to the right
books at the just the right time?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In 1985, my family moved
to California, but in my mind, I have returned over and over to town of my
birth. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mourning Hours</i> is set in a
similar small town in Wisconsin, where I have deep family ties, but much of the
narrator’s childhood experiences are echoes of my own childhood in Napoleon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">As part of the
acknowledgements for this book, I thank the librarians in Henry County, Ohio,
and librarians everywhere. I mean this sincerely. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thank you</i> for the work you do. It is unfortunate that the funding
for something so essential to the life of every American is often controlled by
a simple vote on a ballot – “yes” or “no.” You will forever have my “yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">With gratitude,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Paula Treick DeBoard<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nffhxNGudXw/Ua1-e36EZlI/AAAAAAAAACk/o_ZXPChFq5w/s1600/Charlotte's+Web.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nffhxNGudXw/Ua1-e36EZlI/AAAAAAAAACk/o_ZXPChFq5w/s320/Charlotte's+Web.png" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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</span>Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-51423564581495899832013-05-29T12:21:00.001-07:002013-05-29T12:21:31.016-07:00Dear Person Conducting an Interview at the Table Next to Me,In my extensive experience as a patron at Starbucks, I've seen a few things.<br />
<br />
Once, a woman asked me if it were possible for me to unplug my laptop so she could use the outlet. I obliged, and she proceeded to plop a massive sewing machine onto the tiny table I was using. The machine seemed to work very well, and had me completely enthralled. It was impossible to type, anyway, since the entire table was vibrating, and even my noise-cancelling headphones were no match for that level of volume.<br />
<br />
So -- there was that.<br />
<br />
I've seen people show up with massive quantities of papers to be signed by other parties. I've been privy to a number of match.com first dates. And I've seen a number of very professional people conduct very professional interviews in Starbucks.<br />
<br />
So perhaps I can give you a few pointers:<br />
<br />
1. Don't schedule interviews at 15-minute interviews, then ask a half-hour worth of questions. Half the people in this store are waiting for you, listening to the questions you're asking. <br />
<br />
2. "Tell me how you have the soul for this job" is weird. Ask a fake question, get a fake answer.<br />
<br />
3. Don't hire the girl in the blue shirt. I have the back view, and I can see she has tucked her shirt into her underwear. This is Getting Dressed 101, and although it might be a one-time slip, it seems like the sort of thing a person should have mastered by her age (20, give or take).<br />
<br />
4. The guy in the white shirt was standing in the hallway outside the bathroom, talking about what a "douche" you are and how the job was a "joke". Probably not in line for employee of the month.<br />
<br />
5. To really nail the "pompous ass" thing, perhaps try to work in a few more comments like "110 percent isn't enough for this job, I need 120 percent." It's probably useless to point out that 100 percent is actually the maximum a person can give. But why stop with 120 percent, anyway? Wouldn't 200 percent be better? Or 400, for that matter? Maybe you could suggest that your newest hire find a way to clone him/herself entirely at the employee's expense? Perhaps there is a polite way of asking the employee to eliminate all demands on his/her personal life and the pursuit of actual career goals in order to work for a company that seems to pay only commission and provide no actual benefits?<br />
<br />
Just some points to consider.<br />
<br />
Yours truly,<br />
<br />
So Not Interested in This Job<br />
<br />
<br />Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-79229629975079766592013-05-06T14:51:00.000-07:002013-05-07T07:26:07.599-07:00Dear Man Who Came Running After Me in the Parking Lot,Thank you.<br />
<br />
Actually, I had just unloaded two bags into the backseat of my car and was thinking, "Wasn't there a third bag?" when I heard you behind me, yelling, "Woman in the blue shirt!"<br />
<br />
I turned and watched you coming toward me, but it still took a long moment for me to realize I was the woman in the blue shirt.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry. Lately, my mind is always somewhere else.<br />
<br />
But then you came closer, panting, and I realized that you were carrying my third bag, which contained a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi and a two-liter bottle of Diet Sierra Mist. I'm always slightly embarrassed when I'm confronted with the evidence of my diet soda addiction (cans, bottles, Big Gulp cups with massive red straws), and for a moment I actually considered saying that it wasn't my bag. But that's silly, because it was.<br />
<br />
"You have got to be the fastest person I could possibly chase through a parking lot!" you said, still catching your breath. I am horrible at guessing ages, but I think you would qualify for a senior discount, and it was quite impressive to think that you had followed me all the way out the store, across the parking lot, and through the maze of parked cars, just to hand me what a well-meaning friend has termed "liquid cancer."<br />
<br />
I felt pretty bad, seeing how out of breath you were, because the truth is that I am not a fast person at all. Actually, I am slow. Ask my husband, or read <a href="http://www.livefromthebean.blogspot.com/2011/06/if-you-go.html">this blog post</a>. Or ask my former co-worker, who told me, after seven years as colleagues, that he "didn't know I could run."<br />
<br />
"Thank you! That is so... wonderful," I told you. And it was. Just when I was starting to think that everyone in my city was a pothead gang-banging tagger with an obsence moniker, someone went and proved me wrong.<br />
<br />
I wondered what the appropriate etiquette was for this situation. A profuse handshake? A cash reward? Split the profits? (No, you take the Sierra Mist... I insist.)<br />
<br />
I settled with, "I really apprecate it," and you said, "No problem," and walked away, moving very slowly.<br />
<br />
Anyway, you know that part. What you don't know is that I've decided to pay it forward. I am going to become, any day now, the sort of person who observes things carefully and steps in like a knight in shining armor (or a rather slow-walking woman in handmade Greek sandals) to save the day.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
A Diet Soda Junkie<br />
(aka, Woman in the Blue Shirt)Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-74480139613978155402013-05-01T15:54:00.002-07:002013-05-01T15:54:35.249-07:00Dear Mosquito Hawk who has been in my shower since Tuesday,I thought we had an agreement.<br />
<br />
I thought from the way we eyed each other warily on Tuesday morning, the sun only a smudged blur of light outside the window, that we understood each other.<br />
<br />
It was a two-part agreement, a contract where each party had a specific responsibility. My responsibility was to let you live. Your responsibility was to come no closer.<br />
<br />
As it has been explained to me by very intelligent, well-meaning, all-living-things loving people, mosquito hawks are actually good pests to have around. They kill mosquitoes, thereby protecting me from a host of diseases, such as West Nile virus, malaria, and bubonic plague. (I'm iffy on the last one.) Recently, I have become aware that I am more of a target for mosquitoes than others. Exhibit A: Will and I spent fifteen minutes in the backyard last Saturday night. He emerged unscathed. I had twenty-four bites of varying sizes (pinprick to BB) on my legs. Therefore, my second thought upon seeing you against the far end of the shower, a winged horror against the white tile, was that I would let you live. I could adapt to this new set of circumstances. We could live together, you killing mosquitoes and me not killing you.<br />
<br />
And then, you got greedy.<br />
<br />
For no reason at all, you left your spot on the wall and took a dizzying flight, while I screamed, clutching a loofah close to my body. You flapped dangerously near to my face, and this was where I am sorry to say we had to part ways.<br />
<br />
I would like you to know that I still hold your species in high respect.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
The Girl Who Showers Alone<br />
<br />
Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-79194233015550524142013-04-30T12:19:00.002-07:002013-04-30T12:19:47.264-07:00Dear Very Cute Bagel Shop,I love this place.<br />
<br />
I could spend way too much time here. And money.<br />
<br />
The funky topiary is neat. The hot pastrami bagel is fantastic.<br />
<br />
But, a small suggestion?<br />
<br />
This place needs a public restroom. If you want, I would be happy to conduct a small focus group on the issue.<br />
<br />
I could poll your customers, for example.<br />
<br />
"Check all that apply:<br />
<br />
____I like to wash my hands before I eat.<br />
<br />
____I like to check my teeth in the mirror after I eat and before I head into my meeting.<br />
<br />
____I have children, and sometimes children need to use the bathroom on short notice.<br />
<br />
____I would like to be able to order from your gourmet coffee menu and not have to rush out quickly to use the bathroom at the Togo's next door, risking adverse looks from the harrassed-looking Togo's employees.<br />
<br />
____ I would be more inclined to visit in the future if I knew there was a public restroom available."<br />
<br />
I think that about covers it.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Person About to Rush Next Door to Togo'sPaula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3914351072060777484.post-31207714473844189472013-04-18T15:56:00.000-07:002013-04-22T15:12:24.463-07:00Dear Mystery Liquid on the Floor of the Women’s Restroom in this Fine Establishment,<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We’ve met before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last week, in fact, when I was passing through the area and
set my bag into a puddle of you that was somehow temporarily obscured by the
flickering fluorescent light. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize it at the time,
and it wasn’t until I had hoisted the bag onto my shoulder and found that the
side of my blouse (dry-clean only, if you must know) was damp, that I was able
to identify the culprit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes you are not wet, but sticky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes you are dry, with muddy footprints.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But mostly you are slick, and I have to negotiate each step
carefully, hiking up the hems of my dress slacks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is curious, because the hallway outside the door is
dry. The line at the counter, full of angsty patrons, is dry. Outside, on the
concrete walkway and in the asphalt parking lot, it is dry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In fact, it has not rained here for weeks, and it’s possible
that it won’t rain again for months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This leaves only a few possibilities for your origin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I’m going to go with bioterrorism, since it is at least
slightly less icky.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regards,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Girl Who Needs Galoshes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Paula K.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02380846410671407454noreply@blogger.com0