Meet the Mets

Most of you know how the story ended last night, the NY Mets held off the St. Louis Cardinals until the last inning of the 7th Game of the NLCS. Then, with a single homerun, the Cards scored the two winning runs and the final Met struck out LOOKING at the ball.

Note to all ballplayers attempting a career in the majors: if you've been watching an umpire call a wild strike zone all night, you're known as a "home-run hitter," bases are loaded, you're two runs down, and there are two outs at the end of the ninth inning...YOU ALWAYS SWING AT THE BALL!

But that's the way the story ended. Now, let me tell you how it began.

It all started in a cow pasture in Cooperstown, NY. The year was 1839, and the bases were steaming piles of....

Eh, maybe we should skip forward a little.

The story I want to tell you is how I, a lifelong O's fan with a minor affinity for the Mets (thanks to the Tidewater Norfolk Tides being their farm team) ended up at Shea Stadium with a boy from college and 35k people having what can best be described as a group therapy session.

That is, of course, if group therapy is supposed to be a good thing.

It all started Tuesday night when I accepted a drinks-date with Jeff. Just a casual thing that was a bit of a relief after the whole Friday night minor-drama.

Wednesday, I called Ben to get his email address for a friend who's looking for a new job (she's fabulous if you're hiring). While we were on the phone, he mentioned the game. Granted, we weren't sure there was even going to be a Game 7, but, like me, Ben likes to keep his options open. Long story short, there was a Game 7.

This then posed an "interesting" problem for me. See, while I had accepted the ticket to the game (and I had promised to pay for it), I didn't have:

1. A place to stay in NYC
2. The necessary time off of work
3. Any clue how I was going to get out of my date with Jeff.

Problem #2 was the easiest to manage. I walked out of the office, promised my boss I'd make up the time I needed, and scored his agreement that I could work from "home" today. Yes, I'm in NY and my sister's firewall isn't exactly letting me get into the files that I need to actually accomplish anything, but my coworker sent me a few things, and I'm doing a lot of thinking. That works, right?

Problem #3 also seemed easy. I sent Jeff this fabulous little email saying that while I'd totally love to go out with him, it was a once in a lifetime (I'm an O's fan, remember) opportunity that I couldn't pass up. I figured it he was any sort of a guy I wanted to see again, he'd go along with it. And he did.

Problem #1 proved to be the hardest. Julia is committed to not having her house turned into "Hotel Charles," and while I respect that, I do have an open invitation from her fabulous roommate. The problem, however, was Ben. Julia didn't know who he was (she does now), and didn't want him staying at the house. Since I couldn't find a place for him to stay, the whole plan was almost abandoned. Which caused a couple of emails to be sent back to Jeff.

• Email #1: Was the one I mentioned earlier.
• Email #2: Was the one I asked Julia to send when she told me that Ben couldn't stay and then Ben decided that it would probably be "easier" if we bagged the trip altogether. I don't have access to my Gmail, so I thought I'd see if I could reschedule with Jeff.
• Email #3: Was the one Julia sent after I convinced her Ben could stay. I needed to cancel again (obviously).

Truth be told, I probably was better off staying in Baltimore. See, every time I get together with Ben, he forgets that we're not dating. He's a nice guy, but NO. And the more he throws himself at me, the more that I realize that I want nothing to do with him. I'm going to give him a cooling-off period and then contact him around Christmas.

Funniest part of the evening happened on the train on the way home. Gotta love that post-game zone-out, right? I was sandwiched between a bunch of boys on the 7 when one of them starts bitching about it not being an "Express Train." I turn around and go, "There is no express train; there is only ZOOOOL." Didn't realize I was being loud, but apparently I was. Look for me, on Overheard in NY sometime this fall.

So, kids, no more baseball until the spring. Since the Mets, the O's and the Red Sox are completely out of it, there's no reason to watch the Series. I'll be back in February with a new Baseball Blog, so stay tuned!

My sister makes me laugh

For the record, it hasn't been 4 months.

I accepted a date for tonight, and since my friends always complain that I don't provide details, I decided to issue a "Personal Press Release" just so that everyone's in the loop.

It was clear, concise, and included all of the pertinent information. However, leave it to my personal publicist to edit the release in such a way that she better be glad that I can run fast in heels -- especially since I had downed 96 ounces of water by 10 AM!

Her take on my "event" tonight:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
10.10.06

(Baltimore, MD)—Lindsay F., 28, Single Girl Extraordinaire, today announces relief in her four-month dating drought, with the acceptance of a dinner date from “Jeff.” Jeff (last name withheld), 33, is a Project Manager from Baltimore. The date will take place tonight. For privacy reasons, the would-be couple has withheld the location of the date and asks the paparazzi to refrain from seeking them out.

Ms. F. expressed excitement about the upcoming event, releasing this brief statement: “Thank God Jeff came along. I was about ready to request famine relief aid from Brad and Angelina. I’m going in with an open mind and a cute skirt.”
# # #

EDITOR’S NOTE: Full review and photography will be released tomorrow on Ms. F’s blog :)

The publicist got it wrong, no photos are coming. As for the review, we'll just have to see about that, won't we?

As a parent, it's always a disheartening experience when you learn your child may have a drinking problem. However, I wasn't quite expecting that the lesson about the perils of alcohol would have to be discussed with a six year-old.

So maybe one of you can explain why this was the scene that greeted me when I got home from work on Friday (at 2 in the afternoon!).
Based on the mess, I have no doubt that Sookie was involved in this somehow as well. I attempted to ask her, but she was sleeping it off. As for Minnie, thankfully, I can report that she is a very mellow drunk and, when confronted, didn't feel the need to blame all of her problems on any racial or ethnic groups. At least the values of equality and freedom of religion have stuck with her so far, even though the "Just Say No" lesson clearly didn't.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls?

In case you missed it this week, one of the biggest stories to hit the wires was the debut of the "Bratz Bra" - a PADDED bra for the six year old set.

Now, I don't consider myself to be all that conservative, but padded bras for six year olds? Something doesn't seem quite right about that. It's bad enough that Osama and Saddam are more familiar names to the post-9/11 generation (for the record, the little girls being targeted for these bras were in diapers when the planes hit the towers) than Ken and Barbie will ever be, but now our little girls are facing a bigger threat than Al Queda will ever post -- a blow to their body image brought on by the celebrity party-girls and a pressure to grow up way too fast.

I remember how embarrassed I was when my mother announced that it was time for me, at nine, to get my first training bra. At first I thought it was cool that my mom thought I was enough of a woman to take on this rite of passage. Then, Monday rolled around, and I realized that I was the only girl in my class who actually had one on. Since it was the 80s, before the age when first graders were sued for sexual harassment, I endured a lot of snapping until the other girls caught up and we shared the load. My saving grace, however, was that I was damn smart and tuned in to current events. As Gilbert Blythe said to Anne Shirley, "Being smart is more important than being pretty," and I took that to heart. Thanks to my academic success, I was able to build a healthy self-confidence that has carried me farther than looks ever could. My idols were Nancy Reagan, Mary Lou Retton, Sally Ride, and Princess Diana -- smart, beautiful women who possessed significant talents and spoke to the message that little girls could grow up to be anything they wanted -- even princess.

So where did we go so wrong? Why are the granddaughters of the ERA generation not only NOT burning their bras in a quest for equality and solidarity, they're embracing the curse of the boulder (pebble?) holder at a younger age than ever before? Even worse, they're already flirting with the dangers of anorexia (because, you know that the biggest insult that any girl can receive is that she's "fat") and are told that mid-driff shirts and thongs are "nice girl" attire. They're not, but that's the message that these kids are getting. The role-models that I grew up with have been replaced by Paris, Nicole, Mischa, and Lindsay -- walking skeletons whose biggest talents are talking their way into clubs and stealing each others boyfriends. Even our First Lady is a puppet who hides behind her crazy husband and whose greatest success in the last 20 years is to have raised two of the most notorious of the party girl set. Gee, she must be so proud.

Our great feminist sisters are gone, and the strong women who try to rise in their stead are often labeled lesbians by men who are afraid that they're actually making sense. However, there's still hope for the next generation. If we each take the time to tell our little girls -- be they our daughters, sisters, cousins, students, friends or neighbors -- that they are important, that they are athletic, that they are pretty, and that they are valued for who they are, we can still produce a generation of girls who can remain children for just a little longer and whose grandmothers can be truly proud of.

RIP Ann Richards: An idol for smart girls every where who reminded us that "Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in high heels," and who seemed to have had both the the self-confidence and father I had been blessed with: "I have always had the feeling I could do anything and my dad told me I could. I was in college before I found out he might be wrong."

Earning the sticker

Some people vote out of civic pride, others vote because it preserves the Democratic process that this country was founded upon. I vote for those reasons in the general elections, but there's there's really only one reason that I vote in the non-Presidential Primary. That's right, kids, it's the sticker that looks like this:

It's Primary Election Day in Maryland, so, as usual, I decided to be a little late for work today just to make sure that my vote was taken care of. I've had friends who have waited until later in the day to vote, waited in line for over an hour, and then have been told that they couldn't because the "polls were closed." Of course they were Democrats and it was the 2004 Presidential Election, but that shouldn't have made a difference right?

Anyway, according to the Maryland Board of Elections and Ginny James' 1995 Government class, it's supposed to be an easy process: Walk up, smile pretty, get a card, toss it in the machine, select your candidates, save your votes, and watch the computer select whoever paid the election officials the most money on your behalf.

All of that would have been a relief. Sadly, this morning didn't go quite that smoothly.

I arrive five minutes before the polls were supposed to have been opened to find my elections officials still trying to piece together the machines. Apparently someone didn't take Networking 101 because the woman behind the table (who I actually never saw again after this point) is trying to jam the networking connection into the USB port. Oh great, I think, let's try to break the machines before we even get this thing off the ground.

Twenty minutes after the polls were opened, the machines are finally up and running. I get to the front of the line and learn that, despite completing all the necessary paperwork with the MVA when I moved a year ago, I'm not registered in the precinct. In fact, according to the election official, I'm not even registered in the STATE. My twin sister -- who moved from Georgia and was only living with me for less than a year before she moved to New York -- is. So, the fact that I've lived in the state for six years and have been registered in the state for six years doesn't really count for anything.

I'm only half-joking when I ask for her ballot.

"Sorry, miss, we can't do that. Frankly, you don't exist."
"Of course I exist. I'm standing right in front of you."
"Well, I can see that, but you're not in the system."

Basically, according to VoteBoy, the State "ate" my registration. I'm seriously tempted to tell him he could Eat Me, but I figure getting ugly with the elections officials isn't about to get me anywhere but a day-trip downtown. Therefore, I opt to play the Sister Suffragette card and tell VoteBoy that my grandmothers taught me from a very young age that women like my great great grandmothers fought hard for my right to vote and that it's a slap in their face that I don't. Therefore, I assure him, there's no way that I would "forget" to change my voting registration or let it lapse because, at the very least, I'm a white Protestant landowner, and even though I didn't have the right "parts" to vote until 1920, I met the other requirements established in 1776.

Desperate to get rid of me and my history-spouting ways, VoteBoy calls the Board of Elections. He calls me a "gal"; I choose to ignore that. NiceVotingLady tells me that VoteBoy is wrong, I'm registered in the State -- just at the old address (even though I filled out the paperwork at the DMV a year ago!). VoteBoy STILL can't find me in the state.

This time, I give in to the urge to push some people out of the way and "do it right the first time." I grab the stylus out of his hand and punch in my last name. Then, because I read the instructions on the screen, I punch "Find in State." Instantly, my name appears.

"Oh, did I not do that?" Um no, buddy, you didn't.

I give him back the stylus and start walking him through the process to get me registered. Really, folks, even a Macaca (a monkey for those of you not following the Senate race in Virginia) could do this as everything you need is right on the screen. Somehow, though, I'm the only one who seems to have passed any sort of reading comprehension test.

We open the screen that covers the provisional ballot. On the screen it says, "use the codes from the chart in Chapter 6 of the Elections Manual."

VoteBoy starts flipping through the elections manual and whining, "I don't see it, I don't see it."

I grab it out of his hand, flip to Chapter 6, read the codes, and go, "I'm a '1'."

"Are you sure?" Hold up, VoteBoy is now asking me if I understand the process? Something doesn't seem right about that. I assure him I'm right, so, he puts in the 1 and punches the button to print out the confirmation page. I sign it and ask for the paper ballot.

"We don't have paper ballots. Use this," VoteBoy says as he tries to hand me a card.
"No, I need a paper ballot."
"No, it's ok, you need this," he says and again tries to hand me the electronic card.

In unrelated news, this is about the time that a second election official appears and goes, "So, William Donald Schaefer just got four votes for Comptroller -- Ted here voted for him, and the machine registered it four times. That's not a problem is it?"

To placate VoteBoy, I wander to the machine (which I know will not work), and slide the card in anyway. Voting Card has already been used, the machine tells me. I head back to the table.
"Seriously guys, I need a paper ballot." I grab the elections manual (again) and start reading out loud, "Paper ballot...Number 2 pencil...pen...pink for Republicans, white for Democrats..."

VoteBoy wanders to the (unwatched!) table where all the supplies are being housed. He opens the envelopes marked, "Provisional Ballots" and goes, "Oh, here they are!"

I get the ballot, and start marking it. Then and only then, does VoteBoy decide to start reading the election manual and again thinks it's a good idea to quiz me on the process. "The ballots are different. Are you sure you have the right one?"

Seriously folks, would I really have gone through all the trouble and not picked up the right ballot? Think about that one will you...

I complete the ballot and say, "Now we're supposed to put this in a sealed envelope," suspecting that there's more to the process because I've only used a pencil so far and the manual mentioned a pen. VoteBoy, who has been looking over my shoulder the whole time, insists that "they" didn't give him any, so he grabs the envelope that the ballots came out of and puts mine inside.

"No, it's supposed to be a sealed envelope," I say.

He starts licking (the envelope, not me, Thank God); I start going through the stuff on the table. I find a second provisional ballot form (the one that needs the pen) and show them to him, "These have a peel-off seal...."

I fill out the form, put my ballot inside, and bring it to the head election judge who has dubbed me "good people" for not ripping anyone's head off and is very interested to know if I'd like to be a judge for our community Christmas parade. I tell him I'd think about it, but my primary concern is being an election judge for the General Election on November 7.

Over an hour after I arrived, I left the school. Since all the electioneers had been in and out of there while I was trying to "get my vote on," they were VERY interested in the final outcome. I filled them in and was walking away when one of them realized the final injury...

...I didn't get my sticker.

West Wing, part 2

I put the photos that I took back in March in a Photostory. Here's the final result...

Oliver K. Woodman

If you're paying attention to that little flicker map to your right, you've probably noticed a bunch of photos featuring a little wooden man posing all over DC and NYC.

Contrary to what the Security Guard at the Museum of American History thinks (and I'm being completely serious here), he is Not my new boyfriend. His name is Oliver K. Woodman, and he's a favor for my mother.

You see, Mom's an elementary school librarian, and last year's most popular book was The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman by Darcy Patterson. As a "fun summer project," she decided that she'd take Oliver K. on a little journey to New Mexico, Colorado, Oklahoma (is it just me that hears Gordon McCrae in their head every time they spell that word?), Tennessee, and New York. The doll got to go out west, I had to settle for the Big Apple.

So, there we wereI was(because I was the idiot with the big purse), lugging this doll all over New York City, attracting curious stares from natives and tourists alike. No matter how many times we tried to explain, it, frankly didn't make a whole lot of sense.

I'm telling you, it would have been easier with a garden gnome. Because, you know, that's normal.

Somehow, that weekend I got attached to the little guy, and I thought that since I was heading to DC "sometime in August" to see the Muppets at the Smithsonian, I thought that Oliver K. (now named "Fat Stanley" because people got that reference) should come along. I wasn't really counting on the Bush Administration freaking everyone out with this whole "sophisticated liquid" thing (puh-lease), but since he's not a bottle of Nestea, I figured he'd get through security relatively easily. He did, and I'm assuming that he really wasn't a threat because the security guard told "my date" and me to enjoy our day. Yeah, real cute.

Why can't government be more like this??

In the late 60s, there was a bill in Congress to develop the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (you know, the people who bring you Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers, and show you hours upon hours of the best of the Tony Awards and beg for money every six months). The proposed endowment was $20 million, but because of the war, President Nixon wansted to cut that in half. Obviously, showing children hours upon hours of embedded reporters is so much better for their psyche than Grover and Cookie Monster.

This clip is the exchange between a young Fred Rogers and Senator Pastore. I have no idea what party affiliation Senator Pastore is, but it doesn't matter. Mr. Rogers talked, and Senator Pastore listened, and over the course of the exchange you could see and hear the fact that the Senator's mind was being changed.

This clip is a little long (seven minutes or so), but it's a good reminder of the fact that once upon a time, our politicians didn't look out for big business and their richest consitituents, they looked out for the people who would benefit the most by their actions. It was also possible for decisions to be made without a lot of political bantering and partisan power-plays. It's another reason that I'd miss the 60s if I had actually lived through them in the first place.

I'd embed, but YouTube won't let me. Click here.

You guys know how I love to take Ghost Tours of historic (and not so historic) cities. Really, it's not so much the ghosts that are the attraction, but the behind-the-scenes history that the tour brings. Honestly, aside from that one time that I had to drive back from Gettysburg by myself and the route took me through the cemetery, I've never really been scared.
Well, until last night.

Last night, Lisa and I took the Ghosts of Annapolis tour. I, of course, was taking photos throughout the whole tour but nothing was showing up. The front of the Maryland Inn, nothing. The fountain at the Governor's Mansion, nothing. The cemetery at State Circle, nothing.
Then, we reached the Annapolis Heritage offices. The guide and the intern were talking about "Audrey," the 10 year old little girl who "loves to have her picture taken." I started snapping, and Audrey showed up in the form of an orb.

Photo #2 is the GreenAlienHead. I don't know what's going on there (the guide didn't say and I only snapped the photo because the I liked the name of the joint), but clearly something is. That's evident by the orbs that are all over this photo (look at the two next to the door).

Moving on, we walked on over to the Big Brice House. This is where things got spectacularly weird. The guide was talking, I was snapping. I took a photo of the top left hand window. As you can see, there's something there. I looked, but nothing was in the window and there wasn't anything in the architecture that implied that there should be something in the photo. I snapped and looked again three more times. The thing in the window kept showing up in the photos, but it wasn't anywhere on the architecture.

The photos, were taken from different angles so that I could eliminate a problem with the flash. Despite this, it kept showing up. I asked the rest of the group if they were seeing anything in the window, and they weren't. Looking at the photo, you can see now that whatever it is, it is definitely inside the house (look at the glass in the window in front of the object).

The Brice House was the home of a little girl who was born with disabilities and whose death was never recorded. In the 1940s, a construction crew found the body of a teenage girl/20-something woman was found entombed in the walls of the house. It's quite possible that this young lady was raised in the room and hidden away from society. Is she looking out now?
Just after this, the camera batteries started malfunctioning. Then, the batteries died. We switched them with another set, but camera was completely dead for the rest of the tour. I kept trying to switch batteries, but set after set of new batteries weren't working both last night and again this morning.

I felt a little stupid, but this morning I got a little frustrated. I mean, I'm going to Vegas tomorrow. I need this camera to work!! I finally went, "Look girls, don't you want me to see your photos? Let this camera work now!" Then, I flipped the switch.

I love it when cameras listen.

The Lonely Lawyer

Well, that’s $24 and 45 minutes I’ll never get back.

Those were the first thoughts that had crossed my mind when I left the Wine Market after my date with Chris. Yes, for those keeping score, that is now the eight or ninth Chris in my dating career (though the first one this year). This one, like most of the Jims, will never make it past the first date. So sad for him.

If you know the story of how we met, you can skip this part…If you don’t, keep reading…

Chris and I had originally started talking on Match.com. Then, about a month ago, I ran into him at SpeedDating. Of course, I didn’t realize who he was until the girls and I were doing the post-event analysis. It took him two more days, but he FINALLY got a clue, and he asked me out.

The night of our supposed first date, I was working around the clock and cancelled on him. Then, I was ill for two weeks, then he was ill, and needless to say, we kept missing each other. The problem was that we also stopped emailing each other except to set up/cancel the date. By the time we finally settled on last night, I had forgotten who this guy was and why I was even going out with him.

Which brings us to last night…

Since I never know how much time it takes to get anywhere in Baltimore, I arrived 15 minutes early. I did what any self-respecting early-girl would do; I bellied up to the bar and ordered. You can tell a lot about how the night is going to go by the bartender you meet, and this guy had a stick so far up his butt that I knew that the night was in for a bad turn. I ordered my Sangria ($3 at the bar, not sure how much it is at a table, but all in all, pretty good).

Chris arrives, and though I had assumed that we were meeting for drinks as most normal first dates do, he says, “So, do you want to go to the table?”

Oh wait, we’re having dinner!!??!!

The first thing I noticed about him was that he wasn’t moving his right arm. We’re talking Bob Dole here people. Considering that I know people our age who have had strokes, I didn’t comment. However, I kept watching to see if I was being paranoid or if there was really an issue. When he took his coat off, I realized that he wasn’t a stroke victim, he was just lazy.

We sat down, and the complaining started before his rear hit the chair.

First, it was too cold in the restaurant. Then, the wine tastings (Which we weren’t on in the first place) were too expensive…though, his outer/inner monologue kept pressing on with “But at least you get a light meal with that.” Then, he couldn’t figure out what size wine to get. Was 3 oz. too little (standard size is 4 oz for those playing at home)? Was 6 oz too much? I, of course, was too polite to order the super-mag of wine that I needed to get me through this. And why couldn’t he get the Happy Hour wine that I had?? Finally, though he claimed to know wines, and finally ordered a Riesling, he didn’t know how to say it. It wasn’t as bad as ChaBLISS, but it was close, and this is a guy who claimed to know all about wines and the local vineyards!

Side note to those who are planning to patronize the Wine Market in Locust Point: Stay at the bar for the Happy Hour specials. Twenty feet can make a lot of difference.

He started slamming on the people he went to college with. He doesn’t keep in touch with any of them, and I got the sense that he felt superior to all of them – especially the one who works at The Home Depot because he couldn’t find a “real job” after college. He was just going on and on about how dumb this guy was. I was flailing for conversation, so I brought up the Olympics. Though he claimed to like sport, he didn’t know anything about any of the Olympians or the sports. He also accused Home Depot of false advertising in their claims of employing more Olympians than any other company. I even told him where the claim came from (I’m a geek; I looked it up!) and he said it was still false advertising. I started to think he was the dumb one.

Then, Baltimore took a beating. Thankfully, I had been warned about his feelings about taxes from one of the girls who met him at Speed Dating. This meant that instead of getting offended, I spent the time trying not to laugh in his face. I’m sure whomever the rant before heard the exact same text because it sounded like he was reciting from memory!! To sum up…he hates the city in general, the BCPD, the taxes, and the government. He lives in the suburbs of Ellicott City, which is nice and a great place to raise kids (!!!). I started to think he was a little creepy. Really kids, is this proper first date conversation? I think not.

He asked about my job and why Good Morning America was at my house (They were supposed to come interview Jules but ended up canceling. That’s another story.) Then, when I was explaining Airtroductions, he got confused about the basic concepts and called it a “stupid idea,” (which was basically cover-speak for “I don’t get it, and I’m done looking like an idiot”). At that point, I knew there was no going back.

All though this time, we were eating. Well, I should say that I was nibbling because most of the conversation fell to me. He, on the other hand, was chowing down on like Jesus Christ on Holy Thursday. That right arm was active now, and it held the fork that stabbed his fish (hey buddy, they DO kill it before they cook it, you know) and shoved it in his mouth. I’ll admit that I did get some sense that he was trying to get out of there pretty quickly, but to eat with his mouth open was just plain rude. Then, he kept quizzing me about things so I couldn’t eat. Finally, I declared myself full (with only about 3 bites taken), and got the waitress to box it for me. MMMMMM, Lamb for Lunch!!

Finally, the bill arrived. Again, as is common first date polite custom, I reached for my wallet. Normally, I expect a guy to go, “I’ve got this one,” but no, he starts scrutinizing the bill and I…KID…YOU…NOT…goes, “Ok, well, it looks like it’s $18 for you.”

I threw my card down as serenely as possible, and when she brought it back, I put on enough of a tip to cover my 20% and a little extra for all the sympathetic glances she gave me. Then, he goes, “So how much tip are you putting on…” like it’s any of his business! Apparently, in his calculation, he figured his tip into his contribution and expected me to cover all of it. I did some quick math, realized I was being had, and kept on doing what I was doing.

I’m practically RUNNING for the door now, but first we have to traverse the obstacle that is the wine store. In one of his rants (this one about the wine store), he kept claiming that they didn’t have any of the Maryland wines. I was out to prove him wrong and succeeded beautifully. The first rack we got to, I saw three BALTIMORE COUNTY vineyards and told him that. He didn’t believe me until I pulled out the bottles of Basignani, Woodholme and Boordy and showed it to him. “Oh,” he tried to cover, “those are Maryland wines? Are you sure? The only one I know is Linganore.”

I thanked him for a lovely evening, and told him that I’d call him should I ever wish to go out again. Considering that the chances of that happening are about as slim as Mary Kate Olsen being caught eating a hamburger, I’m hoping that he’s not waiting by the phone.

Starbucks

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the movie Groundhog Day – that film where Bill Murray’s character, Phil Connors, is forced to live the same day over and over again. Though I know that it’s a movie, it’s pretty much the story of my life right now. Monday through Friday, I get up at the same time, I do the same things, and I watch helplessly as the days blend together. It’s getting so bad that the guy at Einstein Bros. starts putting my bagel and shmear together as soon as he sees my car in the parking lot (not an everyday occurrence, but I do order the same thing every time I’m there). Phil’s problem was, clearly, more drastic than this, but he took advantage of the monotony to right wrongs, save lives, and make changes within himself. The town and day may remain the same, but Phil himself changes in ways that no one could ever imagine.

Realizing that I’ve found myself in the same rut, I’ve decided to make a conscious effort to do things just a little bit differently each day. Whether it’s going to a different gym in the network (incidentally, the Bare Hills Merritt is a Mecca for anyone wanting to learn about all things “Brangelina.”), taking a back-road home, or getting my news from MSNBC.com instead of CNN, these little changes are designed to break me out of the rut that I’m in and get me thinking again.

This morning, it was the coffee.

As you may know, ordering Starbucks coffee is something of an art form. Tom Hanks’ character in You’ve Got Mail said:
The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don't know what the hell they're doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino.

Now I can make six decisions at once, and I’m comfortable with them. For me, it was always “Grande Skim, Sugar-free Hazelnut (sometimes Vanilla, but always sugar-free) Latte.” It’s comfortable, it rolls off the tongue, and it’s made life pretty easy. Because of the whole vanilla/hazelnut thing, I don’t have the luxury of walking into Starbucks and having my coffee ready for me as soon as I hit the door, but it’s pretty darn close. This morning, however, I decided to break the habit. This morning, I decided to order a different type of syrup in my grade skim latte. I was confident, I was ready. Sadly though, I was COMPLETELY CLUELESS ABOUT THE WHOLE ORDERING PROCESS. I had become so comfortable with the process that trying to shake it up, even a little, threw the entire thing off. When the cashier asked me what I wanted, I stared blankly at him. I didn’t know what size I wanted or the type of milk – and these decisions weren’t changing, only the syrup was. The ironic thing is that I’m convinced that if I had been fully awake and caffeinated (remember, folks, this was 5:45 AM), this wouldn’t have been an issue. However, considering that the only thing standing between caffination and me was my inability to order, I assure you that it was plenty frustrating. I could have returned to my “usual” order, and the barista (who, incidentally, was already holding a Grande cup and standing with her hand poised between Sugar-Free Hazelnut and Sugar-Free Vanilla) was clearly expecting me to do just that. Just in time, I recovered and stuck to my resolution.

And now, I sit here sipping my Grande Skim Almond Latte. It’s not the best cup of coffee in the world (My second choice was Raspberry, so I’ll try that next time), and it was a little harder to order than I would have liked. However, it’s made just the slightest, indescribable, difference in my day. As cheesy as it sounds, I’m proud of this little victory. This morning, at 5:45 AM, I broke out of autopilot and took the road less traveled by (for me anyway). And that has made all the difference.

Effective steps in dealing with IT...suggestions from one of the poor slaves in the biz

IT folks are traditionally the most under-appreciated people in an organization. Everyone seems to want to complain about the systems that we put out when more often than not, it's a lack of understanding of the system or an unwillingness to respond to requests for input that made the system that way. Due to budget and timing constraints, we can't spend our days chasing down users who we've asked to provide input on the new system but have refused to provide it. However, it HURTS when those same users turn around and tell everyone how much the system sucks. Moreover, 90% of the "problems" that are created are the direct result of someone not listening or reading the training materials provided. All last summer, I was catering to ONE SCHOOL who wouldn't be able to find their way out of a paper bag if you drew an arrow. I kid you not, I got at least 3 phone calls a day for a month with the same exact question. They clearly weren't listening. I'd call back or drive out there to help on my way home (after working for 8 hours!!), walk them through it, and instead of going "Ok, you walked me through the first two. I think I got it," they would make me stand there while they went through 25 kids the exact same way (and this takes a least an hour) with the same questions being asked at the same points and clearly no learning going on. Then, at the end of the session, they would go, "So when are you ever going to publish a manual?" When I told her that I would do it as soon as I stopped getting 25 calls a week, she accused me of being "unhelpful" and "mean." Un-freakin-believable.
If you want your IT department to respond positively, seriously, follow these steps...
1) Look online for help materials and read what's out there before calling. If you don't understand it, at least acknowledge that you've read it and ask specific questions. If we get enough questions, we can change the help materials, but we'd like to know that we've put out there has been looked at.
2) When you call, have a smile in your voice or sound desperate. We know you're frustrated, but we'd rather help a user who sounds nice than be yelled at.
3) Say please and thank you!!!! We're people, not your personal slaves. You'd be amazed how much this doesn't happen.
4) Don't tell us that our system sucks...ask politely for changes. You'd hate your boss to tell you that your work sucks...why wouldn't we feel any differently?
5) If you're a girl and you get an IT guy on the phone, flirt a little. Just trust me on that one.
6) If you must leave a message, please leave a message that gives a little information about what you're calling about. "Call me back" (note the lack of a please too!) doesn't get you nearly as far as "I did X and the system blew up. Can you please call ASAP??" does. More importantly, please give us a little time to call back. One user I have loves to call and then send an email to my boss if I don't call back within 5 minutes. Yes, I'm serious.
7) We need specifics. As soon as something happens, write down WHAT YOU WERE DOING WHEN IT HAPPENED. If you pressed a button, we need to know that. If you did something you shouldn't have been doing, DON'T TRY TO HIDE IT!! We can probably get you out of the mess, but you need to tell us what you did to get yourself in the situation. This is a time to be completely honest. Also, if you're in a database, let us know what record you were working with...sometimes someone has done something to that specific record and it's the only one that's acting weird.
8) Know what you're asking for. I answered a specific question for one user and then she called my boss's boss to complain that I didn't answer her question correctly. When I was getting in trouble with my boss, it turned out the question had changed. If you get the question answered and it's not what you wanted, it's not the fault of the IT person who didn't answer the question you didn't ask.
9) Learn the hours of your favorite IT person and respect those hours. I work from 6-2, so it's really frustrating to get a call at 1:59 with a question that could wait until the next day. If it's an emergency, by all means, please call. I'll stay as long as you need me to to help. However, if you just want to know how to do something that you don't have to do until next week or request changes to the system (or are calling to tell me that my system sucks!), please save it for another day. Leaving for the day after hearing that your work is terrible is downright depressing.
10) When you call with a question about the system, and it's possible to get in, please be in the system before calling. It saves time on the call if you're ready.
Following all of these simple steps will help you get a better response from your helpful and nice IT department.

Fun with Government Officials

After yet another morning spent at the light on Coldspring Lane and the JFX, I wrote a complaint letter to Mayor O'Malley about this whole light problem. Not one to write a normal letter, here's what I came up with...

How the Light Stole the Commute
With apologies to Dr. Seuss!

Every driver
Off Cold Spring
Liked driving a lot...
But the Light,
That lived just North of Cold Spring
Did NOT!

The Light hated driving!
The whole driving season!
Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.
It could be that his bulb wasn't screwed on quite right.
It could be, perhaps, that his bulb was too tight.
But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that his timer was two sizes too small.

But,
Whatever the reason,
His bulb or his timer,
He stood there on Cold Spring, hating the drivers.
Staring down from his perch with a sour expression
At the warm, seated drivers stopped in their progression.
For he knew every driver down on that JFX
Was exceedingly late and getting more and more vexed.
And the more that the Light thought of them getting to work
The more the Light thought, "I must act like a jerk!

"Why for forty-five years I've put up with it now!
I MUST stop the drivers from moving!...
But HOW?"
Then he got an idea!
An awful idea!
THE LIGHT
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
"I know just what to do!" laughed that electronic fiend.
"I won’t ever, no never, NO NEVER turn green.”
And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great Grinchy trick!”
My bulb will not change, my timer won’t click!
“Those kids down at Poly, they think they’re so cool,
“I’ll stop them from ever getting to school!
“They’ll sit on the highway, not reading, not learning,
“And better and better, their gas will keep burning…”

"Pooh-pooh to the drivers!" he was grinch-ish-ly humming.
"They're finding out now that no light change is coming!
"They're just pulling up! I know just what they'll do!
"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
"Then the drivers on Cold Spring will all cry BOO-HOO!"
"That's a noise," grinned the Light,"That I simply must hear!"
So he paused. And the Light put a hand to his ear.
And he did hear a sound rising out from a Jeep.
It started in low. And it wasn’t a beep...
Or a honk…why, this sound sounded merry!
It couldn't be so!
But it WAS merry! VERY!

He stared down at Cold Spring!
The Light popped his eyes!
Then he shook!
What he saw was a shocking surprise!
Every driver on Cold Spring, the tall and the small,
Was driving! Without any light change at all!
He HADN'T stopped traffic from moving!
IT MOVED!
In a manner of which a cop wouldn’t approve.
Cars at the light, that should have stayed still,
Moved, two by two, into traffic, at their drivers’ free will.

And the Light, with his light-top-up-high-on-the-bar,
Hung puzzling and puzzling: "How could go those cars?
They moved without warning! Those Fords and those Rangers!
Right out onto Cold Spring, ignoring the dangers!"
And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Light thought of something he hadn't before!
"Those drivers on Cold Spring," he thought, "they simply don’t care
"They won’t let me stop them from getting somewhere!"
The drivers don’t really care if they’re hit,
All they’re thinking is “I don’t have time for this [edit].”

But the drivers in cars still remembered the dangers,
To their Volvos and Jettas, their Fords and their Rangers.
They thought, “I cannot sit by and stay mute
And let a bad light mess up my commute.”
And the drivers in cars, those Volvos and Jettas
Thought, “I know just the way to make it all better.
I’ll call up O’Malley and he’ll start to work
On timers too small and lights that are jerks!

And what happened then...?
Well...in Bawlmer they say
That Martin O’Malley, he saved the day!
The Mayor got that old light working right,
And traffic, it flowed, through the day and the night
And the drivers, they left that old JFX,
With less hassles and less of a chance of a wreck.

And those drivers, well they did much to remember
The work that O’Malley had done in November.
They drove to the polls, and there they concurred
That O’Malley should be our next governor!

A take your kid to work day poem

It’s 8 AM and all is well,
But this day soon is shot to hell.
Invaders from the kinder care
With plans your workday to impair!

You’re sitting quietly at your desk
But turn around to find a mess
Your plant uprooted and markers strewn
Around your peaceful office room.

The parents are at their last wits end
And pass them to you, their single friend.
They shout: “Entertain Joe or Bob or Billy!
You need the practice too, you silly.”

You grit your teeth and try to work
You resolve to call the pharmacy clerk.
No way in Hades will this happen to you
And you tell these wayward brats to “Shoo!”

Now kids are great, please let me say.
There’s just too many on this one day.
Small and mighty, they pack a punch.
Thank God, they’ll only stay through lunch.

The Americans' Creed

"I believe in the United States of America as a government of the people, by the people, for the people; whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed, a democracy in a republic, a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States; a perfect union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.

"I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it, to support its Constitution, to obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies."

-- Written 1917 by William Tyler Page, accepted by the United States House of Representatives on April 3, 1918.

I first saw these words yesterday while I was wandering around the Maryland State House, and for the past 24 hours, I've been wondering why Americans have never learned to recite these words as faithfully as they recite the Pledge of Allegiance. These words are, in my opinion, far less controversial than the pledge, and to my knowledge, they are the same words that Page inteded. The Pledge has been changed twice - with objections from Francis Bellamy and again by Bellamy's daughter - and now it's facing a third challenge. The original pledge failed in that it wasn't specific enough. In it's first incarnation, the pledge only said "my flag and the republic for which it stands." That was fine with Bellamy as he intended it to be a multi-use pledge for any citizen of any nation. When the US government decided that they needed to change it to "the flag of the United States of America," Bellamy objected. When, in 1952, President Eisenhower changed the pledge to include the words "under God," it was Bellamy's daughter's turn to object.

My problems with the pledge is that it aligns itself to a symbol of the country, not the ideals and principals that make the United States the great land it is today. A symbol is great, don't get me wrong, but you actually need that symbol in the room in order to pledge allegiance to it. The creed is different. It reminds us of why our forefathers and mothers risked life and limb to get here, it doesn't require a flag in the room, and it tells us what we should do to show our allegiance. It may be longer than the Pledge, but at least the content is clear.