all the jobs I've ever had

Since I dreamed up this category, I guess I'd better contribute.

I did the usual (for girls, anyway) rounds of babysitting. At times, if there were Portland Trail Blazer games on, I'd lay hold of the TV and not let the boys watch their cartoons. Hee. And they (or their parents) PAID me for this! Yes, I could've been better. I still have a scar on my thumb from when I tripped and fell backwards, down stairs, while holding an infant. I somehow managed to hurt only myself. I didn't drop him or let him hit the ground. Wow, I sound like quite a nut. Moving on...

My first "real" (?) job -- a summer job, before college -- was working at the Willow Drive Tree Factory -- er, nursery. I believe I applied at every non-fast-food, entry-level job in Ephrata (that would be about three places) before falling back on this option. But actually, it was pretty fun. The rising at 4 a.m., well, not so much, but lots of people from high school -- some of them my friends! -- worked out there, too. It was extremely tedious, but we could talk all we wanted, and/or listen to music. I still get shivers (in a bad way) when certain songs are played from the two summers I worked there. We had a radio tuned to a station that played the top dozen or so songs. We heard them an average of four times a day. I'm guessing I have less tolerance than most for repetitious music -- a bad trait as the parent of a youngster. At least most (non-Barney) kids' music isn't as horrifying as the Top 40 usually is. One memorable one is "Buffalo Dance". I might well have blocked all the others out -- until they surface unexpectedly on the loudspeaker in the mall or someplace. Yikes.

One of the most interesting things about Willow Drive is that is was owned and run by Mormons. So most of the Mormon teen contingent -- a large number -- worked there.
Why was this interesting? Er, I don't know. It just came up now and then. Talks turned to religion, etc. I learned lots of stuff about Mormonism -- kind of the insidery speech, and stuff -- that I didn't know. They all took off one week to visit the new temple in -- Seattle? Portland? Someplace -- before it was dedicated and then all top-secret and stuff.
Then there were a few of us Catholic/atheist/other types, then a bunch of Hispanics -- some illegal immigrants, as it turns out -- who worked on their own crews. The men were rather desperate, as they liked to ogle us in our sweatpants, sheen of dirt and sweat caked on our makeupless faces, when the crews were near each other. Ick. It was dirty, backbreaking work -- by which I mean we were bent double all day -- but give me work outside in the dirt, with the opportunity to shoot the breeze with my peers, over several other jobs I had later.

The two summers after that first summer, I had the sweetest job EVER. I worked for the Dept. of Natural Resources because one of my friend's dad was a manager there. The flimsy official reason was that I was studying to be in an ag industry -- sort of; I went to college with the intention of being a veterinarian. But by the time I tossed that idea aside, I had experience on the job, so they could hire me back! Sweet. My main duty was to take a brand new Chevy S-10 out into Grant and Douglas counties -- some backcountry if ever there was some -- and talk to farmers who owned plots of government-owned land and inspect their crops. Or hear why they hadn't planted any. To fill out a little sheet with whatever they said. It was a hoot -- I lived in a small town, but driving out to farmers' houses in the middle of NOWHERE was another level altogether. I really grew to respect the landscape during those summers. There's natural beauty everywhere, as it turns out. Even in the high desert. I did get a lot of cheatgrass in my socks, though. It was cute, how some of the farmers were so paranoid to have to talk to me. And I had no idea what I was doing. I just had to act like I did. I think they invented the whole inventory to give us interns (two of us) something to do. But, it was fun. So that's where your taxpayer money went those summers.

The second year I did that, I had signed up (actually been 'chosen,' as well, if you can believe it) to be a "Rho Chi" -- a Rush counselor -- for my sorority during Greek Rush. Washington State starts quite early in the school year so as to pack in a semester before Christmas, so I had to bid adieu to my awesome DNR job far too soon that summer. My next school year was to take place in Wales, which started much later, so I had a spare month in which to acquire cash after returning from Rush. Let's see, I don't recall if it was too late in the season to work at Willow Drive, or if I thought factory work would actually be better. (moment of insanity there) I went to work at a place in Quincy, Wash. (motto: Opportunities Unlimited -- for most of the time I lived in Ephrata, someone had painted over the "Un" part on the sign) It REALLY stunk. Literally, and figuratively. Ten-hour shifts, staring at a conveyor belt, smelling the rank stench of filthy creamed corn, trying to weed out the spotted or not fully peeled corn cobs from the rest. EVERYONE else who worked there was Hispanic and non-English-speaking, and it was too noisy to talk during work, anyway. I hated it. To make it worse, it wasn't an everyday job; I was on call. Whenever the phone rang at my parents' house, my stomach would churn. It was the only time I believe I've ever experienced sheer dread. I did, however, discover the wonders of ginger tablets to ward off motion sickness. Worked like a charm.
I probably only did that for about 10 days, all told. But it stands out as one of the worst periods of my life. I am really some kind of wimp. It gives me huge -- massive -- respect for people for whom that sort of opportunity is welcomed and embraced. All I longed for after that was a desk job. ANY desk job. Even the loathsome data entry would have been fabulous.

Then, the year in Wales. The summer after that, back to Willow Drive -- too late to get anything else, and not much else to get, as I've said.

I believe the summer after that was the Miracle of the Dow Jones Editing Internship. It was announced one day in my journalism editing class that there would be a three-hour test for one of 50 internships nationwide that Wednesday. I thought, What, and miss 90210? (dating myself there, I see.) But I did anyway, and actually landed an internship. A friggin' miracle, I assure you. I learned later that I had a high score but little to no experience, and the powers that be like to 'take a chance' on one person per region per year, and I was their woman. Thank the Lord. So, what fabulous locale was I to be placed in? Answer: Spokane, Wash. Two hours from my hometown. Blah. At the Spokesman-Review. But, it was great experience, and six months later, after graduation, they took me back for a six-month stretch to fill in for someone's sabbatical.

From there, the Seattle Times hired me for a three-year internship (ridiculous thing, a three-year internship; tells you all you need to know about the Seattle Times' fiscal policies), where I learned more than I will admit not knowing about editing, etc. Sports dept. work is the hardest of all at a newspaper. It really is. The Friday and Saturday night bombardment of calls from local high school coaches with results; late nights, and weekends, of work gathering scores and stories, because most sports happens at night; the rampant lack of respect because, well, you're the "toy department." But, it was fun. And, as I said, a learning experience. I wasn't able to make many new friends on my 7:30 p.m. to 3:30 a.m. shift, though.

As that was coming to an end, I thought, "Well, I'm going to be picky. Let's see: I'll work in San Francisco, or Portland. Or Seattle." None of those places bit on my applications. "Hm! Or, here's some paper called the Stars and Stripes -- they have a 13-month job opening in Germany. I could handle living in Europe again!" My parents thought I was a bit nutty, I think. The interview took five minutes, over the phone. Then I was hired, and given less than a month to pack up all my stuff and show up. Sweet!! I sold the car, paid off the credit card debt and boarded a plane for Frankfurt.

Spent 19 months there, actually. In sports again, but MUCH easier work this time. Learned a few things about designing pages, which I'd never really done before for my job. After that, they hired me for the new D.C. office opening up. I figured I'd come back, do the required year, and be back to the West Coast. But, darn it! I made some great friends (most of whom have since moved away), found a wonderful church (now defunct) and, as it turns out, had a kid and got engaged... You know the rest. Or will know it, as soon as I do.

Oh, I forgot several college jobs -- those will have to come tomorrow. I'm late to catch my ride.

the trip

I realized I never posted anything about Lizzy's and my President's Day weekend trip to the West Coast. Though mosty of my blog-reading friends have already asked (and been told) how it was. Isn't it nice to have friends who care enough to notice when you're away, and who seem interested how your time went? I love that. I hope everyone has friends of that sort, either where they live or a phone call away.

The highlight: Seeing my parents. I really enjoy spending time with my parents. I know that's probably uncool, even when I'm in my 30s. Oh, well. It's true. The intent of the trip was to see my grandma (88), and my aunts and uncles and cousins with whom I spent childhood vacations and holidays, and whom I rarely see now that my parents have moved from Washington state to Alaska. Still, it was the time with my parents that was the best. Second best thing: Well, okay, seeing the rest of my family. But the third best thing was definitely the CD player we got to test-drive in my parents' rental SUV. Lizzy will never be the same. :) Neither will I, after five viewings of Toy Story II.

The lowlight(s): Lizzy threw up all night in our hotel room the first night we were there. In all my optimism, I hoped each hurl would be the last. I threw down a towel on the messy bed and hoped for a bit of sleep. When the next round came, I found another towel and put it on the heap. Pretty soon, I was running out of towels and wishing I'd just gotten a bowl in the first place. I left the hotel housekeeper a note and a tip. What a thankless job. (Motel maid, not motherhood, lest that was unclear.)

Also, I got a weird eye infection on the one day everyone came to see me. Arghh! Plane travel. Expensive, wildly inconvenient these days, and a roiling mass of germs for us to pick up en route. And ample opportunity -- much like car commuting -- for people to behave at their worst. The man on the outside of our row who insisted on taking up both his armrests, and kept his reading light on from midnight to 3 a.m. of the time zone we'd just left, despite the fact that he wasn't reading much. The man who wanted to tell me, on my roughly 737th time using a security checkpoint since 9/11, just how it was done -- and who then forgot his I.D. at the x-ray machine afterward. The woman who, too chicken to tell people on the plane to shut up, kept whirling around and shooting them (behind me) dirty glares instead.

Then, the fabulousness of a delayed flight to and from Dallas, because, of all things, snow and sleet. In Texas.
Then, our bags -- including Lizzy's carseat -- were lost.

I'm sorry to report that the days of Lizzy sleeping for half the flights are gone. I should have known better to fork over whatever it cost to avoid a layover. NEVER HAVE LAYOVER WITH SMALL CHILD. I know this. Silly me. She has manic energy that I can only dream of, the later it gets. I am despairing of ever getting her to bed before 10. But that's another angst-filled tale.

I finally got home -- eye infection, check; bags, nope -- at 5:10 a.m., and crawled into bed, grateful not to be bedding down in Dallas (where I feared the copious plane de-icing would strand us).

So, yeah. Happy times.

To balance this mass of negativity, I want to point out that I ran into at least three incredibly polite people (by d.c. standards) on my way to the office this morning. I wish I had little gold stars, or money, or some sort of affirmation, to give them by way of reward. Maybe a prayer for their well-being will do.

by special request,

Photos of the ring:

I'd love to write more, but Lizzy's being a pickle, and I need to get her to bed.

We had an interesting weekend of hanging with church folks on Friday, errands and Cosmic Bowling on Saturday (Lizzy was up waaaaay too late, but loved giving high fives after people took their turns) and a bridal expo in Dulles (Friday was a service project, so there was no church) and housecleaning on Sunday.

Matt's band, which has gotten back together (they 'disbanded' awhile back, heh heh), has a Mardi Gras show on Tuesday night. I'd like to go, but not enough to stay up that late in a crowded bar on a Tuesday.

And anyway, there's something I never understood about Mardi Gras: Isn't the point that it's the last bash until you have to 'give stuff up' for Lent? Before you have to get serious and religious/spiritual (depending on your perspective)? Doesn't it seem like the folks who are loving the chance for a good, let-it-all-hang-out party AREN'T the people who are taking Lent seriously?

My favorite Lenten story: I'd never even heard of giving up something for Lent, and possibly even Lent, aside from a period of time on the calendar, before I went to college and joined a sorority. Lots of my sorority 'sisters' were lapsed Catholics who gave stuff up for Lent. One night, I was standing in line for dinner and heard the following conversation:

SISTER 1: Are you giving anything up for Lent?

SISTER 2: Yeah, I think so. Probably romance novels. How about you?

SISTER 1: I'm thinking about giving up sex.

And she wasn't kidding.

key to my comfort

Little angers me more than when people steal stuff from me. Though, whether through my cautious ways or (more likely) because of God's protection, it doesn't happen all that often.

Today's theft is more amusing than anything. At my office, we have to use bathroom keys to access either of two loos right outside the office doors that we share with the other suites on the third floor of the National Press Building. Rumor has it, a homeless person wandered up there and fell asleep one night, so we now have to carry around, and keep track of, a special little key. At least it's not another code. My poor little brain can't handle yet another code. I think I create a new identity every time I visit certain Web sites because I can't remember my login name, but that's another story.

I frequently leave my little key in the bathroom. Awhile back, I decided to risk putting the key on my regular keychain -- the one that also has my car key and my house key, and since my significant other cannot always be counted upon to have his at any given time, it's rather important that I not forget them. That plan worked pretty well. Recently, a coworker went to Hollywood Beach, Fla., and brought me back a keychain with my name on it. Cool! I transferred my potty key to that chain so as to give it some use. Today, I left it on the bathroom counter. I retrieved it an hour or two later.

I just went to use the bathroom again. And discovered that someone had parted key from keychain during its short stint away from me. There is no other way it could come off, and as harebrained as I feel these days, I know I wouldn't have taken my key off without remembering having done so.

Ahhh, life in the National Press Building. I love it. I'm not sure which is worse -- the vague threat of being a terrorist target, or having to keep track of my key every workday. Yep, too close to call.

Happy day!

I keep forgetting that it's Valentine's Day, which is a nice state of being. It's probably my least favorite holiday, but this year, I'm just looking forward to getting out of town with Lizzy tomorrow, so I'm not really paying attention.


Lizzy has a Valentine's Day party today at day care. We sent the requisite Cinderella, Tinkerbell and Wiggles valentines with her this morning. She's very excited about pink cupcakes, too.

Her teachers made a poster that's been hanging outside of her room for a week or so. Apparently, the teachers asked each kid what Valentine's Day meant to them. Imagine my non-Valentine's-Day-loving heart swelling with pride when I read, next to Lizzy's name, "Valentine's Day is a silly day for eating candies."
Hee.

Olympics

I have seen fewer seconds of this year's Winter Olympics than I have fingers and toes, but you can't really avoid it entirely. Not that I'd want to.

It's something that, given a lot of time and nothing to do, I'd love to indulge in. But who, short of someone doing time in a hospital bed, has that? So I haven't seen much.
There's one Winter Olympic sport, though, that's a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. Aside from the ice skating, of course -- that's everyone's guilty pleasure.
I like to check in on the hot curling action now and then.

Why curling? I'm not really sure. I think I'm drawn to the simplicity of the sport. It's for perhaps the same reasons that my favorite Atari game was Breakout -- first of all, I was good at it, and could zone out and play and carry on a conversation. In fact, I think I'm better at some activities when my mind is engaged elsewhere. Curling seems like one of those things. Someone sends the stone gently gliding down the ice, and two or three little friends set to work furiously brushing ice shavings away -- or into? -- the path of the stone. Intending to get it to land in just the right spot. Like a more engaged form of shuffleboard.

There's a beauty in simplicity. In not having to remember which types of tackles will result in penalties, and when; in not having to know how many timeouts a team has left, or which form of defense they are employing. Or whether the volleyballers are in a 2-6 formation, or a 1-5. Has the setter poached position? I mean, I love those sports, too. Heck, I actually PLAY those sports. I've never "curled." But I find it oddly fun to zone out to.

(here's where one of you northeasterners can explain the intricate rules of curling, and how I've missed the whole point somehow.)

yes, it's about time

Okay, so NOW we're engaged. :)

Matt and I "braved the storm" last night -- insert major eye roll here -- to have a lovely dinner at Galileo in D.C., after which Matt popped the question. ... I kept expecting to find the ring on my dessert plate or something, but he refrained until we'd gotten back to our car rendezvous point. He'd planned to take a nice, romantic walk around the neighborhood where I lived when we were first dating, but the cold and driving, wet snow weren't terribly conducive. So he just dropped down on one knee in front of Lizzy's day care and said, "Well, I guess we both know what's coming now ... Will you marry me?" I think he felt self-conscious because I was giggling, but it just felt kind of ridiculous! We both felt like we were going to prom, or something. It was so strange to leave our 3-year-old with her grandmother and go to a fancy dinner so we could get engaged. (I responded, "I'd love to.")

It feels kinda weird. I don't think I realized before now just how "married" it seems like we already are. Even though we didn't do things in the right -- er, conventional? -- order, it feels like they're already done. Doing the engaged/planning a wedding thing now feels a bit goofy and out of place ... Like we're playing a role. But I know it's important. Then we can really move forward, not worrying about how we got here. It's our story, after all. I'm just glad we're getting this part of it right. For Lizzy's sake, and ours.

Today, we went out and did some sledding. More accurately, some dragging Lizzy through the too-soft snow. She wasn't really having that big a ball, so it didn't last long. But Mommy got some cute scrapbooking photos. Thanks, God, for bringing the snow on the weekend! ... Lizzy and I are flying to the West Coast Wednesday for a trek through Portland and up to Centralia/Chehalis (the "twin cities" - total population, probably about 25,000) to see relatives. I'm really looking forward to it. Even the plane flights. Lizzy's at such a fun age, it's just going to be a treat to have her for six entire days, and to share her with my family.

telling it like it is

Two things:

First, one of my favorite commuter sights yet!

Seen in Rosslyn: A shiny Mercedes, sporting the D.C. license plate STATUS.

Seen in Manassas two Saturdays ago: Two ridiculously cute blond girls playing dress-up:

mental

Here's my "Kate's lost it" post of the week:

E-mail, and instant messaging, have messed with my head ever since I have been using them. Especially the first time I worked somewhere (Seattle Times) where we had such a thing. Because, of course, most of the inter-office IM'ing had nothing to do with work... I would shoot a three-word message to a friend, mocking someone else's comment or story or whatever, and we would both burst into laughter for no apparent reason. Good fun! Except for the times I accidentally IM'ed the wrong person, or, even better, everyone on the system... But sometimes, if I'm in a meeting and not at a computer, I find myself wanting to do the same thing. Shoot a mental IM at someone. I get this little impulse to do so, then realize a half-beat later, "Wait a minute! We're not at a computer. Nor are we empathic. Hm. Guess I'm out of luck."

I'm generally used to the limitations now, after a decade or so of such technology. But every once in awhile, I want to reach out and touch someone -- not always for the intent of mocking others, by the way -- and I realize I can't.
I just had a little impulse to check in with Lizzy. Thus far, however, her day care doesn't have her set up with her own little workstation and e-mail system. Probably in part because she can't yet read.

Weird.

big hat

I'm not sure if this is a personality trait thing or a respect for others thing -- maybe it depends on the situation: When someone requests that you do not, in fact, embarrass them by telling the server at the almost-empty restaurant you're attending on a Monday night in honor of said person that it is indeed their birthday, do you respectfully comply?
Do you?
o
o
o
o
o
o
o
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o
Well, I don't. :)
My only regret is that I don't have a photo of Matt in the ridiculous Don Pablo's birthday hat. We even got Lizzy to try it on, though she wasn't too keen to do it. But, it did score us some free fried ice cream.

poor Matt

It's Matt's birthday today. He's 29 today.

It must stink to date someone several years older than you, at this stage of life. I mean, you can't moan and complain about how old you're getting without incurring some serious wrath!
I pointed out this weekend that I hadn't even met him yet on my 29th birthday. By the time he's the age I was then (29 and nine months), he'll have a 4-year-old! Heh.
Happy birthday, sweetie. Please forgive me for interrupting your wild swingin' bachelor 20's. I hope the trade-off is acceptable.

odds and ends

You guys know my life is (blessedly) boring, right? So you don't expect great things when you come here, right?
Right. Okay, good, because today's post is more of the same...

I didn't like wine until I went to Germany. There, a friend taught me that there are no people who don't like wine; there are merely people who haven't found the right wine. It sounds like a deeper thought than it actually is... He had me try some of the Rhine and Mosel river-region whites, and, oh my! Are they tasty. All the Riesling strains originated there, I believe.
A couple of months ago, we were headed to someone's house for some gathering or other, and I grabbed a couple bottles of wine at Giant. While I was at it, I saw a German white from that region and got it for myself. We cracked it open night before last. Yummy stuff! Matt's more a heavy red fan (Merlot, etc., though he doesn't like to admit that since he saw 'Sideways'), but he also thought the white was tasty. I said, "German whites! I love 'em." He said, "Goody! I'm a German white." (groan)

Matt bought Lizzy a large (LARGE) crayon piggy bank just about the time she was born. It might give you some insight into our priorities to know that the spare change he dumps into it is designated for a future Disneyland trip, not her college savings or a car when she's 16 or anything like that. (we have another account for the college savings, actually. Providing she gets her degree in four years at a public school, she might be okay.) So, Disneyland. ... Matt was trying to interest her in helping him dump in some change this morning. She was having a very decided "wrong side of the bed "morning today. Crying about nothing. You parents know what I'm talking about.

So Matt says, "Lizzy! Do you know what we're saving money for?"
*sniff, sob* "What?"
"DISNEYLAND! -- Do you know who lives at Disneyland?"
*whimper* "Who?"
"The princesses! And Pooh and Tigger and Roo and Lumpy! And (fill in blank, etc., etc.)"
"Oh!" she says, brightening up considerably. "Well, I want to go there today!" She then dissolved into tears when we told her that we couldn't.

Matt tried to help her stop crying by saying we have to go there on a plane, and no planes were going there today. I'm totally comfortable with the lie, but I was

trying to silently entreat him to take another tack, because Lizzy and I are getting on a plane for Portland (Ore.) in two weeks to see my family, and I don't want her spending the first jetlagged day in hysterics because no Princesses are out and about. Portland holds many forms of appeal, but no princesses. Unless you count Rose Princesses, and even they are out of season.

I'm so superficial

Really. I hate the fact that I can't hit "enter" to skip from title to text in blogger. Now I have "I'm so superficial" out there, with no accompanying text, until I get done typing. GREEEAAAAT.
It reminds me of the days of my three-year (!!) internship in the Seattle Times sports dept. Oh, the tales from that experience... One time, someone discovered that you could record your own personalized sound to use instead of the computer "blip!" when you attempted something the computer didn't like. So we were recording various randomness in the office. Someone stuck a mike in my face and said, "Say something!" I said, not knowing what to say, "My mind's a blank."
Apparently, he used that sound bite all weekend, and when I returned from my two days off, one of our coworkers said, "I've been really sick of you for the past two days." Yikes.

But back to the original intent: Last night, Matt got his taxes done. I got mine done the day before. I always go into tax time having no idea what I'll get back, but hoping for a bunch. It's never as much as I hope for, of course, and then the reality of whatever the financial situation is sets in for another year. (I could still be more fiscally responsible... *cringe*) Matt's tax return, bless his sweet soul, is going toward my engagement ring this year. I was so excited about it (while he was away getting it done last night), I forgot to watch American Idol! THAT'S how excited I was.

This morning, we have the following exchange as we're rushing around putting socks on and grabbing Lizzy, etc.:

ME: I need you to help me make an important decision! (I love doing that, and then saying something totally unimportant) Should I give something up for Lent this year?

MATT: Yeah. Expensive jewelry.

ME (a few beats later): Well, really, you're meant to give up something you ALREADY HAVE for Lent ... Then you feel the loss of it.

zing! zing!