Identity = ? (part 3)

Or heck, I could just post it all on that cooking blog I started a while back.

You tired of this topic yet, dear reader? I appear to have bored even myself.

Identity = ? (part 2)

... no, what I originally intended to write about was the tricky, slippery nature of online identity. In my quest for a blog I can share on various profiles that have my name on them, I went looking for a URL I could love.

So far, the ones I’ve tried are all taken: http://thisfar.blogspot.com/, http://highway1.blogspot.com/, and http://101books.blogspot.com/.

I wish the 101books person had kept writing; it seemed like a neat idea, and her comments made me laugh. Highway1: whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t German. Thisfar: I wonder what this was about...it looks like a list of books, but which books? Why? Blogs should have introductions, I think, a “this is why I’m writing” section for the curious reader.

On top of all that, naming things is not my forte. As a child, I named my stuffed animals things like “Kitty” and “Lion.” As an adult, I name my work projects things like “[Feature description] v2” and “Make [desired behavior] work.” I ask my engineers to name things, and their names are consistently better, funnier, and more on-point than mine.

So what’s a would-be blogger to do? I have no idea. I claimed [myfirstname][mylastname].blogspot.com, and even posted a first post, but it doesn’t feel quite right and I’m half-tempted to delete it. The thing about writing on The Internets is that, unlike in the real world, you have to name yourself. And if you’re not good at naming ... well, you write blog posts like this in an attempt to stall, hoping that a brilliant idea sneaks up on you while you distracted yourself.

Nope, nothing yet. I’ve got my eyes closed, I’m not looking....

Identity = ?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about social networks: not the online kind, the which-of-my-friends-have-ever-met kind. A blog is a way of putting communication out in public for others to see, and this blog in particular is pretty anonymous. If you read it, you’re either a very close friend and know who I am or you’re the opposite: a total stranger with no way to track me down.

So what do I do if I write something I want to share with someone who’s an acquaintance? Worse yet, a work acquaintance? What if I want to link it from FaceBook & Twitter & LinkedIn?

I’m certainly not going to link here; that would mean I’ve got no outlet for the things I want to be truly anonymous. So currently, I just don’t write whatever it is. Or I write it but don’t post it, or I write it but send it only to my Mom (thanks for being my outlet, Mom!). This is ... to borrow a high school term I sometimes can’t resist ... lame.

I want to go public. Sort of. I want a single place to post everything I think is worth writing, and then I want to control who sees it.

Believe it or not, though, that is not what this post started off being about....

Finding peace

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about peace. I don’t mean peace like the opposite of war; I mean peace like inner calm (if there is such a thing), peace as contentment, like the opposite of a noisy brain.

My conclusion is that it’s weird that there’s no peace-oriented Western tradition to follow. There’s yoga; there’s meditation; but where’s the European tradition I can pick up on? I don’t want to chant things in a foreign language or focus on my third eye or imagine chakras. I want my head to feel a bit clearer, but adding poorly translated Sanskrit phrases to the list of things I think about doesn’t seem like a particularly reasonable way to go about this.

Maybe this is why Catholics say the rosary? Of course, I’m not Catholic either....

And so I sit here, my computer’s screen blank except for this text. Laptop on my lap, I stare into the white-ish glow, legs crossed under me, and I type. I take a sip of water. I backspace a word or two, sculpting paragraphs and sentences into shapes that please me.

And I wonder:

Maybe a Western contemplative tradition is something I could just invent?

In which I am a little too good at research

At Christmas, my husband received a book called The Green Guide. As you might imagine, it’s intended to be a resource for how to live one’s life and buy one’s stuff in a more environmentally friendly way. It’s published by National Geographic, so it ought to be reasonably reputable.

I made the mistake of reading it.

Specifically, I ran across this section: The Dirty Dozen, which calls out various chemicals which one should attempt to avoid in personal care products. I read my shampoo bottle labels.

I read my makeup-container labels.

I threw out most of my lipstick, a couple of mascaras, and some concealer. I threw out the partially-used bar of soap in the shower. I bought new stuff from Burt’s Bees and Origins, and spent an evening happily playing with it (I know, I know, a whole evening? But I’ve been the only woman in the office for a good few days now; I needed some girlie time).

Then I started wondering a little more. I started doing searches for unlovely phrases such as [ cosmetics safety ], and I ran across the Cosmetics Database, and ran searches on some of the ingredients on the back of my packages, and realized I’d effectively gone from threat level 8 to threat level 2 or 3 or 4, which is nice and all, but fundamentally, there are no safe cosmetics which I was able to locate.

I haven’t even started on deoderant. I’m too scared.

I mean, I see hints that okay stuff might be out there, but they sure aren’t available in stores. And no one really agrees on what’s safe (is it disturbing that there are studies done about how well some of this stuff works for embalming purposes?) And who buys lipstick online? Please. I work for a tech company; I know enough not to trust the color I see on my screen.

To make myself feel better, I did a few more searches. I confirmed that yes, most household products are also unsafe. As is the off-gassing from the fabric-covered walls of my cubicle at work, the particle-board furniture in this apartment I’m staying in while I’m in NY, and certainly the bus fumes I walked past on my way home. If it’s all dangerous, I figure, why not look nice?!

Sigh. At least threat level 2 or 3 or 4 is an improvement on threat level 8.

Dear Sprint: Your billing is deceptive and unethical. I'm never using you again. And I'm telling my friends.

To: dan@sprint.com

Hi. I'm writing to object to the way Sprint handles billing for closed accounts which are out of the contract period.

I was a satisfied Sprint customer several times over the past few years, but when I cancelled my account, Sprint charged me for an entire month's service even though I only used three days. I am now *very* unlikely to ever use Sprint again. I certainly wouldn't recommend it to a friend - even though Sprint had great call quality & data speed!

And no, not all your competitors do this. Verizon doesn't do this. I once cancelled a Verizon account (to switch to Sprint, actually!), and they very nicely prorated my final month. So the next time I want a phone, Verizon's on my good-company list. And because you didn't prorate that final month, Sprint isn't even a possibility.

I know Sprint's been working hard on improving customer satisfaction, and fixing this policy so that you prorate billing for a customer's final month - not just for me but for everyone who cancels - would be a pretty easy way to do it. Even if you're short on cash, is it really worth knowing that you're not on my shopping list the next time I want a new phone? It's pretty common for people to switch carriers. Don't you want people like me to switch back to you? I seriously doubt I'm the only person who thinks this is not OK.

My account number is [xxxxxxxxx] if you want to fix things. Although what I'd really like is a refund, AND an apology, AND hearing that you've changed this practice.

I'm very disappointed.

Sincerely,
I.E.

Gift-giving

[ Warning: this is way sentimental]

Once upon a time I desired specifics:
a twenty-one-speed mountain bike sized to fit,
a doll’s house for plastic ponies,
a silk-textured sleeping bag okay down to freezing.

Once upon a time I gave friends specifics: a much-wanted movie,
the latest CD, a particular book,
a favorite wine.

But this year it’s different.

The people I love now don’t really need anything:
we know how to shop. If we want it we buy it,
on credit or salaries our folks disbelieve.

There’s no Christmas list, no birthday wishes -
so nothing to give.

Yet birthdays and Christmas and babies keep coming:
occasions for presents and things to unwrap.
After all, we don’t care any less than we did years ago.

This year for my birthday:
ten emails with wishes, six pings to say ‘hi!’
four voicemails,
two different-styled notebooks,
two books on spec,
one weekend with beach-hike,
one bag for my travels,
one necklace that gleams.
None of it needed, none of it wanted - until I received it,
when everything changed.
All week I thought, Hey, they remembered!
and said, “Oh, I love it!” and “Thank you so much.”

This year, like most others, I try to plan presents,
but I’ve given up on details, on things people need.
Instead I arrive with gift bag in hand:
a teacup, some tea, a card in green paper. I have no idea
if my friend will like these. But they’re here and I’m here
and I clearly remembered enough in advance
to find paper and a bow.

We hug, drink champagne, wish “Happy birthday!”
and I think about presents:
what’s needed, what’s not, and how little it matters
compared to “Hey, they remembered!” and just showing up
to talk and eat cake.
Presents prove memory, offer later reminders:
“This was from... who remembered! It’s my favorite now.”

All kinds of Christmas

"What are you doing over the holidays?" asks my officemate. J & I are beginning to be friends: my guy & I hang out with J & her husband over dinner, occasionally foray into Guitar Hero 3, and last weekend took a coffee tasting class together (!).

"We usually get a tree," I say. I'm half-distracted by my email: the feature I was expecting to launch today will launch... next Monday? Aargh.

"Really?" J sounds...something. Eager? Hopeful? I am never very confident in my ability to interpret other people's emotions.

I say, "Yeah. We usually drive up into the Santa Cruz mountains and cut one down." I look over at J, and the expression on her face is so enthusiastic that I say, "You guys want to come? We were thinking Saturday or Sunday morning." I offer this invitation somewhat dubiously, since J & her husband B are Jewish - did I misread that look on her face?

"Yes!" says J. "Is it cold? What do I wear? Do you just hike around until you find one?"

I grin, and we make a plan.

Three days later, we drive up to the tree farm. I'm worried all the time that the drive will be too long, that J & B won't have a good time, that this won't make sense if it's not your family tradition - but when we get there and see the families and dogs and little kids and people running around with bright red saws, B says, "I get it - this is the best Christmas tree farm." B loves the idea of chopping down a tree in a forest, and makes frequent references to Paul Bunyan. We find a tree; we take turns with the sawing; we load it into my car and head home. On the way we stop at a winery because this is after all California, then for lunch at 4pm because we're hungry. We eventually make it home; J & B help us decorate. The tree looks beautiful.

"You'll probably redo it all after we leave," says J nervously, and I reassure her that no, we won't, it looks great. My guy, child of a tradition that he assures me took six hours to decorate a tree, adds that it's pretty great how fast it goes with four people.

What I don't quite have a way to say that this has been a long-term daydream of mine: holidays spent with friends, celebrated any day that happens to work, focused not on arbitrary religious ideals (come on, it's chopping down a tree for crying out loud! Although please do keep in mind that chopping down a pine tree doesn't kill it; the stump grows into a new tree more quickly than you'd think) but on good company, indoor warmth, & the smell of pine in the cold.

I am awkwardly trying to be balanced & culturally sensitive, so at some point during the day I mentioned that hey, if they had some particularly Jewish event they wanted to invite us to, we'd be happy to show up. After the tree is all decorated, B says, "So - you want to come over for a dry run of our annual Latkes & Vodkas party?"

"Latkes & vodka don't really go, but it rhymes," adds J. And an hour later, my hands are covered in potato dough as J explains that you have to squeeze out all the water before slipping the latkes into hot oil to fry. My guy helps flip the latkes & replaces the paper towel they drain on.

I wouldn't call any of this religious, but it is tradition: I've got my great-grandmother's ornaments, and B called his mom for latke instructions (garlic powder, not chopped garlic!). All together, it's beginning to feel a lot like holidays.

Television request

For the past year or two my guy & I have dedicatedly watched CSI (for him) and, more recently, Grey's Anatomy (for me), but CSI is increasing its percentage of gore & serial killers and as a result I showered as quickly as possible this morning, leaping out with the shampoo only half-rinsed from my hair, trying hard not to imagine the bloody palm of a Bad Guy coming to Get Me wrapping menacingly around the edge of the bathroom door frame.

Ugh. I need a new show, something engaging but less focused on random bludgeonings.

Sigh. I am such a wimp. What happened to the good old CSI days where it was just sex & gambling crimes, rather than wackos? Sex & gambling crimes I can mentally deal with by thinking, "Well, I don't date someone who does (insert elaborate and/or bizarre sex practice involving dice and/or roulette tables here) so I'm safe!" Wackos, on the other hand ... I am less sure how to persuade myself are just a plot device.

In which I almost achieve a lifelong dream

Last week I received yet another "Save this cat!" email in my inbox. Sob story: cat is unhappy indoors, and sprays. Cat is sent to Animal Services. Cat is scheduled for euthanasia.

Enter the soft-hearted, cat-rescue-minded corporate employee that encountered said cat and sent out the email.

Enter yours truly. "I've always wanted a cat!" I think. "And this one has to be outdoors, so it won't cause any problems for my allergy-prone guy! This is the perfect cat for me!" I email the cat rescue person. Discussions ensue. Then I go away to a management conference (!), and ask the cat rescue woman to stall Animal Services on the whole euthanasia thing till I got back.

And while the cat rescue woman stalled, Animal Services decided that the cat did not spray after all, that probably its owners were lying (to make themselves feel better about dumping it?!). And so the cat is now officially up for adoption - for a family that has an indoor/outdoor home for it. This means that the cat is no longer for me.

I tell myself that hey, great, I saved a cat! My stalling gave it the time it needed to prove it could be a Good Pet after all. But somehow, that doesn't quite make up for expecting that by this time this week, I'd have a cat to pet when I get home.

What I'm reading

Every so often the topic of books comes up - and someone asks, "so what do you read?"

I pause. I rack my brain frantically for whatever it is I'm reading right now. Then I realize that - wait - no - I can't say that - what I'm reading right now doesn't accurately represent what I really read!

And no matter what I'm reading, that is always the case.

For example, right now I'm reading Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon; a collection of essays about Canadian summer vacation cottages; an Elizabeth Hardwick lit-crit collection; and a crime-caper novel by Donald Westlake. If there's an obvious common thread, I at least don't see it.

And so I'm experimenting: over on the sidebar of this blog is a new list called "What I'm reading." I've tagged some books I'm reading (and have read) in my De.licio.us account; they auto-post here.

And maybe one day, as the list grows, it might actually become representative.

#1 reason to eat out when you don't really want to ...

... or at least would be equally happy eating in, and in fact already have some nice sausages that are just begging, begging!, to be devoured with the amazing horseradish mustard acquired at Hop Kiln Winery a couple of weeks ago:

Your fridge has stopped doing what fridges are supposed to do, namely, producing any coldness whatsover (in spite of the fact that the darn thing is less than 3 months old!) - and the service people can't come till Monday. End result is a nasty suspicion that the tasty-looking sausages, like the milk, the favorite fig Greek yogurt, and the very expensive cheese which was a nice present from your mother-in-law, have gone bad way before their time and should be thrown out.

Grrrr......

Does 2007 really exist?

On New Year's Eve my guy & I went out to dinner with friends. We gorged ourselves on Italian food, wandered into the currently-being-renovated gorgeous lobby of a downtown hotel (reminds me of one of my favorites in Santa Fe - all tall columns and off-white plaster & big fireplace & red & gold upholstered chairs), commandeered blue and silver balloons in hand, then headed home to drink champagne & devour raspberry tart and pumpkin pie.

"2007 doesn't really seem real," said one of my friends. "I mean, it seems like a year in a movie."

"A futuristic movie," I agreed. My guy & I celebrated the millenium together (though not as a couple - another story). How can seven years have passed? Seven years is the magic number in fairy tales; did I spend the past few years sleeping under a hedge?

"2007 seems like it can't really happen," said my friend. "We should all be driving around in pods. Wait, when are all our birthdays?" We discussed. In 2007 we all turn thirty, and we're all dreaming up grand-hurrah trips to take: Asia, Montana, any place we haven't been and that will be harder to get to "after we have kids" (huh).

Thirty. My guy, feeling like he missed out on his late twenties, is not really ok with that. Neither is P. Irene and I nod - thirty. Sounds ok. What is wrong with this, that the women don't mind getting older but the guys do? I read in the New York Times a year or so ago that thirty is the new twenty (yeah right - but it's funny-sounding so I like it).

New Year's is like hide-and-seek: ready or not, here it comes.


The difficult thing about reporting conversations in blogs is that I never remember who said what, or exactly how. . . .

Done!

It's all ours! Isn't it cute?!

Well, actually it's all ours as of December 1st. Meanwhile we get to run around our current home, madly sorting and packing (at least I do - I think the guy is more Zen about the whole moving thing). We signed the lease this morning. And while we were driving away from the leasing office, we realized that not only is it walking distance to downtown Palo Alto Ave, it's also walking distance to downtown Menlo Park! Two for the price of one.

Isn't this a great photo? This is one of my favorite kinds of weather: perfect California winter. Wet streets, not too cold, soft colors, just a little mist in the air.

You can't see it here, but the house is actually across from a creek, rather than another row of houses. And we'll be able to just barely hear the train (I like trains, so this is a good thing, and for those of you who knew me when I lived in Louisville, no, it's not near enough to rattle the windows!).

After feeling so uncertain yesterday, today I can't wait to move in. If you're someone I called while I was stressed out about deciding, thank you for holding my hand! And come for a visit real soon. . . .

Girly

I am posting this photo purely for my own amusement. This is my Halloween costume - the first time in years I dressed up, thanks to the Los Altos Costume Bank & the Junior League (I previously had no idea what the Junior League do. Apparently they rent costumes. Go Junior League go! I swear, if I'd known it was this easy I'd have been dressing up for years.)

My new Halloween strategy: wear the things you couldn't possibly get away with any other time. At work I wear faded jeans & t-shirts; on the weekends, I wear more t-shirts, fuzzy sweaters, & occasionally a leather coat. But come on, when do I get to wear bright orange tulle?! Not to mention sparkly purple wings.

Added benefit: if you have a shiny gold wand, you can tease a cat and mesmerize a baby. Or, in the words of the baby's father, "those things are like baby crack!" :)

Ambivalence

We scheduled an appointment to look at the house at 9am - the latest we could make it and still both get to work for our respective 10am meetings. It wasn't a big house: from the street we could see how far back it reached, and it wasn't far. But it had a one-car garage, and a yard with a tree (and way too much ivy, but that's another story).

An absent-minded man named Fred showed up at 9:20, miniature very excited Doberman in tow, to show it to us. It had hardwood floors and a working fireplace. At 3 bedrooms (small) and 1200+ square feet, it was just barely big enough. It wasn't recently redone - the kitchen cabinets couldn't possibly be more 1960s - but that makes it a blank slate, ready for us to put our mark on.

We sent in our application forms & our credit reports. We explained that we want to move because of our current commutes, and to be near a downtown. We crossed our fingers.

And tomorrow morning, we have an appointment to go sign the lease papers. This is good news - it's just what we wanted! But the place we live now is the first place we lived together. It's spacious and has a two-car garage and an amazing landlord and besides, I'm sentimental about it.

And yes, that's balanced out by the traffic on highway 85, and the complete lack of anywhere to go for a walk, and the rock trucks that roll past our bedroom at 6:30 am going bang-bang-bang, and the living room being way too dark. I have no doubt that moving is the right idea.

I'm just sorry I can't shove our current living room over next to the kitchen, get rid of the rock trucks, re-route all the other commuters off 85, and carry the house magically through the air to a place with a real downtown.

Huh.

The thing about the internet is that really does let anyone publish anything. No, this isn't a new or particularly timely insight - but it struck me anew (I love the word 'anew'!) this morning. I have my homepage set to display links from wikiHow. Here's today's collection:

How to Overcome the Fear of Marriage

How to Make SIM Card Earrings

How to Know if Your Cat Is Sick

I love this! I mean, is there anything else in life you need to know?

I wonder how they pick the links.