The days of yore...

This morning I arrived at the office to find that the network had ceased to function.  We were without internet, phone, printers, fax machines...basically everything that makes an office an office.  Having already completed my work for the rest of the week yesterday, I was already facing a pretty slow day.  Take away email and internet and there's quite literally nothing to do that can be considered "work." 

What was supposed to be fixed in 20 minutes turned into 3 hours.  I wished (aloud) to be able to head over to the music building and practice until the lines were working again.  They didn't take the hint(s)...  I watered the pathetic plant bequeathed to me upon my arrival and which I despise.  It truly is a miserable representation of flora.  Spindly, spiderly legs creep across the top of my work area and yet stay hidden enough that I forget it's thirsty.  Needless to say, I'm losing the war on maintaining it's health.  (Perhaps I should not ever get a dog.)  I also dusted some shelves that really didn't need to be dusted while catching up with my mom on my cell. 

Speaking of cell phones, it truly was comical watching people who obviously cared way more about their jobs than me running around with their personal phones clamped to their ears trying to be productive in spite of the technological blockade.  One of my less-fortunate co-workers was shipped downstairs to a tiny cubicle to answer the phone lest someone of great importance call our office and be shipped straight to voicemail.  Thankfully, I escaped the exile. 

In spite of the panic I witnessed, it actually ended up being a pretty cool morning.  I got caught up on my mom's week.  The students who were here enjoyed a relaxed conversation about topics other than data entry.  I looked at yearbooks of yesteryear with student workers and one of my superiors actually stopped by and pointed out some of her peers from a really old book from the '70s.  For a few minutes, we were all on the same level, in the same predicament, forced to make the best of the situation.  It was nice.  It was peaceful.  It was community.

But, of course, the "problem" was fixed and I returned to my desk at 11 AM.  As I heard a co-worker mutter "Praise the Lord" as she hurried back to her office I couldn't help but think that, just perhaps, the world didn't end and the real blessing was the chance to fellowship together.  Perhaps we need a little more of that and a little less slavery to technology...

Kenyan Communication

Yesterday I got a new email address.  And I won't tell you what it is because I only intend to use it for a solitary purpose...to chat with my dear friend who's spending a year in Kenya.  She left in August and being back in Rochester without her has been less than satisfactory.  North Chili and Rochester are our old stomping grounds.  We've raked leaves, climbed trees, performed all over, picked apples, cooked meals, spent nights, you-name-it-we've-probably-done-it here.  This is the first time since we became friends that we haven't lived in the same area and, let me tell you, it's not fun.  The added distance and time difference that Kenya brings to the equation makes it harder to communicate.  I write weekly letters and email often, but it's not the same as phone calls and face-to-face.  It's not LIVE.

Yesterday we happened to email each other at the same time.  And then we responded to the emails at the same time.  It was email-chatting (something VWH and I did for two years in NC when he was at his uber-slow job) at its finest.  But it was still slower than real time.  So I bit the bullet and got the same email provider as she did so we can chat.  (Kind of like switching to Verizon because you can call your friends who are also on Verizon for free.)  I made the account too late yesterday to use it initially, but had it open all today in the hopes of catching her.

I did!  Around 2PM I heard the most wonderful "ping" sound and saw a real-live greeting on my screen from Kenya.  We were able to talk for about 20 minutes and it was glorious.  Huzzah for technology and instant communication!  Next up: a web cam!  :)

The magic that is Curl Keeper

This morning I awoke to find my hair had done itself overnight.  I pinned in a little barrette and was set for the day.  (A new definition of, "Set it and forget it.")  The exciting, time-saving miracle?  Curl Keeper. 

I have many memories, few fond, of growing up with curly, thick hair.  One of my earliest is of feeling/watching my mom blow-dry it straight, then re-curl it (still not sure why this happened).  Another is the time Mom wasn't able to brush it one morning, so Dad offered instead.  Despite his best efforts I howled like a banshee.  I still remember the tugging and feeling like my head was going to rip in two.  Grandma, on the other hand, opted for another strategy entirely.  She chose to braid it in two plaits, yanking and stretching my scalp so that I probably looked like I was born on another continent.  We have Easter pictures of me in perfect Nellie Oleson curls (not my natural ones), cute braids, and one very unfortunate year when it looked like a brown bush exploded around my ears.  (I really do think the sides of that bush prevented me from walking straight through a door.)  Yes sirree, my hair has been a curse. 

A curse that everybody else seemed to be jealous of.  If I donated a curl to every person who asked for one I'd be balder than Daddy Warbucks.  My mom, who has pin-straight blonde hair, wants my hair and there are lots of days that I want hers.  It's impossible to get a good haircut (one that doesn't look uneven once it's washed and redried), hair products just leave it looking wet or weighed down, and it takes 2 days to dry if I don't blow-dry it, which causes the aforementioned explosion.

I mastered the twist-and-pin technique around the age of 15 and ever since, it's been the hairstyle of choice.  It takes less than 3 minutes, usually looks great, and keeps it out of the face.  But I've always wished to be able to wear it down and enjoy curls without fear of humidity, the slightest wind, or a poorly-aimed sneeze.  In North Carolina the humidity only exacerbated the problem.  (See VWH--I used that word correctly.  In my head I pronounced it the right way too.)  My frustration grew when I looked around during an orchestra rehearsal (flutists, contrary to popular opinion, do tacet) and saw a lovely gal with perfect curly hair.  Instead of starting flat against her scalp and then ballooning out into frizz-city, she had gorgeous bouncy curls that framed her face instead of making her look like a big isosceles triangle.  And, even better, her hair was short!  Miracle of miracles! 

I envied her hair for weeks, eventually catching her eye a few times.  Thankfully she interpreted those looks as "can you believe what the conductor just did?" or "14.37 minutes left before freedom" and we struck up a non-verbal friendship.  I sensed the kindred-spiritness even though we never uttered a word to each other.  This went on for a couple of months and eventually she sent me an email asking a question for a class I was TA-ing.  She identified herself as "the other curly-haired girl" and I knew the subject was safe to broach.  She launched into a bubbly soliloquy about the wonder of this hair product and "I knew you woud love it from the moment I saw you."  (Ouch?) 

A few weeks later the sample bottle arrived.  I followed her carefully-outlined instructions (wash, put in, go to bed) and, voile, perfect curls!  And, catch-me-now-lest-I-faint, they actually last for more than a few hours.  More like a few days!  This miracle is a little teensy bit expensive, but I have quickly learned how to make a bottle last way longer than anything else I've used on my hair.  Justificaton is very important in winning over the VWH. 

Now I've passed my secret on to others and will continue to proclaim it from the mountaintops.  You, too, can have a bit of say in what happens with your hair from day to day.  There is hope. 

Admissions equations

November 11=Veterans Day
Veterans Day does NOT=day off for college students  (I can't find the equal-sign-with-the-slash-through-it on my keyboard)
Veterans Day=day off for high schools
Day off for high schools = prospective student visits at college

Veterans Day = No admissions counselors until 11 AM
Veterans Day = Admissions luncheon at the President's house from 11:30-1

So...to sum up:
Veterans Day=student visits + admissions luncheon - admissions counselors=one very frazzled events coordinator

In other news, I directed a choir of 65+ year olds last night.  I was subbing for my VWH, who had a gig in PA.  I was definitely out of my element.  Flute choirs I can do.  Singers...I know nothing about diction.  (I still catch myself saying 'prolly' every day.)  And then when the pianist backed out I was faced with conducting, playing piano, and singing all at the same time.  I know women are supposed to be multi-taskers, but comon'!  (...see what I mean about diction...)  Thankfully they were all very sweet old people and one especially cheeky, elderly chap commented on how much nicer I was to look at than VWH.

Then I got home with time for a long, hot shower and a book before sleep claimed me.  VWH had a day off teaching today, which meant that all of the tasks that I've been dawdling on have gotten accomplished.  Paying bills--done!  Grocery shopping--vamoose!  And Janette cooked dinner so I don't even have to do that when I get back.  I am one spoiled woman.

VWH got back from the grocery store with everything except coarse salt.  We're having a party tomorrow night and making homemade soft pretzels, for which I need pretzel salt.  He called from the parking lot to inform me that he couldn't find the salt.  "Did you ask somebody for help?"  "...no...  Welp, I'm on my way home now--see you soon!"  Upon his return he offered the following explanation:  "Well, you see--it didn't even occur to me to ask for help.  I think this must be because I'm a hunter-gatherer, and in the ancient days the hunter-gatherers never asked a squirrel for help finding the large game."  (This declaration sent Janette into spasms of laughter.)  First off, what in the world is a hunter-gatherer?  Some kind of man/woman cross?  Secondly, I doubt Wegmans employees around the world would appreciate being likened to squirrels in the wilderness.

Here's a random thought (brought on by the annonying sensation reminding me that I need Chapstick): which is more gross--borrowing somebody else's lip balm or dipping your finger into a vat of Vaseline?  Originally I would have taken the Vaseline, but upon further reflection, I'm not sure.

Football Tuesday

I have other interests besides music and admissions.  (The latter of which isn't exactly a huge interest, other than the paycheck it offers.)  Growing up in a family of men (minus Mom and, later, the dog) has its perks, and one of the biggest was my NFL education.  In comparison to my female friends, namely the flautists, who shun manly team sports and opt for figure skating (which, coincidentally, I also like), there's nothing better in my mind than to plop down on the couch Sunday afternoon surrounded by warm blankets, snacks, and the CBS NFL theme. 

My Pennsylvanian heritage instilled in me an unshakeable love for the Pittsburgh Steelers and I have since discovered that Steeler fans are found throughout the country.  Steeler fans are blue-collar, hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people.  When you reflect on Pittsburgh you don't think of the ballet or art galleries.  You think coal mines and lumberjacks.  The mentality of Steeler fans reflects this determined, gritty work ethic.  I've also realized that there's a large faction of Steeler-haters who equate them with dirty, no-good, lousy teams like the Ravens, Cowboys, and <gasp> Patriots.  (Just writing that makes me want to take a shower.)  I, of course, do not join in the sentiment and prefer the honorific terms you've read earlier in this post.  When you see "cheap shot," I think "hard-hitting."  "Ref's favorite team," translates to "great reputation."  OK, so I might be biased, but probably just about all of it is factual.

My VWH is also a huge NFL fan, an interest that provided us much conversation fodder early on in our relationship.  He, unfortunately, is from the greater Buffalo area, which means he roots for the Bills.  Wholeheartedly.  For better or for WORSE.  The Bills haven't been to the playoffs in 10 years.  As of this post they haven't won a game yet this season.  Their team strategy appears to consist of hiring the cheapest players and hopefully salvaging a season that doesn't make the commissioner move the team to Toronto.  My VWH and I are far too cheap to have cable television, so our viewing options in Rochester are, of course, the Bills week in and week out.  I miss my Steelers, particularly because their games far more accurately represent the actual National Football League's standards of athleticism.  Bills games have progressively deteriorated recently, causing my VWH to literally end up in the fetal position on the floor groaning "It hurts, it hurts."

The Bills host the Steelers in another month, a game that we've discussed attending.  It would be my first NFL game in Buffalo, which the VWH warns me can become violent if you're not wearing the home team's colors.  I could probably be convinced not to wear my Steelers garb (at least not the outermost, visible layer), but I will not compromise to the point of wearing the opposing team's jersey.  Boo.  It should be a blow-out anyway, leading to inner satisfaction.  We'll see--Pittsburgh tends to blow out the good teams and eek out wins against the chaff of the league.  In any case, it will be a spousal adventure to remember.

55 minutes until lunch, AKA practicing

Yesterday I hit the finish line at 9:33 AM.  Today it's 12:06PM.  A significant improvement, even though most of the work this morning was created at the expense of a sick co-worker.  So now the office is quiet, my compadre in the cube is on her lunch, and I await my break shortly.

I've quickly realized that an office job is not something I can stomach for the long-term.  I miss my instruments and the joy of rehearsing, performing, and teaching.  Within 3 days of work I was eating lunch at my desk and using my hour break for practicing.  My old haunt, Cox Hall, is a one minute walk away and the memories that come from those beloved practice rooms are, for the most part, very happy ones.

Like when I was a freshman and high-pitched screams came from the room in the corner near the upstairs lounge.  It was Kristin, a senior flute player who embodied the term "flautist."  Very hard-working gal (graduated with a degree in music ed in 3 years--next to impossible!), but also pretty flaky.  "Ohhh...look at this painting---feel the texture."  (At the National Museum of Art.)  Anyhoo, she comes tearing out of her room, pale as a ghost.  The reason for her terror?  A small insect of some degree was discovered on a window, rendering her practice session impossible until it was annihilated.  Yours truly, who is NOT a 'flautist' (I prefer 'flutist' if you absolutely have to put me in a box.) took care of the problem with me, myself, and a New Balance sneaker. 

Or when that same unfortunate flautist was the prime target for a snowball ambush on a cold February night.  Two male friends were accompanying me to my dorm when we walked by Cox and saw Kristin practicing in a top-floor room.  The boys quickly decided that in order to demonstrate their manly strength they would throw snowballs and see if they could hit her window.  Several valiant attempts later, all they had to show for their efforts were frozen hands.  I reluctantly (...yeah, right) scooped together my own orb of slush and pitched it up, hitting the window square on the first shot.  The men looked at me, hung their heads, and I walked a little taller the rest of the way home. 

There's a particularly large practice room in the basement where small ensembles sometimes met.  I walked in for my first woodwind quintet rehearsal (totally honored to be asked as a freshman) and heard this girl complaining to the professor about how much she hated Roberts and didn't understand why she had to be there.  Turns out that this girl lived close to the school all her life, went to another college purposely to get away from it, and was sucked back when she changed majors.  Her apathy towards the school I was so completely thrilled to be at was unnerving.  Well, quintet rehearsals turned into performances.  Performances into dinners out with friends.  Dinners to hanging out in the dorms.  Ultimately, that unhappy girl in the practice room became my maid of honor and dearest friend.

I loved to practice in the auditorium in Cox, a coveted spot for its larger space and hall-like qualities.  It was difficult to reserve, but there were occasional times during the day when I could sneak in for an hour.  I've had a shouting match in the auditorium with a dear friend (I can't remember why), sobbed on a professor's shoulder when the stresses of life were overwhelming, prayed with friends, poked fun at faculty during annual "Unrecitals" (basically the musicians' best effort at mimicking Saturday Night Live/Whose Line is it Anyway), and enjoyed folk dances.  We've even played dodge ball in that auditorium on rolley chairs and a small ball. 

How about various rooms on the third floor, where late-night practice sessions were often held?  Over my sophomore year a particular individual kept poking his head in, asking questions that inevitably led into lengthy conversations.  These interruptions became a daily occurance.  Practice rooms equaled practicing for a while, but really talking with this guy, who was cute, extremely funny, and uber intelligent.  Those practice room conversations led to a first date.  The dates led to my first kiss on our wedding day.  You know the cute, funny, smart guy as my VWH. 

Yes indeed, very good memories.  :)

Surprised by sorrow

My VWH has done a commendable job of supporting me in my job transition.  Initially I was overwhelmed, quickly followed by boredom.  There have been times of frustration and I've even taken offense at how little I seem to matter to the inner workings of my office.  ("I have a title, for crying out loud!")  Well, of course, everybody has a title, and everybody has different levels of power and, of course, I'm at the low end of the totem pole.  I suppose I thought working at a Christian institution would be different, but it's really not.  My pride has taken lots of hits, which is probably a very good thing.  VWH reminds me to have a servant's heart and encourages me to find peace where I am.  (Not an easy thing for an overachieving perfectionist who wants to succeed NOW!)  :)

The big events that I plan are, in many ways, the highlights of my job.  To finally meet the attendees and show them around, answer questions, etc. is fulfilling to me at a level that easily exceeds emailing and paperwork.  Our first big event was held a few weeks ago and pushed me to the limits in finding humility.  My supervisor seemed to be especially power-hungry and unable to trust me to take care of my responsibilties.  Everything was questioned, changed, adjusted, and scolded.  She walked around grandly while I struggled to follow behind, invariably lugging heavy bins of materials for the visitors.  By the end of the day I was exhausted, frustrated, and angry.  I wanted nothing more than to be be vindicated by the VWH and hear a little righteous, protective, spousal anger.  "Nobody treats my wife that way..."  "I'm going to go over and give her a piece of my mind..."  "You should just quit."  (That one was probably too good to be true.)

Yeah--that didn't happen.  VWH challenged me again to pray and put into perspective and persist.  I found a gentle scolding in place of my anticipated cuddle and coddle.  It was a very good thing--one that I mulled over the weekend before returning a renewed woman.

Our second event was yesterday.  I went with fear and trepidation, but also reminded to do my best in my role, however insignificant.  The joy of the Lord was my strength.  :)  Check-in went beautifully and the group of 100+ people settled into their hour-long overview.  My supervisor collapsed next to me and we sat in silence for a few moments before she began speaking.  ("Oh no, here it comes.  What did I do wrong now...")  Instead, "Julie, I just want to let you know that our next event in November will be very difficult for me.  It's the anniversary of my daughter's death." 

Over the next hour she recounted, in great detail, the tragic day six years ago when her only daughter, a high schooler, committed suicide by standing in front of an oncoming train.  We both fought tears as she shared the grief and guilt she experienced and continues to deal with on a daily basis.  I marveled at her transparency with me, her underling, and the trust she demonstrated by sharing such painful details.  I was completely and totally humbled. 

Perspective is a surprising and extremely powerful thing.

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.  Let me find Your strength in quietness and strength.  Break down my foolishness and selfishness.  Put me where You want me...not where I want me.  Make me an instrument of Your peace."

Another time, same place...

Friday morning!  Ahh--freedom approacheth.  2 whole days of living it up in our new house.  ("Living it up" can roughly translate to reading, watching football, cooking, and sleeping.)  But to get to the party-heartying I must first survive 8 more hours (well, 7.6) of work.  Today we actually have seven individuals visiting the campus, which ties for the most in one day.  This means I will be up and down, greeting and escorting to the next stops on their schedules.  When I'm not I'll be back at my desk. 

But ENOUGH about work!  That's definitely not what this is for.  The act (or art?) of blogging is supposed to be an escape.  The fact that I've started today's post at 9:20 in the morning demonstrates the desperation in which I'm looking for distractions.

Last night we had our first Bible study meeting at our little red house.  The turn-out was better than I expected.  (Good enough that there were no left-over brownies, which is how I measure these things.)  I envisioned a quiet, taciturn group.  The young adult group through our church is just getting off the ground and everybody's tiptoeing around each other.  My picture was a peaceful meeting in my peaceful livingroom followed by quiet, polite conversation in the kitchen as light refreshments were consumed.  When I surveyed the actual group at 7:15 pm I had personalities ranging from older single man with slicked-back hair to young punk drummer to ancient Greek scholars to female Mennonite pastor (how does that even happen???).  Needless to say, the conversation was not boring.  Tom Sawyer would have never guessed the Beatitudes were that controversial.  The hour passed by in a flash, ultimately leading to a collective dragging of the heels through the mud to slow down the runaway train.  I'm afraid that our fearless leader got more than he bargained for.  It was obvious that he had spent hours digging through commentaries, and he had pages of notes and things to share.  He wanted to lead (AKA lecture) with a few opinions sprinkled throughout for flavor.  We wanted to discuss.  No...strike that.  Debate.  The evangelicals vs. historical context, round 1.  I offered a few smatterings of insight but mostly kept my mouth shut and tried to keep my teeth from clenching.  (What many see as a challenging, healthy argument usually gives me a tension headache as I tally the number of often-imaginary offended individuals.) 

Anyway, the train did stop.  The brownies were served.  And the last person left after 9:30...way too late for me to catch The Office.  (Minor bummer...we didn't have NBC in North Carolina...another plus about North Chili.)  But the scintillating, bordering-on-abrasive, conversation truly trumped any witticisms from Michael Scott.  And we look forward to next week and what it holds.

I just remembered I'm supposed to have an offertory prepared for Sunday.  Oops. 

Another time, another place...

It's 4:00 PM on the dot.  I'm sitting at my desk, staring into space, willing the next 60 minutes to go by.  The past month at my new job I've run out of work almost every day.  Sometimes at 3 in the afternoon and sometimes at 8:45 in the morning.  It's those days when I wish for a private office instead of an open cubicle (which is more like a cube with a person in each corner).  My husband recommended that I start a blog.  This will give me an outlet to pass time without looking unproductive.  My husband, as usual, is a very wise man.  So I'm here.  I'm lonely and wishing for purpose, but I'm here.

I'm not sure what this blog will look like yet.  If it centers around my job it likely won't do me (or other readers) any good except as a sedative.  My very wise husband suggested that I write about him.  My very wise husband is very wise most of the time, but I think he was fishing for compliments.  We just moved from his parents' home into our first house.  We're renting the house, but it's not part of a huge complex full of drunken adolescents or car alarms that go off and stay off for hours in the middle of the night, so I have no complaints.  I have 3 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, and no longer have to worry about where guests will sleep.  As musicians, we can practice without fear of vandalism in retaliation for our hours of very high and very loud noises.  (We liked to think we brought a little culture to our previous residences.)  My life has drastically improved in the past 6 days since the move.  Unlike many woman-folk in today's society, I actually enjoy cooking dinner and taking care of my very wise husband.  (Perhaps I should abbreviate.)  Our friend Janette has moved in as well, learning recently that her current abode is scheduled for demolition at the end of the month.  Janette is just about the most laid-back, low stress, drama-free gal I've ever met.  She is a fabulous roommate and we delight in sharing our new independent riches with her.

Perhaps I'll write about life at home with my VWH and Janette.  Or perhaps I'll write about music.  I miss music.  Five months have passed since the completion of my masters degree and any chance to make music is already precious.  Offertory at church?  Done.  Play for the elderly across the street?  Name the time.  I'm just about ready to start busking...

Or maybe this blog will center on how much more enjoyable upstate New York is compared to the humid, isolated existence we endured in North Carolina for two years.  I can't count the number of shocked looks on peoples' faces when we express our unabashed joy in a return to the north.  "But North Carolina's where everybody wants to go."  "It's so warm there!"  It was warm.  Very warm.  Hot, in fact, most of the time.  We did enjoy watching the city scurry around and then promptly shut down for a few days at the mere threat of snow.  When it actually did put down 4 inches we didn't have school for a week.  Yes, North Carolina had its share of plusses.  But they pale in comparison to the family, friends, and, yes, snow that we find in North Chili. 

Whatever the topic, or if this just evolves into random musings, it already has worth in that it's helped 20 minutes to pass by.

The title, by the way, is thus named because even though I'm 25, I feel very young compared to most of my peers, who are having babies and decorating their very own houses that they're paying for with their very own mortgages.  Even though I'm now a full-fledged adult who can vote, smoke, drink, and rent a car (my newest achievement), the span of time and wisdom between me and my parents seems to be lengthening.  But working at a college makes me feel old and wrinkled in comparison with the students who are full of giggly gossip and delighting in the sheer drama that exists at a small college.  So I'm caught in between, with the VWH and Janette, and we're trying to figure out where exactly we fit.  What exactly we're supposed to be doing.  And who we're supposed to be doing it with.