I had one of those amusing teaching moments today. As part of the first day of class, I always ask students to introduce themselves, talk about their future aspirations, and offer one unique thing about themselves (something that makes them different from everyone else in the class). It's a fun little exercise that helps me learn a little about my students AND helps me do some name recognition. For instance, I'll make a mental note that Jennifer is part of a water skiing performance team (a fictional example). Anyway, this is a real exchange that happened in class earlier today. The "S" signfies a student and the "M" is me.
S: My name is blah, blah, blah. You know, I'm not really sure exactly what I want to do with my life. I do know that I want to do something that enhances humanity in one way or another. A unique things about me is that I spent the summer interning with Pfizer, the pharmaceutical company. You know, they make Viagra.
M: Well, there you go. Enhancing humanity in one way or another.
The class erupted into laugher--a couple students were obviously shocked that their professor would make such a joke and hid their faces in embarassment. Seriously, how could you not make that joke? That was a curveball, minus the break, floating out over the plate. You have to give it rip, you know what I mean?
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
Eh?
Anyone know how to pronounce the name "Gereon"? It's a German name and I'm absolutely clueless.
I've enabled anonymous posting once again. We'll see if the spammers stay away.
UPDATE. Problem solved. I ran into the person with the name and simply asked him how to pronounce his name. It's pronounced Garion. Hard G.
I've enabled anonymous posting once again. We'll see if the spammers stay away.
UPDATE. Problem solved. I ran into the person with the name and simply asked him how to pronounce his name. It's pronounced Garion. Hard G.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Welcome Back My Friends to the Show that Never Ends
I'll return to the moving tale in the few days. I promise. Recent events, however, call for some kind of post. Yesterday, I officially started my gig as Assistant Professor. Yes, Thursday consisted of eight hours of new faculty orientation: introductions, mountains of paperwork, and a half dozen "This is Small Midwest College" presentations filled the day. In the evening, new faculty attended a dedication service at which we were formally introduced to the college. Most of the introductions, presented by the dean of the college, went something like this:
"Barbara Bidwell, a new Assistant Professor in the English Department, joins us from the University of Montana where she just finished her Ph.D. Her dissertation, Female Archetypes in the Contemporary Science Fiction Novel, investigates the way in which the written performance of the feminine offers a transformative vision of gender. Barbara will be teaching Introduction to English Literature, Composition, and Contemporary Science Fiction. Word has it that Barbara also has a passing interest in wildflower gardening and looks forward to cultivating local varieties in her back yard. She is joined by her partner, Jennifer, and their seven year old daughter, Emma."
Most of the introductions remained suitably formal. From all the feedback I received today (a six hour full college faculty meeting), my introduction stood out from the others. The Dean said something close to the following.
"Derek, our new Assistant Professor of Communication Studies, joins us from the University of Metropolis where he recently completed his Ph.D. His dissertation project, The Subcultural Self after Postmodernity, explores how individual and collective subjectivities are constituted, negotiated, and performed, both discursively and non-discursively, in the realm of everyday human interaction.
::Dean breaks from notes and addresses me directly:: I'm not responsible for this next part, Derek. Kim said it's totally appropriate and that you wouldn't mind ::turns back to audience::*
A self-avowed geek, Derek is an avid fan of Star Wars, The Green Lantern, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Smallville, and riot grrl punk. As a new member of our faculty he'll be teaching Public Address, Media and Society, and the Rhetoric of Everyday Life. His wife, STK, and their 9-week-old son, TLO, have also joined our community. Welcome to you all."
Apparently, Kim tracked down a description of myself that I posted as part of a test project for a portfolio community. I'd forgotten I participated in the experimental tech venture several years back. Regardless, I loved the introduction and it aroused the curiosity of almost everyone in attendance. My introduction, coupled with my alternative appearance, has made me the talk of SMC. Everyone seems to go out of their way to meet me. I'm continually amazed by the number of people who approach and say, "I've heard so much about you. I had to come introduce myself." Keep in mind that I spent a grand total of three days in this community before moving here. During that time, I probably met about a dozen people around campus. Word travels fast in SMC. Faculty, librarians, human resources folks, students . . . it doesn't matter, they all want to meet the new guy. Honestly, this is probably about as close to being a rock and roll star as I'll ever get. Three weeks into the semester, my novelty will wear off and I'll be just another prof. Until that time, I think I'll bask in the spotlight for couple weeks.
*Kim is my department Chair.
"Barbara Bidwell, a new Assistant Professor in the English Department, joins us from the University of Montana where she just finished her Ph.D. Her dissertation, Female Archetypes in the Contemporary Science Fiction Novel, investigates the way in which the written performance of the feminine offers a transformative vision of gender. Barbara will be teaching Introduction to English Literature, Composition, and Contemporary Science Fiction. Word has it that Barbara also has a passing interest in wildflower gardening and looks forward to cultivating local varieties in her back yard. She is joined by her partner, Jennifer, and their seven year old daughter, Emma."
Most of the introductions remained suitably formal. From all the feedback I received today (a six hour full college faculty meeting), my introduction stood out from the others. The Dean said something close to the following.
"Derek, our new Assistant Professor of Communication Studies, joins us from the University of Metropolis where he recently completed his Ph.D. His dissertation project, The Subcultural Self after Postmodernity, explores how individual and collective subjectivities are constituted, negotiated, and performed, both discursively and non-discursively, in the realm of everyday human interaction.
::Dean breaks from notes and addresses me directly:: I'm not responsible for this next part, Derek. Kim said it's totally appropriate and that you wouldn't mind ::turns back to audience::*
A self-avowed geek, Derek is an avid fan of Star Wars, The Green Lantern, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Smallville, and riot grrl punk. As a new member of our faculty he'll be teaching Public Address, Media and Society, and the Rhetoric of Everyday Life. His wife, STK, and their 9-week-old son, TLO, have also joined our community. Welcome to you all."
Apparently, Kim tracked down a description of myself that I posted as part of a test project for a portfolio community. I'd forgotten I participated in the experimental tech venture several years back. Regardless, I loved the introduction and it aroused the curiosity of almost everyone in attendance. My introduction, coupled with my alternative appearance, has made me the talk of SMC. Everyone seems to go out of their way to meet me. I'm continually amazed by the number of people who approach and say, "I've heard so much about you. I had to come introduce myself." Keep in mind that I spent a grand total of three days in this community before moving here. During that time, I probably met about a dozen people around campus. Word travels fast in SMC. Faculty, librarians, human resources folks, students . . . it doesn't matter, they all want to meet the new guy. Honestly, this is probably about as close to being a rock and roll star as I'll ever get. Three weeks into the semester, my novelty will wear off and I'll be just another prof. Until that time, I think I'll bask in the spotlight for couple weeks.
*Kim is my department Chair.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Episode IV: A New Home
With a new driver behind the wheel of the truck--me--we left Des Moines on Monday AM and started on the last leg of our journey. It's amazing how much better a truck will run when all the parts are in working order. That's not to say the drive went without incident. About 1.5 hours from our final destination, we stopped to fill up the truck one final time. As I pulled into the filling station, the "Change Oil" indicator lit up. After much cursing ("Not again! Frackin truck!"), a conference with our travelling mechanic (my father), and a quick dip of the dip stick (oil in the pan), we opted to press on. We'd let Penske deal with any problems at a later date.
About 2:30 P.M., we arrived at our new home. New problem: as J was forced to leave for his flight, I now had few options regarding unloading heavy items. A quick call to let my Department Chair know that we arrived safely solved the problem: her husband would drop by to help after he got off work.
And so we started the unloading process. A half hour into the process, one of my new colleagues stopped by to lend a hand. 15 minutes after that, another colleague offered her assistance. A half hour later, the Chair's husband arrived followed soon by the chair herself. With the help of most of my new colleagues, the other two were out of town, we had almost everything unloaded by 6:30 PM. If you want to make a good impression on me, bail me out of a difficult situation. We went from having no help to more than enough help. My faith in the universe was restored.
Two days later, the Penske company redeemed itself to some degree. When I returned the truck, they offered a 15% refund for our troubles, a refund I immediately refused. I hopped on the phone with the district manager, we discussed the issue for almost a half hour, and he finally agreed to a 30 percent ($300) refund. I drove home pleased with my negotiating abilities.
About 2:30 P.M., we arrived at our new home. New problem: as J was forced to leave for his flight, I now had few options regarding unloading heavy items. A quick call to let my Department Chair know that we arrived safely solved the problem: her husband would drop by to help after he got off work.
And so we started the unloading process. A half hour into the process, one of my new colleagues stopped by to lend a hand. 15 minutes after that, another colleague offered her assistance. A half hour later, the Chair's husband arrived followed soon by the chair herself. With the help of most of my new colleagues, the other two were out of town, we had almost everything unloaded by 6:30 PM. If you want to make a good impression on me, bail me out of a difficult situation. We went from having no help to more than enough help. My faith in the universe was restored.
Two days later, the Penske company redeemed itself to some degree. When I returned the truck, they offered a 15% refund for our troubles, a refund I immediately refused. I hopped on the phone with the district manager, we discussed the issue for almost a half hour, and he finally agreed to a 30 percent ($300) refund. I drove home pleased with my negotiating abilities.
Friday, August 19, 2005
STK Killer
Heard from STK a few moments ago:
"Everytime I see an article about the BTK Killer I think of STK. Thanks for that nickname. Thanks a lot."
My pleasure! Although, I should note that J originally tagged you with the nickname. I will admit to popularizing it, however.
"Everytime I see an article about the BTK Killer I think of STK. Thanks for that nickname. Thanks a lot."
My pleasure! Although, I should note that J originally tagged you with the nickname. I will admit to popularizing it, however.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Episode III: Revenge of Penske
With a few hours of sleep behind us, we faced Saturday morning with a grim determination. Still stinging from the lack of space, we found our spirits dampened but not extinguished. Worse things could happen, right? We crammed a few remaining items in the nooks and crannies of the truck,
hooked up the civic to a tow dolly,
hooked up with our trusty companion/truck driver J,
and said goodbye to Aurora, CO.
Our farewells to the Denver Metro area were bittersweet. STK and I loved living in Colorado. We liked our condo, even though it was getting a bit small for the family, loved our friends, enjoyed the proximity of our families, and even loved our jobs. With a great deal of sadness, mixed with the excitement of new jobs, new friends, and a new home, we watched the mountains fade in our rear view mirror.
The beginning of the trip went without incident. We cruised across NE Colorado, stopping only for gas and the ocassional restroom break. Midway across Nebraska, our fortunes changed. We stopped in Kearney, NE for dinner and a brief rendezvous with STK's sister, brother-in-law, and niece. They moved to Kearney about a year ago and a dinner stop/visit made perfect sense. Saying yet another round of goodbyes, we pointed the truck toward our final destination for the day: Lincoln, NE.
As we started down the ramp to I-80, STK and I heard the rental behemoth sputtering and backfiring something fierce. J tried to limp the truck up to interstate speed but the truck failed to cooperate. We parked our respective vehicles and convened on the side of I-80. "I think we got some bad gas," mused J. "I'd bet almost anything that there's some condensation in the tank. Let's limp up to the next exit and get some dry gas engine treatment. That stuff will usually take care of water."
And limp along I-80 we did. Achieving a maximum speed of 45 mph, and usually cruising at speeds closer to 35, we chugged along to the next exit. With a couple cans of Heet in the truck's tank, we attempted the interstate once again. This time, the truck sputtered and backfired far less and managed to get up to a cruising speed of 65 mph. J called on the cell phone and reported that while the truck still wasn't running perfectly, it was performing much better. We all breathed a sigh of relief and completed the journey to Lincoln.
J got a big kick out of the fact that I picked a motel right next to an adult retail store. In fact, J accused me of picking the motel because of the sex shop. I'll never tell.
20 minutes after our arrival, I returned to the parking lot for more luggage only to see J emerge from Dr. John's adult emporium carrying a whip. "Check it out!" he exclaimed. "A whip from a sex shop in Lincoln, NE. I even had to show the people how to use the damn thing! Hahahahahaha!" There's never a dull moment when J is around.
We started the Sunday portion of our journey believing truck problems were behind us. Crossing the NE/IA border, we learned otherwise. The truck chugged up the bluffs of the Missouri river, slowing to speeds of 20 mph at the crest of a hill. Pulling off at an undeveloped rest area (no facilities, only parking), we realized our problems were probably greater than condensation. I hopped on the cell phone and called the Penske roadside assistance number. To their credit, they got right on the problem and arranged for help. The problem: we were in the middle of nowhere. It would take a mechanic at least an hour to reach us. I walked to the Element, talked quietly with STK, rested my head on door jam, and cried for a moment. I was beyond frustrated with the entire move and questioned whether we were doing the right thing. Realizing that nothing could be done but to finish the journey, I pulled myself together and started looking at alternatives.
With the temperature rising into the 90s, STK and my mother gathered our infant son and five pets and headed for the comfortable surroundings of my aunt's home in Des Moines. J, my father, and I settled in to wait for the mechanic. And we waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a fellow from Doug's Diesel arrived and tried to replace the fuel filter. Only one problem--he had the wrong fuel filter. He informed us that procuring the correct part meant a trip to the automotive supply store a half hour away. So, the three of us settled in for another hour long wait. We waited, and waited, and waited. An hour and a half later, the guy returned with the correct fuel filter, replaced the part, and asked us to drive up to the next exit. We did. Nothing had changed. The truck still wasn't running properly.
Any other repairs would require a service shop. So we turned the truck around and drove west on I-80 toward Doug's Diesel. This leg of the journey, however, the truck moved at the ridiculous speed of 20 mph. On an interstate. Through a construction zone that curtailed traffic to one lane in either direction. You can imagine the frustration of the drivers who lined up behind our creeping truck. Oddly enough, about ten minutes into the 10 mile journey the truck suddenly experienced a surge of power and managed to approach 55 mph. When we arrived at Doug's Diesel, J jumped from the cab of the truck and shouted, "I've experienced the power of Jesus! I was holding up traffic and I could just hear all those people praying for me: 'Jesus Christ, get that god-damned truck moving!' Would you believe it worked! Hallelujah!"
Our stay at Doug's Diesel lasted a total of four hours. A mechanic who volunteered to give up his day off to work on our truck (keep in mind that this was a Sunday) quickly diagnosed the problem as a faulty fuel pump and dispatched someone on yet another parts run. We waited. And waited. And waited. Here's me waiting:
As one might imagine, my patience at this point in the journey had reached nil. J, and this is exactly why he's the amazing friend that he is, calmly reminded me that despite the problems with the move, everyone was safe. "Keep thinking about that new baby of yours," he suggested. "That's what really matters. Everything else just is."
Finally, about 7.5 hours after our breakdown, the fuel filter was replaced and we were back on the road. The truck ran perfectly and we rolled into Des Moines two hours later. Unfortunately, we had to part company with J almost immediately. His return flight to Denver was leaving the following morning and he wouldn't be able to complete the journey with us. We made arrangements for a relative of his to get him to the airport, thanked him profusely for all his help, and parted company.
We crashed into bed not daring to tempt the fates by hoping for an uneventful final leg of the journey.
hooked up the civic to a tow dolly,
hooked up with our trusty companion/truck driver J,
and said goodbye to Aurora, CO.
Our farewells to the Denver Metro area were bittersweet. STK and I loved living in Colorado. We liked our condo, even though it was getting a bit small for the family, loved our friends, enjoyed the proximity of our families, and even loved our jobs. With a great deal of sadness, mixed with the excitement of new jobs, new friends, and a new home, we watched the mountains fade in our rear view mirror.
The beginning of the trip went without incident. We cruised across NE Colorado, stopping only for gas and the ocassional restroom break. Midway across Nebraska, our fortunes changed. We stopped in Kearney, NE for dinner and a brief rendezvous with STK's sister, brother-in-law, and niece. They moved to Kearney about a year ago and a dinner stop/visit made perfect sense. Saying yet another round of goodbyes, we pointed the truck toward our final destination for the day: Lincoln, NE.
As we started down the ramp to I-80, STK and I heard the rental behemoth sputtering and backfiring something fierce. J tried to limp the truck up to interstate speed but the truck failed to cooperate. We parked our respective vehicles and convened on the side of I-80. "I think we got some bad gas," mused J. "I'd bet almost anything that there's some condensation in the tank. Let's limp up to the next exit and get some dry gas engine treatment. That stuff will usually take care of water."
And limp along I-80 we did. Achieving a maximum speed of 45 mph, and usually cruising at speeds closer to 35, we chugged along to the next exit. With a couple cans of Heet in the truck's tank, we attempted the interstate once again. This time, the truck sputtered and backfired far less and managed to get up to a cruising speed of 65 mph. J called on the cell phone and reported that while the truck still wasn't running perfectly, it was performing much better. We all breathed a sigh of relief and completed the journey to Lincoln.
J got a big kick out of the fact that I picked a motel right next to an adult retail store. In fact, J accused me of picking the motel because of the sex shop. I'll never tell.
20 minutes after our arrival, I returned to the parking lot for more luggage only to see J emerge from Dr. John's adult emporium carrying a whip. "Check it out!" he exclaimed. "A whip from a sex shop in Lincoln, NE. I even had to show the people how to use the damn thing! Hahahahahaha!" There's never a dull moment when J is around.
We started the Sunday portion of our journey believing truck problems were behind us. Crossing the NE/IA border, we learned otherwise. The truck chugged up the bluffs of the Missouri river, slowing to speeds of 20 mph at the crest of a hill. Pulling off at an undeveloped rest area (no facilities, only parking), we realized our problems were probably greater than condensation. I hopped on the cell phone and called the Penske roadside assistance number. To their credit, they got right on the problem and arranged for help. The problem: we were in the middle of nowhere. It would take a mechanic at least an hour to reach us. I walked to the Element, talked quietly with STK, rested my head on door jam, and cried for a moment. I was beyond frustrated with the entire move and questioned whether we were doing the right thing. Realizing that nothing could be done but to finish the journey, I pulled myself together and started looking at alternatives.
With the temperature rising into the 90s, STK and my mother gathered our infant son and five pets and headed for the comfortable surroundings of my aunt's home in Des Moines. J, my father, and I settled in to wait for the mechanic. And we waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a fellow from Doug's Diesel arrived and tried to replace the fuel filter. Only one problem--he had the wrong fuel filter. He informed us that procuring the correct part meant a trip to the automotive supply store a half hour away. So, the three of us settled in for another hour long wait. We waited, and waited, and waited. An hour and a half later, the guy returned with the correct fuel filter, replaced the part, and asked us to drive up to the next exit. We did. Nothing had changed. The truck still wasn't running properly.
Any other repairs would require a service shop. So we turned the truck around and drove west on I-80 toward Doug's Diesel. This leg of the journey, however, the truck moved at the ridiculous speed of 20 mph. On an interstate. Through a construction zone that curtailed traffic to one lane in either direction. You can imagine the frustration of the drivers who lined up behind our creeping truck. Oddly enough, about ten minutes into the 10 mile journey the truck suddenly experienced a surge of power and managed to approach 55 mph. When we arrived at Doug's Diesel, J jumped from the cab of the truck and shouted, "I've experienced the power of Jesus! I was holding up traffic and I could just hear all those people praying for me: 'Jesus Christ, get that god-damned truck moving!' Would you believe it worked! Hallelujah!"
Our stay at Doug's Diesel lasted a total of four hours. A mechanic who volunteered to give up his day off to work on our truck (keep in mind that this was a Sunday) quickly diagnosed the problem as a faulty fuel pump and dispatched someone on yet another parts run. We waited. And waited. And waited. Here's me waiting:
As one might imagine, my patience at this point in the journey had reached nil. J, and this is exactly why he's the amazing friend that he is, calmly reminded me that despite the problems with the move, everyone was safe. "Keep thinking about that new baby of yours," he suggested. "That's what really matters. Everything else just is."
Finally, about 7.5 hours after our breakdown, the fuel filter was replaced and we were back on the road. The truck ran perfectly and we rolled into Des Moines two hours later. Unfortunately, we had to part company with J almost immediately. His return flight to Denver was leaving the following morning and he wouldn't be able to complete the journey with us. We made arrangements for a relative of his to get him to the airport, thanked him profusely for all his help, and parted company.
We crashed into bed not daring to tempt the fates by hoping for an uneventful final leg of the journey.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Forget Anger
Forget anger toward all who have offended you,
For from anger springs a multitude of wrongs.
The face's smile and the heart's joy are slain by anger.
Does there exist a greater enemy than one's own anger?
-Tirukkural 31: 303-304
Excellent advice. Years ago, particularly when I was still drinking, I'd get angry at someone or something and remain angry for years. Hold a grudge much? In AA we call these long term grudges resentments. Put simply, resentments lead to drinking. Today, I still get angry but I let that anger go; I let it pass by. Anger is a poison that, not unlike drinking and drugging, I must do without.
For from anger springs a multitude of wrongs.
The face's smile and the heart's joy are slain by anger.
Does there exist a greater enemy than one's own anger?
-Tirukkural 31: 303-304
Excellent advice. Years ago, particularly when I was still drinking, I'd get angry at someone or something and remain angry for years. Hold a grudge much? In AA we call these long term grudges resentments. Put simply, resentments lead to drinking. Today, I still get angry but I let that anger go; I let it pass by. Anger is a poison that, not unlike drinking and drugging, I must do without.
Episode II: Attack of the Poor Planning . . . and Packing
When we last left our intrepid adventurers, Derek had just escaped the jaws of electronic death. With a refreshing night of sleep behind them, they awoke to face a full day of truck packing . . .
I wish I could blame what transpired on our second day of packing on someone else, but that would be denying the real source of the problem: we are among the overstuffed. Despite our continued desire to live a less material life, we still possess too much crap.
The day before the big move proved hectic as they always do. We ran last minute errands, took Baby G for his 2 month doctor's appointment/innoculations, and arrived back at home to meet our friends and family for a full afternoon/evening of packing. As the evening wore on, patience disappeared and tempers flared. By 9:00 PM, as we finished loading most of the furniture, it became painfully apparent that we weren't going to fit some of our posessions on the truck. As one might imagine, I launched into a tirade of f-bombs that would make even the most foul-mouthed of individuals blanch. Needless to say, my in-laws now know the full extent of my foul-mouthed fury. Even STK, usually the most even-tempered person I know, let loose with a few expletives. By 10:30, STK and I resigned ourselves to leaving our desk chairs, rocking chair, artwork (we have a considerable amount), and several boxes of cleaning supplies behind. Our moving budget trashed (unexpected airline ticket + another truck rental + more gas = slight consternation), I stormed around the condo in an absolutely foul temper.
Before going to sleep around 1 AM, however, we encountered yet another surprise. In all the hectic packing, someone stashed the AC adapter to our remaining phone, as well as our dog leashes, in an unknown location. As our cell phone was still in service, the phone issue proved a minor inconvenience. The dog leashes were another matter. About to embark on a 940 mile journey with pets, we needed the damn dog leashes. We spent what seemed like an eternity digging through boxes only to discover that someone placed the leashes in Baby G's bouncy seat. WTF?
In the end, we realized that most of the packing mishaps resulted from our poor planning. The dog leashes, and anything else we didn't want packed, should have been placed in boxes and stored in a designated "No Packing Zone." We also needed to purge some of our stuff before the move. Do we really need three televisions when we only watch one? Why do I keep hauling around an entire box of MA thesis drafts and notes?* What about those two sets of pots and pans?** Does STK need 53 pairs of shoes? Do I need dozens of black comic book and band t-shirts? How about the dozen our so boxes of comic books?*** A serious purging was needed before the move. Alas, we blew it and tried to bring everything.
Physically and emotionally exhausted, we retired, knowing good fortune awaited us on the morn. What a laugh. The Trickster lurked in the shadows, waiting to teach us the true meaning of powerlessness.
*On arriving at our new home, I recycled 3/4 of those notes.
**One set is now marked for donation to a local charity.
***Okay, there's no way in hell I was parting with my comic books. STK gets to keep the shoes.
I wish I could blame what transpired on our second day of packing on someone else, but that would be denying the real source of the problem: we are among the overstuffed. Despite our continued desire to live a less material life, we still possess too much crap.
The day before the big move proved hectic as they always do. We ran last minute errands, took Baby G for his 2 month doctor's appointment/innoculations, and arrived back at home to meet our friends and family for a full afternoon/evening of packing. As the evening wore on, patience disappeared and tempers flared. By 9:00 PM, as we finished loading most of the furniture, it became painfully apparent that we weren't going to fit some of our posessions on the truck. As one might imagine, I launched into a tirade of f-bombs that would make even the most foul-mouthed of individuals blanch. Needless to say, my in-laws now know the full extent of my foul-mouthed fury. Even STK, usually the most even-tempered person I know, let loose with a few expletives. By 10:30, STK and I resigned ourselves to leaving our desk chairs, rocking chair, artwork (we have a considerable amount), and several boxes of cleaning supplies behind. Our moving budget trashed (unexpected airline ticket + another truck rental + more gas = slight consternation), I stormed around the condo in an absolutely foul temper.
Before going to sleep around 1 AM, however, we encountered yet another surprise. In all the hectic packing, someone stashed the AC adapter to our remaining phone, as well as our dog leashes, in an unknown location. As our cell phone was still in service, the phone issue proved a minor inconvenience. The dog leashes were another matter. About to embark on a 940 mile journey with pets, we needed the damn dog leashes. We spent what seemed like an eternity digging through boxes only to discover that someone placed the leashes in Baby G's bouncy seat. WTF?
In the end, we realized that most of the packing mishaps resulted from our poor planning. The dog leashes, and anything else we didn't want packed, should have been placed in boxes and stored in a designated "No Packing Zone." We also needed to purge some of our stuff before the move. Do we really need three televisions when we only watch one? Why do I keep hauling around an entire box of MA thesis drafts and notes?* What about those two sets of pots and pans?** Does STK need 53 pairs of shoes? Do I need dozens of black comic book and band t-shirts? How about the dozen our so boxes of comic books?*** A serious purging was needed before the move. Alas, we blew it and tried to bring everything.
Physically and emotionally exhausted, we retired, knowing good fortune awaited us on the morn. What a laugh. The Trickster lurked in the shadows, waiting to teach us the true meaning of powerlessness.
*On arriving at our new home, I recycled 3/4 of those notes.
**One set is now marked for donation to a local charity.
***Okay, there's no way in hell I was parting with my comic books. STK gets to keep the shoes.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Episode One: The Toshiba Menace
Thursday, August 4, 2005 started as a day of high hopes. We arrived at the Penske rental center at 10 AM, filled out the appropriate paperwork, and drove away with our 26 foot truck and tow dolly. Despite the steady rain, an oddity for Colorado, our spirits were high; we were ready for our big move. We spent the rest of the day emptying a storage space and gathering assorted odds and ends from our respective 'rents homes. After almost 37 years, both STK and I finally moved away from home.
Later than evening, STK and I spent several hours packing various last minute items around the condo. We boxed up the art, removed all the phones (except one), and packed our overnight bags. As we knew Friday would be a day of hectic truck loading, we tried to plan ahead for the Saturday roll out. Everything looked great!
Around midnight, I started the task of disassembling the entertainment center. Entertainment center is probably a bit of an exaggeration. Our 31 inch television sits on a TV stand designed for something more along the lines of 21 inches. Needless to say, the large television sitting on the rickety stand screamed potential disaster. While unplugging the VCR, I somehow managed to create an imbalance in the TV/TV stand continuum and the very large television tipped toward my 140 lb frame. As I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a dodge roll was out of the question. Bracing for impact, I noticed a small metal footstool just to my right. Images of a footstool sticking out of a smashed television screen flooded my head. I leapt into action . . . or something like that. I grabbed the television and managed to divert its trajectory just enough--it hit the footstool but not with enough speed to smash the screen. Saving the television, however, presented another dilemna: I was now trapped beneath the television.
STK, who heard the loud crash resulting from my mishap, raced into the living room just in time to hear me utter a feeble, "help!" Surveying the disaster scene and catching a glimpse of my feet protruding from the rubble, she exclaimed in a panicked voice, "Oh my God! Derek!" She raced to the rescue and helped disentangle me from the wreckage. I survived the incident relatively unscathed, as did the television. STK had a good laugh, and we're still laughing, about my electronic brush with death.
We went to bed on Thursday night exhausted and in good spirits. Unfortunately, neither of us noticed the storm clouds mushrooming on the horizon. The next few days would prove to be far more trying than either of us could have ever imagined.
Later than evening, STK and I spent several hours packing various last minute items around the condo. We boxed up the art, removed all the phones (except one), and packed our overnight bags. As we knew Friday would be a day of hectic truck loading, we tried to plan ahead for the Saturday roll out. Everything looked great!
Around midnight, I started the task of disassembling the entertainment center. Entertainment center is probably a bit of an exaggeration. Our 31 inch television sits on a TV stand designed for something more along the lines of 21 inches. Needless to say, the large television sitting on the rickety stand screamed potential disaster. While unplugging the VCR, I somehow managed to create an imbalance in the TV/TV stand continuum and the very large television tipped toward my 140 lb frame. As I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a dodge roll was out of the question. Bracing for impact, I noticed a small metal footstool just to my right. Images of a footstool sticking out of a smashed television screen flooded my head. I leapt into action . . . or something like that. I grabbed the television and managed to divert its trajectory just enough--it hit the footstool but not with enough speed to smash the screen. Saving the television, however, presented another dilemna: I was now trapped beneath the television.
STK, who heard the loud crash resulting from my mishap, raced into the living room just in time to hear me utter a feeble, "help!" Surveying the disaster scene and catching a glimpse of my feet protruding from the rubble, she exclaimed in a panicked voice, "Oh my God! Derek!" She raced to the rescue and helped disentangle me from the wreckage. I survived the incident relatively unscathed, as did the television. STK had a good laugh, and we're still laughing, about my electronic brush with death.
We went to bed on Thursday night exhausted and in good spirits. Unfortunately, neither of us noticed the storm clouds mushrooming on the horizon. The next few days would prove to be far more trying than either of us could have ever imagined.
Monday, August 15, 2005
We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Blogging
Two rental trucks, dozens of mugs of truck stop coffee, and 1860 miles in the rear view mirror, we've finally completed the Move From Hell. Everyone keeps saying, "In ten years, we'll laugh about all this." And you know what? They're right. In ten years, I'm sure we'll all laugh about it. The operative phrase is "In ten years." Until then, I'm sure mention of this move will evoke nothing but grumbling and growling. Over the next few days I'll try to give a blow-by-blow account of the fiasco.
On a more positive note, our telephone, cable, and internet service are all up and running. Friends and family can expect an "Updated Contact Info" email in the next day or so.
On a more positive note, our telephone, cable, and internet service are all up and running. Friends and family can expect an "Updated Contact Info" email in the next day or so.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Murphy's Law
Anything that could have gone wrong on the recent move, did. We're all in our new home, attempting to make order out of chaos. I'll post more next week--we should have internet installed by Monday. Just wanted let everyone know that we made it.
Here's a teaser for how horribly the move went--I'm flying back to Denver tonight to make another trip with the rest of our belongings.
Here's a teaser for how horribly the move went--I'm flying back to Denver tonight to make another trip with the rest of our belongings.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Very Big Truck
In eight or nine hours, I'm picking up our moving truck. This isn't some pansy-assed oversized van, but a GREAT BIG 26-foot truck. Although the following admission is sure to make me seem less manly (like I worry about that), I'm more than a little intimidated by the prospect of driving something so large. Keep in mind that my everyday car is a 1995 Honda Civic. Honda Civic >>>> 26-foot truck. Yikes. If we didn't have to haul furniture, boxes, and assorted sundries, I could probably drive the Civic into the back of the Very Big Truck and hit the road! Remember when the Knight Rider car used to shoot out of the back of a moving semi? Replace Kitt with my Honda Civic and you'll get the image I have in my head. I'm way cooler than David Hasselhoff.
Seriously, though, driving such large vehicles has never been on my list of Favorite Things to Do Over the Summer. When behind the wheel of such a monstrosity, I never feel like I'm quite in control. I feel like I'm hurtling down the road, barely avoiding disaster after disaster. Is it just me or is it virtually impossible to see if there's a car saddled up next to the passenger side of a big truck? I'm always worried I'm going to squash some poor soul driving a tiny Honda Civic. Not only do I have to drive this behemoth of a truck almost 900 miles to our new home, I get to negotiate the narrow streets surrounding Denver's Washington Park. STK's folks live in that area and we have to pick up a treadmill, fancy cutting board (I'm still trying to picture what the heck this thing is--digital pics once it's in our possession), crib, and a half dozen boxes. We made a similar trip to my parents' place last evening. In addition to the bagged comics stored appropriately in three comic book boxes, I carried eight comic book filled banker/file boxes out of the depths of the parental storage unit. At 37 years of age, I think STK and I have finally relieved our parents of storage duty.
The one good things about this move is that J, my friend who knows much about all things traditionally masculine (home repairs, guns, driving big trucks), is making the journey with us. His task is to help me drive the Very Big Truck to our final destination. If I know J, he probably knows CB talk, owns a trucker hat, and will be capalbe of whipping the Very Big Truck into the smallest of parking spaces.* He's just like that. Unfortunately, I don't think J will be joining me for the Washington Park adventure. If you read a headline like "Idiot Rolls Moving Truck in Wash Park" in the next day or so, you'll know the Very Big Truck was more than I could handle.
*Beyond the smattering of trucker stuff we all learned during the 1970s craze? What was that all about? Remember the movies Smokey and The Bandit and Convoy? Remember the song? People actually paid money to partake in trucker culture. Oh, and who could forget BJ and the Bear? The adventures of a trucker and his chimpanzee companion kept us tuning in each week, eh? Actually, I'm happy to report that I hated BJ and the Bear. I was more a Dukes of Hazzard kind of guy.
Seriously, though, driving such large vehicles has never been on my list of Favorite Things to Do Over the Summer. When behind the wheel of such a monstrosity, I never feel like I'm quite in control. I feel like I'm hurtling down the road, barely avoiding disaster after disaster. Is it just me or is it virtually impossible to see if there's a car saddled up next to the passenger side of a big truck? I'm always worried I'm going to squash some poor soul driving a tiny Honda Civic. Not only do I have to drive this behemoth of a truck almost 900 miles to our new home, I get to negotiate the narrow streets surrounding Denver's Washington Park. STK's folks live in that area and we have to pick up a treadmill, fancy cutting board (I'm still trying to picture what the heck this thing is--digital pics once it's in our possession), crib, and a half dozen boxes. We made a similar trip to my parents' place last evening. In addition to the bagged comics stored appropriately in three comic book boxes, I carried eight comic book filled banker/file boxes out of the depths of the parental storage unit. At 37 years of age, I think STK and I have finally relieved our parents of storage duty.
The one good things about this move is that J, my friend who knows much about all things traditionally masculine (home repairs, guns, driving big trucks), is making the journey with us. His task is to help me drive the Very Big Truck to our final destination. If I know J, he probably knows CB talk, owns a trucker hat, and will be capalbe of whipping the Very Big Truck into the smallest of parking spaces.* He's just like that. Unfortunately, I don't think J will be joining me for the Washington Park adventure. If you read a headline like "Idiot Rolls Moving Truck in Wash Park" in the next day or so, you'll know the Very Big Truck was more than I could handle.
*Beyond the smattering of trucker stuff we all learned during the 1970s craze? What was that all about? Remember the movies Smokey and The Bandit and Convoy? Remember the song? People actually paid money to partake in trucker culture. Oh, and who could forget BJ and the Bear? The adventures of a trucker and his chimpanzee companion kept us tuning in each week, eh? Actually, I'm happy to report that I hated BJ and the Bear. I was more a Dukes of Hazzard kind of guy.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Elusive
Body impermanent like spring mist;
mind insubstantial like empty sky;
thoughts unestablished like breezes in space.
Think about these three points over and over.
-Adept Godrakpa, "Hermit of Go Cliffs"
Copyright Wisdom Publications 2001. Reprinted from "Daily Wisdom: 365 Buddhist Inspirations," edited by Josh Bartok, with permission of Wisdom Publications, 199 Elm St., Somerville MA 02144 U.S.A, www.wisdompubs.org.
mind insubstantial like empty sky;
thoughts unestablished like breezes in space.
Think about these three points over and over.
-Adept Godrakpa, "Hermit of Go Cliffs"
Copyright Wisdom Publications 2001. Reprinted from "Daily Wisdom: 365 Buddhist Inspirations," edited by Josh Bartok, with permission of Wisdom Publications, 199 Elm St., Somerville MA 02144 U.S.A, www.wisdompubs.org.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Tool Time!
Four days away from M-Day, moving day, and, as one would guess, things are a bit chaotic around the hacienda. Various boxes litter the carpeted landscape; there are endless errands to run and too many people to see. We're really trying to make time for everyone who wants to see us, but we're running out of time and energy. Continually disrupting TLO's schedule isn't helping is disposition, either. As of today, anyone who wants to see us has to stop by our place. Even though it's summer and I'm getting less sleep than normal, I've started setting my alarm. I need maximum pack/errand/visit time in my day. The lost hour of sleep really doesn't mean much--I ran on far less sleep throughout the past school year.
Yesterday, in what is surely a sign of the end times, I went in search of assorted hardware and power tools. In what I see as a bit of consumer irony, I purchased a 50-foot extension cord and a cordless screwdriver. Today, I'm headed out to buy a 6' stepladder and a hand truck. Do these purchases mean I'm finally becoming a grown up? Make no mistake, I'd rather be buying something fun like a new laptop, a Star Wars maquette, or a new pair of Doc Martens. Still, spending $$$ on toys for the next couple months seems kind of frivolous.
Tonight, we're headed north to see friends and family. My mother's birthday is tomorrow, so we're stopping by the 'rents tonight for a bit o' cake and celebrating. My sister and nephew will also be there. Oh, and I bet my parents make me take the boxes I've been storing in their basement for the last fifteen years. Can you say "comic books"?
Yesterday, in what is surely a sign of the end times, I went in search of assorted hardware and power tools. In what I see as a bit of consumer irony, I purchased a 50-foot extension cord and a cordless screwdriver. Today, I'm headed out to buy a 6' stepladder and a hand truck. Do these purchases mean I'm finally becoming a grown up? Make no mistake, I'd rather be buying something fun like a new laptop, a Star Wars maquette, or a new pair of Doc Martens. Still, spending $$$ on toys for the next couple months seems kind of frivolous.
Tonight, we're headed north to see friends and family. My mother's birthday is tomorrow, so we're stopping by the 'rents tonight for a bit o' cake and celebrating. My sister and nephew will also be there. Oh, and I bet my parents make me take the boxes I've been storing in their basement for the last fifteen years. Can you say "comic books"?
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