Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff…Especially if A-Hurricane is A-Coming

Last Friday morning, I was fuh-reaking out.  And it had nothing to do with the monster Sandy storm that was bearing down on the East Coast.  Actually, last Friday (Saturday, Sunday, and Monday) morning, I wasn’t giving Sandy her due respect.  Nope, I had other things on my mind. 

That morning, I found out that the technology that I chose to use for an event at work wasn’t going to work.  It was an event that I spent almost six weeks planning and organizing.  And the technology – that would’ve broadcast the event to multiple off-site locations in my agency – was crucial.  It worked on Wednesday.  It didn’t work on Friday.  When was the event?  Monday, October 29^th.       

When the technicians told me it wasn’t going to work, I almost lost it.  And by “lost it,” I mean drop to my knees flailing my hands screaming, “WHY?!”  Luckily, I’m a professional; so I did what any professional does – I went to buy pies with the Refreshment Committee.  Not that I liked that too much either but an event organizer’s gotta do what an event organizer’s gotta do. 

Hurricane.  What hurricane? 

I was focused on pulling off a big event.  See, in the past year I’ve become active in trying to stage a nonviolent coup to take over the professional organization at my agency.  I’m one of the committee chairs and last month I found out that I had to organize an event based on a suggestion that I made a few months ago.  Talk about something coming back to haunt you! 

A lone committee member and I began to plan and organize in September - you know, when the weather was sunny and bright.  An Archival Rockstar – what’s it take to become an Archival Rockstar?  Ask me in 10 years.  That’s not cockiness…just confidence – was coming to engage in a discussion with our staff about the four most controversial letters in our profession.  Archivists debating and engaging in dialogue about cool archives stuff!  We developed an entire concept (trademark pending in 23 countries).  I designed a (kickass) poster.  I printed pamphlets.  The event itself was going to consist of a presentation, a panel, and pies.  And at the very end, maybe someone was gonna get up and say “Let them eat pie!”  It was gonna be epic.    

And then Friday happened.  By Friday night, I was stressed out and worried.    

Oh right, and a hurricane was coming.

On Sunday morning, I received an early morning text from one of the panelists – a colleague from New York City – her train was cancelled and she wouldn’t be able to make it.  Sigh.  I was down but not out – the show would go on.  Even with an empty chair.   

I spent Sunday tracking our guest’s flight and found out that he arrived safe and sound.  Right around the time that I found out our office would be closed the next day – Monday, October 29^th – because of the hurricane.  Talk about a Sandyshitstorm. 

So, what did I learn this weekend?  

When a colossal mega-hurricane’s headed your way, don’t sweat the small stuff because you've got bigger problems to worry about. 

Oh, and have plenty of bottled water on hand.  Or have a friend who keeps extra for you.    

Night and Day

So, there I was – at the Philadelphia airport with a first class ticket on a flight to Minneapolis, Minnesota.  The next morning.

You didn’t expect me to spend the night at the airport did you? 

Brother to the rescue.

Now, don’t get to thinking that he’s a prince among men and all that stuff.  In fact, through my whole travel ordeal, he was sending me texts and calling me saying such supportive things like – “You’ve been to London, you should be able to handle this.”  “You’re a world traveler!”  “Are you hangry?  I bet you’re hangry!”  “I’m trying to be supportive…like a jock strap!”  “Still hangry?” 

Granted, he did play a crucial part in translating for my parents who don’t do very well in the communication department in times of crisis. 

I think my brother realized that I was at the end of the rope when I was trying to make sense of the SEPTA train timetable and was crying again realized I had justmissed a train and would have to wait another god knows how long for the next one.  So, he said the magic word:  “I’ll come pick you up and we’ll go get dinner.”  Dinner being the magic word, of course.

My tears dissipated, everything became right in the world again, and I remembered that heroes do walk among us. 

And that’s the story of how I flew to Philadelphia to have dinner with my brother. 

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When we were kids my mom used to tell people that my brother and I were as different as night and day. 

He was artistic. I was not. 

I was a reader.  He was not.

He was athletic.  I was not.

I was a good student.  He was not.

He was intellectually gifted.  I was not. 

I was a morning person.  He most definitely was not. 

Things haven’t really changed in 30 odd years.    

We’re still pretty different. 

I believe strongly in punctuality.  My brother lives life according to his own clock which seems to be in a time zone that no one has quite discovered except for him. 

My brother’s house is decorated with a discerning eye towards detail.  The fact that the screws in my light switch plates aren’t aligned the same way makes him bonkers. 

I can’t smell an ashtray on fire right next to me (yes, it really happened).  My brother can walk into a room and get sick from the smell of cigarette smoke.   

My brother whips up amazing meals for family and friends.  I offer family and friends the bounty of my take-out menu drawer. 

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As we ate dinner that night and he told me a story about work, I realized that, in some respects, we’re not so different after all. 

My brother is an HVAC guy…he installs heaters and boilers and big stuff like that and he’s very serious and very meticulous about it.  Sometimes, I get the sense that his tendency towards perfectionism might drive his coworkers crazy.  I wondered aloud if he was being a bit tough on them.  He got very agitated and said things had to be done a certain way – his way – so that it was done right.  I thought he was on a very high horse, indeed.

And then I chuckled because really, when it comes to work, I’m the same way.  My brother flips out about ductwork.  I flip out about improper records arrangement, crooked labels, and people not spell-checking their work.  Sometimes, I ride a pretty high horse myself.     

Yeah, we’re still as different as night and day. 

But every night has some light and every day has its darkness. 

-----

(This morning person is eternally grateful that her not-a-morning-person brother got up at 4:30 to take her to the airport the next morning!)

Wegmania!

On Sunday morning, I rose with the morning sun and headed to the grand opening of the Wegmans in the next town over from mine.  Wegmans is kinda like the Disneyland of supermarkets – it’s an experience to shop there.  Who wouldn’t want to have an experience when they’re grocery shopping?!   I was one of many in a line that eventually snaked around the building and down the street waiting for the doors to open.   Unfortunately, my #Wegmania hash tag didn’t catch on in the Twitterverse but that didn’t quell my excitement. 

One of my friends tweeted me and said she was guessing that I was one of Wegmans’ biggest fans. I responded with the truth – not really, I’m just into supermarket grand openings.  I wasn’t really there to shop.  I was just there to be there.  To say – “Yep, I was at the grand opening of the Wegmans.  I came.  I saw.   I was there.“

See, on a summer morning 14 years ago, I was on the other side of a similar set of doors looking out at a similar line snaking around a brand-spanking new supermarket.  It wasn’t a Wegmans.  Nope, my supermarket was Genuardi’s.  If you’re from the Philadelphia suburbs, you’ve heard of Genuardi’s.  Maybe you even shopped at one.  Customer service and quality goods were hallmarks of the Genuardi’s chain and for a long time they set the gold standard for grocery stores in Southeastern Pennsylvania – kinda like the Disneyland of supermarkets (ahem).       

On July 2, 1998, as the Genuardi family opened the doors to Roslyn Store #35 – after the family priest blessed the produce – I was at Register 3, at the ready to scan with gusto, punch in produce look-ups with abandon (4011, 4080,…), and ask the imperative question – “Paper or plastic?”   

It wasn’t my first job but it was the first job that pushed me out into the world.  The seeds of the person I am today were planted and nurtured at Genuardi’s…probably in the floral department where I spent many summer days watering and deadheading flowers.  We were a tight-knit staff – high school and college kids and actual grown-ups – who had fun while we were cashiering, baking, deli slicing, pizza tossing, meat grinding, and melon handling!  There were Halloween parties, Genuardi brothers sightings, picnics, Midnight Madness sales, and, once, we even had the Mummers strut their stuff in the center of our produce department!  For a girl who commuted to college, it was the closest thing I came to a collegiate experience.  And our school colors were black (pants), white (shirt), and green (apron).      

While I didn’t receive a degree from Genuardi’s, I did receive a much-needed education.  I learned that when people hear the word “snow” in the forecast, they will suddenly need more milk, bread, and toilet paper than they know what to do with; I learned how to use a helium tank (and you better believe that comes in handy!); I learned the difference between a geranium and a hydrangea; I learned the joys of the life known as “third shift;” I learned that for every nasty person in the world, there are ten more who are kind and generous; I learned that a manager who believes in you has the potential to change your life.  And I learned that all good things come to an end eventually.

A couple years into my employment, the Genuardi family sold their stores to a larger grocery chain.  That was the beginning of the end – or “21^st Century and decline” as it is referenced in the Genuardi’s Wikipedia article.  Eventually work wasn’t fun anymore.  Work became work.  And that's never a good thing.  Genuardi’s was never the same after that sale, even though it stayed on the supermarket scene.  But late last year, that grocery chain decided to close or sell off the Genuardi’s stores.  By the end of this summer, Genuardi’s will “cease to exist,” leaving behind a legacy of customer service, quality products, and, I imagine, quite a few aprons, and name tags.    

I thought about Genuardi’s a lot while I waited in line for the Wegmans grand opening.  I thought about how lucky I was to experience a grand opening on the other side of the doors.  To be able to say that I had been there.  When they finally take the Genuardi’s sign down at Roslyn Store #35, I hope to be there so I can say “I came.  I saw.  I’m so glad that I worked there.”      

Speaking with a Little Class

You ever see one of those shows on TV when a hypnotist/self-help guru/Fear Factor host subjects someone to their worst fear so that they can “work through it”?   Like, if you’re afraid of great big hairy spiders they’ll make you stick your hand in an aquarium of great big hairy spiders or if you’re afraid of jelly beans they’ll make you go on a tour of the Jelly Belly factory.  And all this is supposed to desensitize you or minimize the fear so that while you still might not enjoy big hairy spiders or jelly beans, you’re not as afraid of them anymore.  It’s like Take Back the Night only it’s Take Back the Fear.

That’s kinda like me and public speaking.  I’m subjecting myself to Toastmasters to work through my fear of public speaking but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to run out and speak publicly ever every chance I get.  But there’s a little thing called “work obligations” and you can’t exactly say no when you have to give presentations.  Well, I guess you could but it wouldn’t look very good, would it?

The last two weeks have been a veritable public speaking-fest for me.  Last Tuesday, I had to make the introductory remarks at a lecture that I helped organize at work.  I started off strong and then I realized where I was and I kinda panicked and sped through the last two-thirds of the intro.  All that breathing stuff?   It went flying out the window. 

This past week, I taught a few training sessions which was actually enjoyable – I mean, not as enjoyable as a trip to the Caymans but it wasn’t like I was facing a firing squad or anything.  I definitely wasn’t the best presenter but I learned something – use a memorable graphic in your presentation and people will remember what you want them to do have to say.

Friday was the culmination of my public speaking engagements.  My boss was going out of town so she asked me to speak to a bunch of up and coming/already arrived archivists about our online catalog.  To be honest, it was an easy crowd.  Half of the people in the class were my friends, the other quarter I knew from various work things, and the rest, well, you can’t know everyone!

It was nerve-wracking because it was going to be videotaped and everyone would be staring at me I was talking about something I’ve never really talked about before.  I did a lot of practicing - thank God for SuperJ who not only sat through three practice sessions but counted every “um” I said and reminded me that the presentation did not have to be one very long sentence without pauses.  A period and a comma are spots where you breathe – advice for the ages.   

With my heart pounding, I went down to the lecture room at 8:30 Friday morning.  I wanted time to set up, log-in to the computer, run through my speech using the microphone, and make sure I was breathing at all the proper intervals.  A prepared speaker is a calm speaker.  Until it’s ten minutes before show time and the speaker realizes that she’s supposed to be in the room next door. 

Once I was where I was supposed to be, I looked out at the sea of friendly faces and launched into my speech.  Sure, there were some flubs and probably one too many “ums” for SuperJ’s liking but I think, overall, it went okay. 

Do I want to do it again?  No, not really.  Will I?  Yes, probably.  They say you have to do the things that scare you the most to make you a stronger person…so I guess I will.

Besides, it could've been a lot worse.  I could've been on that tour of the Jelly Belly factory. 

Six Months

When I was 16, I was promoted to Library Page Extraordinaire and went to work in the library basement.  I guess they were so impressed with my ability to hide behind the shelves and read shelve books during my shift that they wanted me to do bigger and better things.  Upon my arrival in the basement, I became Junior Book Pocket Typist.  You remember the pockets at the back of library books with the cards that a sassy librarian would punch with the due date?  My job was to type (on an actual typewriter) the information on the cards and pockets – title, author, Dewey Decimal call number, all that catalog-y stuff – and then cover the books in those clear book covers that make a library book, a library book.

Here’s the thing – I wasn’t the greatest typist.  When I started, I made more typos than I could count, I could never get the lines to align, my pockets were crooked, and my covers weren’t the greatest.  For the first few weeks, I used to take home all the pockets that I messed up that day and throw them out.  I was scared of getting fired embarrassed at how many mistakes I was making.  So, every night I’d stuff my jeans pockets with my book pockets and wonder if I’d ever become a better Junior Book Pocket Typist.  Every night, my mom assured me the next day would be better.  I could only hope.

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Seven months ago, I knew exactly what I was doing when I arrived at work each day.  I was good at my job of “being an archivist,” I was a go to person, and I knew how to get things done.  Sure, I spazzed out every other day once in a while and I could be moody when I got annoyed but overall, things were good.  Besides, I was fun to have around. 

Six months ago, that all changed.  Good bye comfort zone, hello new job.  It’s definitely been a period of adjustment – both personally and professionally.  I’m over the "I don't fit in with these people and I’ll never make friends!!" pity party that I threw myself a few months ago because, quite frankly, who wouldn’t want to be my friend?  (I’m feeling a bit full of myself today!)

Professionally – well, that’s an altogether different matter.  Every day, I whisper the following three pieces of advice to myself –

1.      Courtesy of my friend M. K.  – give myself a year to get used to everything and feel like I know what I’m doing.

2.      Courtesy of my boss – everything’s reversible.*

3.      Courtesy of Pinterest – mistakes are proof that I'm trying. 

Some days it helps.  Some days it doesn’t.  The days that it doesn’t are the days that I treat myself to a great big chocolate cupcake. 

In my new position, I’m responsible for ensuring that all of the descriptions that go into our online catalog meet all of the agency descriptive standards.  One of my colleagues likes to compare our standards to the rules of the road.  Just like there are people who enforce the rules of the road, there are people who enforce the standards.  And I'm one of those people.  But I’m so much nicer than your average traffic cop.

It’s been quite a learning experience.  In addition to learning the ins and outs of the standards, I’ve had to learn to deal with the fact that some people are not going to like what I tell them.  And I've had to learn that although they might not like what I say, it doesn’t mean they don’t like me.  I don't exactly like it when people don't like me. 

There have been some unexpected surprises.  The part of my job that I thought I would hate the most…I actually kinda like.  I get to teach new describers about our standards.  Sure, I’m not over the moon about having to stand in front of people to speak but I have the opportunity to help people navigate the system and write solid descriptions.  I mean, I’m no Mother Theresa but I feel good knowing that I’m helping others.     

Six months in, I’ve had good days and cupcake days.  I’ve made mistakes, I’ve cursed out my computer, and I’ve seriously wondered if I brought a curse to my new office (I blame myself for every technological issue that crops up.  And then there was that East Coast earthquake that I think might’ve been my fault.)  I’ve doubted myself and my abilities and camethisclose to begging for my old comfort zone job back.  But then I remember a 16 year old girl who stuffed all her mistakes in her pockets when she first started a new job.  Her mom was right - the next day was better.  And eventually, that Junior Book Pocket Typist figured it all out.

Give me another six months and I'll let you know how it's going!   

Into the Wild

It’s not like I want to commit suicide or anything.  When you open a conversation with that line, you have to give your friend props for not flinching.  Which is what Richmond did last Monday-Tuesday-whatever day we last went for pizza.  I further explained that I just wanted to “go off the grid.”  Get away.  Find the woods and sit for a while.  That made her flinch.  I’m not the woodsy kinda girl.

Let’s back up.  Since it always makes my mom nervous when I write about work – she’s afraid that I’ll get fired and won’t be able to take her on any more trips – I want to clarify some things at the outset:

1.       I like my job.  I’m honored to play a part in my agency’s mission.  I have mad respect for my colleagues.

2.      I’m not afraid of hard work.

3.      Emergencies cause me to freak out but pressure doesn’t.  I actually thrive under pressure.  Well, I might freak out a little bit but it’s just how I focus.

4.      It was a really good week for my hair.  That has nothing to do with anything but I wanted you to know. 

That brings us to my desire to go sit in the woods.  Over the last week or so, I’ve gotten super busy at work.  I’m reviewing hundreds of descriptions for our online catalog.  I’m reading all day long and while it’s interesting, it’s not exactly Danielle Steele.  In a single day, I can read about records relating to subjects that range from Jimmy Carter to off-reservation Indian boarding schools to bitumuous coal to foreign assistance to Vietnam.  Oh, how I love the Vietnam records.

It’s like my brain is on information over-load.  When I come home at night, I veg on my couch and don’t even turn on the TV for an hour because the external stimuli makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a one linear feet ruler.  You think that’s a mistake don’t you?  It’s not.  Welcome to my world.

I needed some quiet time where my brain could shut off and recharge.  That’s why I wanted to go sit in the woods.  Because there’s nothing quieter than the wilderness, right?

A few more things you should know about me:

1.      Unless I’m in the Pacific Northwest, I’m not particularly fond of nature.

2.      I dropped out of Girl Scouts the week before the big camping trip because I didn’t want to go camping in the wilderness.  I also didn’t like selling the cookies.

3.      I don’t like wilderness food like granola bars or s’mores.  Actually, I think s’mores ruins the integrity of a perfectly good Hershey bar. 

4.      Humidity does crazy things to my hair.  Again.  Not related to anything.

So, I needed to find some wilderness close to my house.  I had to be home by sundown – I’m not one of those crazy nature freaks who likes to spend the night in the woods.  Lucky for me, I live an hour away from the state with the motto “Wild and Wonderful.”  Clearly, there was wilderness there, right?  Unless “Wild and Wonderful” refers to the casinos.  Could go either way, I guess.

This morning noon, I made like a 70 year old slot machine addict pioneer and headed west.

An hour later, I pulled up to the guard-house of Harpers Ferry National Historical Park where the National Park Service ranger (true fact, the National Park Service is the only other federal agency I would consider working for.  As long as I got to wear the uniform – with hat – to work.  Even if I worked in a cubicle.)  Anyway, the ranger was beating off a stink bug.  I could feel the call of the wild right then and there.  When she got done defending herself from the stink bug, I told her that I wanted to walk around in the wilderness.  She told me to park on the right and catch the shuttle bus by the visitor’s center.  A shuttle bus to the wilderness?  Sweet. 

I missed the first bus so I struck off on my own on a marked path through the woods.  Huffing and puffing and cursing the fact that I wore my fashion sneaks, I was relieved to find a bench right in the middle of the wilderness.  I sat there for a while and thought - this is nice.  And then I started worrying about ticks.  I’m deathly afraid of ticks.  Well, really the Lyme disease that you can get from ticks.  So, I snapped a picture and walked back to the shuttle bus stop where I caught the next bus to “Lower Town.”    

The view from my bench in the wilderness

I followed the rest of the tourists wilderness seekers through the town and walked along the river.  Which I really would’ve enjoyed more if it weren’t so hot.  Gosh, when you’re out in nature, the sun really beats down on you.  Next time, I decide to go into the wilderness, please remind me to take my sun-hat.  I sat on a rock for a few minutes before I went back to the town to forage for food.  Having left my granola and s’mores at home and all. 

A river runs through it

I spent 5 bucks for a dish of wilderness ice cream.  It’s basically exactly like regular ice cream except you’re eating it on the edge of the wilderness.  It was nearing 3 PM sundown and I really didn’t want to get lost in the wilderness overnight so I decided to call it a day.  I hiked over to the bus stop and caught the bus back to the parking lot.  That was a harrowing experience!  There were no seats left and I had to stand the whole way.  What kind of wilderness bus service is that?

The 23 minutes that I spent in the wilderness did me a world of good.  When you’re focused on surviving the elements, you don’t really think about anything else.  Except getting back to the suburbs alive.  And wondering about proper wilderness footwear.    

Today, I went into the wilderness and came out recharged and refreshed.  I am a wilderness survivor. 

But next weekend, I think I’ll just stick to drinking margaritas on my deck.     

You've Got Mail

Yesterday, the network at work was down – that meant no email, no intranet, no internet (and no internet meant no Google!)  Not being able to use technology for an entire day made me realize just how much I love getting dependent I am on email.   I’m still young enough to remember the world before email.  I got my first email account in 1997 when I was a freshman in college.  Prior to that, the computer was the thing you used to play Oregon Trail.    

Nowadays, I use email all the time, especially at work.  I use email to connect with colleagues.  I use email to make lunch plans.  I use email to check on friends.  I use email to say, hey I’m leaving early; hey I’m a little late.  I use email to exchange witty repartee.  I don’t use email to send forwards because forwards piss me off – like really – and I don’t want to get any so I don’t send them.  And when email goes down, you wonder if there are still people out in the world.  The people in the cubicles right next to you don’t count.    

Yesterday, I had to make lunch plans over the phone.  Sometimes it can take 86 emails to set up those plans.  Yesterday, we did it in two phone calls.  It wasn’t as fun.  Or funny. 

I had to walk across the hall to ask a colleague something because I couldn’t email her.  I mean, she was all the way across the hall!  And I’m still recovering from the 5K that I ran-walked on Sunday. 

I had to exchange witty repartee in person.  That wasn’t so bad…I think I’m pretty good at in-person witty repartee.  Unless, you know, you’re an eligible, single man in his early to mid-thirties.  Oh gosh, if there wasn’t any email at all, I’d never be able to communicate with eligible, single men in their early to mid-thirties!  

Not being able to email was a drag.  (Is it ironic that the mailman’s daughter is writing this?  No, really, is this an example of irony?)

Luckily, the network was back up today.  How’d I know?  I checked my email.

Got Quakes?

Today was a very moving day for me. 

(I’m trying too hard, aren’t I?) 

If you weren’t on the East Coast to experience it, you’ve no doubt heard about it by now.   There was an earthquake, epicenter near Richmond, Virginia and felt all the way…actually, I haven’t seen the news so I don’t know how far away it was felt but I’ll tell you where I was when I felt it. 

I was in my chair at my desk doing very important government work.  I had just clicked a very important button to do a very important thing when suddenly there was a rumble from beneath me, my desk started quaking, my very important Presidential Library mugs started clanging together, and I thought what the hell is that?!  Okay, I didn’t think it.  I said it.  My colleague in the cubicle across from mine looked out his window and informed me, very calmly and matter-of-factly, that it was an earthquake. 

Look, this was the first time my world’s been rocked, if you know what I mean.  Earthquakes don’t happen on the East Coast!  What does one do in an earthquake?  They didn’t run drills for this sort of thing in my elementary school!  Do we shelter in place?!  Do we find a bathtub and cover ourselves with a mattress?  I work in a federal facility – no bathtubs or mattresses for us – there was a plan, by golly. 

The plan was to exit to the nearest stairwell.  That pIan was fine with me...I work darn close to a stairwell so I calmly proceeded into the stairwell.  But then they told us to keep going, exit the building, huddle together at our assigned spot.  Good plan and all.  But I couldn’t help but wonder…what happens when the trees start falling and the ground opens up and swallows us deep into the Earth’s core?  Then I realized that I was just being a panicky East Coaster who has never been through an earthquake before.  It was gonna be fine.

Besides, I had more pressing concerns.  I left my purse and my phone inside.  Inside the building in which I was no longer inside.   So, unlike my colleagues who were furiously calling loved ones, following Twitter, and checking into the earthquake on Foursquare, I was just standing there, waiting to get back into the building so I could get my stuff, text my mom and friends, follow Twitter, and check into the earthquake on Foursquare.

Eventually, I got back into the building and got my purse.  When I turned on my phone, I was surprised – and moved – by the concern for me on Facebook.  I sure have caring friends!   My brother sent this nice text (it’s the last one):

Are you impressed that I figured out
how to take a screen shot of my text
message?  Because I sure am!

What?  Now you’re laughing?!

I survived my first earthquake but I’m fine with making it my first and last.  Let’s hope there’s a little less movement of the Earth’s plates tomorrow!

*For the friends who care - the Presidential Library mugs are fine.  More importantly, the Donald Duck curio is safe!  No Donalds were damaged during the quake!

Schellenberg Wished He Was This Cool

Who’s Schellenberg, you ask?  Only the “Father of American Archival Appraisal,” according to Wikipedia – as an aside, there’s not an article about T. R. on Wikipedia…what gives?!  Basically, he wrote the book on archival methodology.  No, seriously, I was assigned to read  his book – or a chapter – in grad school.

But today is not Schellenberg’s day.  Nope, today is the Feast Day of St. Lawrence, patron saint of archivists and librarians.  Long story short, Larry, an archivist and librarian in the early church achieved martyrdom when he was roasted over a gridiron because he wouldn’t reveal the names of wealthy Christians.  Supposedly, as he was roasting, he told his executioners to turn him over because he was done on that side.  I like a guy with a sense of humor.  Even when he’s roasting to death.    

Fast forward a couple years and now we have the Feast Day of St. Lawrence on August 10^th.  All pious archivists and librarians with a lunch hour to kill honor his memory by feasting on cold cuts (because of that whole roasting on a spit thing…although I’m lobbying that we change the tradition so that we eat rotisserie chicken instead).  

You know I don’t like to plan anything but I do like to talk about parties I’m going to throw.  The Mad Men Memorial Day Cocktail Party, the birthday Tax Day May Day when the hell’s it gonna happen roller skating party, Summer Field Day (there were gonna be medals, I swear!)  Usually the parties don’t get out of the talking stage.  With one exception.

That exception is St. Lawrence Day.  St. Lawrence Day is always on my calendar and there’s always a celebration planned.

Here’s the deal – for the last couple of years, a group of my colleagues have gathered at the local deli to observe Larry's day.  This year was no different.  Today, 19 colleagues showed up for the 3^rd Annual Feast of St. Lawrence!  We broke bread and enjoyed one another's company, all under the comforting gaze of St. Lawrence.    

In between bites, we paid homage.

 

Celebrating the Feast of St. Lawrence!

So, save the date.  Same day, same place next year!  And I promise, we won’t roast you!    

**I have no idea what's going on with the font of this post...sorry!

Summing It All Up

Today ends a long week of training classes.  I wasn’t in training though.  Nope, I was one of the trainers.  It’s the first time I’ve been on that side of the equation.  There I was, standing up in front of the class teaching my sessions, only realizing way too late that there was a laser pointer that I could’ve used!  Laser pointers are fun!  I’m totally working it into my spiel for the next time.

I will admit that there was a minor anxiety attack on the first morning but, in the end, I got it done.  I’ll leave it up to the voters trainees to decide how I did.  But there was one tiny little thing.

They didn’t laugh at my jokes.  I had two jokes and they didn’t laugh.  Maybe it was my delivery – I still talk a little too fast when I get excited (I’m really trying to practice those pauses!)  But apparently training class isn’t the place to practice your stand-up comedy routine. 

Lucky for me, I write a blog.  And you read it.  Captive audience.  So, here’s one of my jokes.

I taught the sessions on “Numbers,” which is basically all the different types of numbers that you can enter into the system.  At the end of it, I said – so, that basically sums up “Numbers”!

Come on!  Well, I thought it was funny!

Eating dinner tonight, I realized that the trainees were probably thinking that I was that corny trainer whom we’ve all had and rolled our eyes at. 

And I laughed.  Because, yeah, I totally am.  With or without a laser pointer. 

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Exciting news!  Food Friday returns next week.  It’s gonna be a blast from the past!

Making History Stylish

I have, on occasion, been fortunate to see some pretty cool historical “stuff” during the course of my career – and the coolest stuff by far usually has to do with the Kennedys because I am, as I’ve already established, a bit of a Kennedy freak.  I’m very lucky to have friends who were kind enough to call me or give me a heads up whenever they’ve worked on interesting Kennedy records…they know I’ll usually come running over to squeal with delight.   

That’s what happened last spring when Trix called me over to check out the final existing logbook of PT-109, the motor torpedo boat that JFK commanded during World War II.  PT-109 sank after a collision with a Japanese destroyer.  The logbook is cool because, starting on April 26, 1943 each page is signed by Lieutenant, junior grade John F. Kennedy.  Even cooler – digital images of the pages are now available in the National Archives’ Archival Research Catalog so everyone can see them! 

But wait.  Its gets even cooler.  I was going to wait until August 2^nd (check out the font of all knowledge to find out why that date is significant) to share this particular artifact with you but it seems appropriate to share it tonight.  While the National Archives holds the PT-109 logbook, the Archives of Denise is the proud custodian of….

JFK PT Wear

Yeah.  I know - you’re totally jealous.   And I’m so totally stylin’. 

Cutting Slices of Life

Some random slices of my life from the past week:

Skirting the Issue

On Thursday, I wore a skirt to work.  Why is this significant?  Well, I don’t generally wear skirts or dresses.  In my old position, wearing a skirt wasn’t very practical.  I did a lot of running about and climbing up ladders.  Quite frankly, when you’re up on a ladder, the last thing you want to be wearing is a skirt.  Just in case, if you know what I’m saying.   In my new position, there aren’t too many opportunities to climb up ladders so skirts and fun summery dresses are a definite fashion possibility now.  Thursday was very hot so I figured what the heck?  So, instead of my usual pants, I dug out my H&M khaki skirt that was rolled up in the back of my closet.  It had the potential to look cute yet professionally appropriate or I could’ve looked like I was wearing a potato sack.  I think I ended up somewhere in between…it was a couple inches too long to be really cute so I kinda looked like a nun, but not a habit-wearing nun – more like one of those progressive nuns who wears khaki skirts while she’s out serving the faithful.  Probably the most traumatic thing about wearing a skirt was exposing my freakishly pasty white legs to people; oh, and remembering to cross my legs like a lady.  Overall, I felt very professional in my khaki skirt and I think I’ll try it again in the near future.  To paraphrase Katy Perry, I wore a skirt and I liked it.    

The Proof(reading) is in the Puding

In my new position, I’m responsible for ensuring that every archival description submitted for inclusion in our catalog meets all the standards established by the Establishers of Standards for Those Sorts of Things.  I’m like a proofreader on steroids.  Unfortunately, my job is seeping into my personal life.  Now I’m proofing every single thing that I read!  At Tuesday’s HOA meeting, I took one glance at the agenda and shuttered in horror.  One of the most glaring errors – police officers were going to discuss “police presents in the community.”  Grrr.  Today, I was driving down my town’s Main Street and I spotted the banner that hangs proudly across the street advertising the Farmer’s Market on Thursday’s.  Arrrrgh.  Now, I’m not perfect, there are probably typos and errors in my blog (and if there are, my mom will let me know).  In fact, my last Facebook status was a question but I didn’t end it with the proper punctuation.  So, it happens but, boy oh boy, does it drive me crazy!  By the way, I deliberately spelled “pudding” wrong in the subtitle.  Just so you know that I proofread this before I posted it!

Endings

This week was marked by endings.  Oprah’s of course on Wednesday.  At work, the week began and ended with retirement parties for two extremely dedicated colleagues, both of whom are true class acts who are held in high regard by all who know them.  One of these gentlemen played a very significant role in my life because he hired me for my first job at the Archives. Who knows?  If it hadn’t been for him, I might be a children’s librarian somewhere!  Each served almost forty years at the Archives and both spoke of how much they enjoyed their work.  Oprah spoke of that too…the importance of finding something that sparks you, something that you love to do.  I’ve been pretty lucky…I found my spark.  If you haven’t yet, don’t worry, you will.  Oh, and I’m going on record right now to say that I want chocolate cake with chocolate icing at my retirement party in 35 years.    

Confessions of the New Kid on the Block

I got some advice when I transferred from Old Unit to New Unit at work.  Just be yourself and you’ll be fine.  That’s not exactly sage advice for a dorky goofball who likes to have a healthy freak out every few days and enjoys random acts of dancing just for the heck of it.  I’m trying to make a good impression here, not frighten people away! 

The fact of the matter is, I’m still the new kid on the block and I don't exactly want people to think I'm a complete Looney Toon in my first month on the job.  As much of a dorky goofball as I am, I do take work seriously and I'm working hard on getting my responsibilites down.  There’s a lot to learn and it’s very different from what I’m used to.  But I’m learning and I’m adjusting.  So, that's fine.  The bigger adjustment I've had to make is to the culture of the New Unit.  It is so different from Old Unit that some days I feel like I wandered to the wrong side, a side where dorky goofballs don't work.   

The most striking difference between Old Unit and New Unit is the quietness.  Even the hallways are quiet.  Sometimes, when I go to the ladies room, I feel like I’m out of class without a hall pass.  On the other side of the building, where Old Unit is, the hallways bustle with life.  There was always someone on their way to some place, usually a stack to pull or process records.  There was always someone to wave to and say, hey, nice Crocs!  Office suites were the scenes of lively discourse about archival theory (original order is for hacks), lack of supplies (no legal folders again?!), or actual New Kid on the Block Jonathan Knight’s homosexuality (okay, that was just me…I was clueless!)  I don’t know where the discoursing is happening in New Unit.  Do they discourse?  Do they disco?  I don’t know!  No one’s in the hallway to ask!

Another huge difference is that many colleagues in New Unit have children.  In Old Unit, you were the exception if you had kids (I can count the number of parents on one hand).  In New Unit, it seems like you’re the exception if you don’t have kids.  I was kinda half-worried that I’d transfer units and all of a sudden a kid would pop out.  So far, so good…but I’ll let you know in about nine months.  Now, my colleagues aren’t talking about their kids all the time but they do occasionally, and well, it’s hard to relate.  I guess I could share stories about my cat.  Because everyone wants to hear cat stories.  Actually, maybe it’s not that hard to relate.  Yesterday, someone was talking about their kid being cranky if she doesn’t take a nap.  I know EXACTLY how that little girl feels!  I need my naps too.  For the record, I’m not adverse to children, I’m just not comfortable around them - I’m always worried that I’ll drop one.  My aunt dropped me when I was a baby; well, that actually explains a lot.          

A difference that I really like is that New Unit has parties!  In the three weeks that I’ve been there, they’ve had two!  That never happened in my old unit!  At yesterday’s party (for two graduating coworkers), they had Georgetown Cupcakes.  How awesome is that?  And there’s gonna be another party later in the month for people with birthdays in May.  Fun, right?!

While I enjoyed the party yesterday, my feelings of new kid on the blockness made me sad.  Not because I was feeling left out or anything.  No, it was because something was said that made me want to dance.  "Krazy Kabob."  Doesn’t that just make you giggly and happy and dancey?  And it’s alliteration which just makes you need to dance more!  So, there I was, listening to a conversation about Krazy Kabob and all my nerve endings were tingling with the desire to jump up and do a little jig or at least to wave some Sassy Hands.  In Old Unit, if someone like TopChef said that within my earshot, I would’ve, for sure, done a little two-step, maybe a hip thrust, or even a little shimmy swivel if I was feeling daring.  People would’ve looked at me like I was a dorky goofball (or a goofy dork) and it would’ve been okay because well, that’s who I am.

Yesterday, I suppressed the urge to dance because I'm the new kid on the block and I didn't want people to think I was a dorky goofball.  And that's not who I really am.     

I can’t wait for the new kid on the block feeling to go away.  Because I really like to dance like a dorky goofball.