Phone numbers

The other morning, I was driving in the car with the baby asleep in the back seat -- yes, we had another baby -- and I wanted to call my husband.  In that moment, I realized that I don't know his phone number off the top of my head. It made me laugh out loud that I couldn't think of his number or even our landline number, but I still remembered my mother's cell phone number.

Only, when I really thought about it, I couldn't remember her number.  I do remember my grandmother's old phone number, and the phone number for our house in Florida, and my work and cell phone numbers.  I even remember our phone number from the house in New Jersey when I was 12.  But I can't remember my mother's number anymore.  Over the last eight years, my brain left it behind.  I guess it needed to free up space for details about pediatrician's appointments, preschool teachers' names, and what time we need to leave to be on time for gymnastics.

Also, when I think of it, I really do know my husband's number - it just takes me a minute. But really, what's the point when all I have to do is push a button and the phone dials for me?

Adventures in Carsharing

After much debate, I sold my car. I had been thinking about it for a few years, as I barely drive, but it was somehow reassuring to own a car, just in case. Plus my car -- my shiny blue Volkswagen -- seemed to be a part of my identity. So I kept the car -- for ten years (and only 47,000 miles).

When boyfriend moved in, we found ourselves with a new problem -- two cars and only one parking space. It became a constant cycle of searching for -- and paying for -- parking. Saturday mornings were the worst, since neither of us had to get up for work, but one of us had to get up by 8 to feed the meter, and you know, sometimes you just want to sleep in.

Last weekend, I finally wound up selling my car to a friend of mine who had recently bought a place just beyond the beltway. So this week, I embarked on a new, car-free era. I will walk, take metro, and ride buses. Perhaps I will take cabs in case of emergency. And, to some extent, I can use boyfriend's car -- on mornings when he works and I don't (Sundays and the occasional holiday) if I need the car, I can get up early and drive him to work.

There's also car sharing. Zipcar is in abundance in my neighborhood -- pretty much every street corner has at least one of the orange signs indicating that a zipcar lives there.

Today was my first zipcar experience. When I enrolled, I got a credit that expires at the end of the month, and so, I decided to rent a car as "practice," so that when I really need the car, I won't have to figure out the process -- or worse, figure out that some part of the process doesn't work right. And so, this afternoon, I brought lunch to my boyfriend at work.

The car-sharing process was the easiest thing. (1) Apply for zipcar membership (which took about a week). (2) Reserve car (using internet or iPhone app). (3) Walk to the car (when you reserve, you are told which car and where it is parked). (4) Use your zipcard (or iPhone app) to open the car. (5) Drive. (6) Return car. They even sent me a text message 30 minutes before my reservation ended to remind me to bring the car back because someone had a reservation right after me. And if I needed to put gas in the zipcar, it has its own gas card.

The only downside that I experienced was that, when I went to go make my reservation this morning, I found that of the 20-or so cars parked within a six-block radius, only two were available. I wound up reserving a silver Nissan Sentra named Sinbad, parked about three blocks from my house. (Yes, all the zipcars have names. How quaint.) So the lesson learned was to reserve early, or face the possibility that a car will not be available.

So, car-free week one was a success. On to week two . . . .

It Could Have Been Different

As one of the editors of IndieInk, I again agreed to participate in the weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from my co-editor James Whitaker, who challenged me to take my pick from the following writing prompts: "unthinkable." "somewhere...out there." "it's never meant to last..." "tomorrow." "they'll never know..." "it could have been different."

The choice was easy for me.

You see, I have an unhealthy fascination with the movie Sliding Doors. Before I understood anything about Schrödinger's cat or parallel universes, I found myself completely fascinated by the concept that one little chance occurrence – whether the movie’s protagonist caught the elevator or the train, or had to wait for the next one – could totally change a life.

As a result, I find myself constantly thinking about how things could have been different. “If only I had caught the earlier train. . . ” “If only I hadn’t accepted the invitation . . .” ”If only I had not gotten in the car. . .” “If only I had made the call. . .” It’s an exhausting way to live, trying to figure out which decision was the one that derailed everything – or worse, trying to augur whether any decision you make is going to be the one that changes your life. And, ultimately, things that seem inconsequential have deeper import; things that seem important turn out to be meaningless in the end.

Case in point: New Year’s Eve. I had spent the entire day (and the day before) catching up with an old friend, which mostly involved drinking and talking, then drinking some more. In the wee morning hours, I found myself getting up off of the couch, taking out my contact lenses, and diving face first into bed. But something held me back, and, as a result, I made the decision to go back out to the living room to check on him.

My entire life changed as a result of that split second decision. And I am completely aware that it could have been different.

Watches and time

I had just gotten out of the Metro train onto a very crowded platform, when I heard the sound of something hitting the tile. The older woman in front of me had lost her watch.

I stopped to pick it up, to the great annoyance of all of the people behind me, who pushed their way around me, to the escalator. All the time, I was shouting, "Miss! Miss! You lost your watch!"

She didn't hear me.

I ran up to her -- high heels be damned -- still shouting. There was no response until I tapped her on the shoulder. Finally, she acknowledged me, and took the watch. She hasn't heard me because she was wearing earmuffs under her jacket hood.

She thanked me profusely. I meekly said it was no trouble and headed up the escalator.

I have no idea how much the watch was worth; I barely even looked at it. (I do know that it was silver and, by feel, it was somewhat dainty.) Instead, I thought about the watch that I've been wearing day in and day out -- the cheap watch that was once my mother's. I thought about the nicer watches in my jewelry box at home that I don't often wear. I wonder if that watch meant something to her, like my watch means to me. I hope it did.

I wonder why no one else stopped or tried to get her attention. I wonder why everyone just pushed ahead, trying to ignore it. Are those five, ten, maybe fifteen extra seconds really that valuable?

Desert images

The desert is an interesting place. To grow there, the plants adapt. The plants get hard, spiky, spiny, almost like animals themselves. But still, there's a beauty -- a desolate beauty.







First thing in the morning, deep in the canyon, the first light makes the desert seem surreal, almost nightmarish. The Saguaro cacti look like spiny supernatural arms growing out of the ground.










I am enamored of cactus flowers. They bloom for only one day each year, opening their petals at dawn and closing them at dusk. How poetic and sad.





One day! Can you imagine living your entire life for just one day?

The Umbrella Theorem

I'm leaving for vacation in a few hours. I'm on the verge of going computer-free for the entire week. I hope I don't go through withdrawal.

In preparing for the week off, I had to make sure my work was covered. So I had to go from office to office to talk to the coworkers that were covering for me, to explain the status of the various projects that they would be covering. It was during my last conversation, with one of my colleagues that I've known since my first day in the office, I realized that this is an extrapolation of the Umbrella Theorem.

I learned about the Umbrella Theorem almost ten years ago, when I first started working. My coworkers and I would, occasionally, head out to lunch. We'd meet at the elevator bank and head downstairs. On occasion, someone would note the presence or absence of an umbrella. Eventually, I realized what it meant: If you're heading outside and see clouds in the sky, you bring your umbrella -- not to avoid the rain, but to prevent it. And so, the Umbrella Theorem became a part of my life. I always bring my umbrella -- because, more often than not, it seems as if the Universe only enacts its revenge when I'm unprepared.

So, today, as I was making sure that my boss, my coworkers, and my assistant were fully informed about my vacation, the cases, and whatever issues might arise, it was not in real preparation for dealing with anything, but was really a prophylactic measure against anything happening. And at the exact moment I realized what I was doing, my colleague figured it out too. "This is like bringing the umbrella along to lunch," he said. I laughed, "Exactly."

It's the same thing for the BlackBerry -- I could leave it at home and attempt to totally unplug. But, in my mind the Umbrella Theorem prevents it: if I leave the BlackBerry at home, there will, undoubtedly, be an emergency. And so, I'm bringing it with me. As I said to my boss, there's only so much unplugging I'm capable of. Baby steps.

Q&A

Q: If you could go back in time 10 years and tell your younger self something, what would it be?

A: Don't necessarily work so hard at work, and work harder at your relationships. Because in 10 years, the work will still be there, but the relationships might not.

(via Formspring.)

Observation #6

Generally speaking, when the tests come back negative, the doctor's office will say so in the voicemail message. If they ask you to call the office, then either the results are bad, inconclusive, or lost.

Driving to work

Today marked the end of my four-month long experiment with driving to work. And to be honest, there are a few things that I'm going to miss about it. I'm going to miss being able to stay in the office late and not have to worry about walking to the train or how long the wait is going to be. I'm going to miss being able to drive somewhere straight after work without having to work out the logistics of going home to get my car. Most of all, I'm going to miss not really having to worry about how comfortable my shoes are to walk in or whether my outfit is appropriate for the weather.

But as a whole, I'm not going to miss driving that much. I'm looking forward to not being stressed out about traffic and not having to fill up my gas tank every few days. I'm looking forward to being able to go places after work without having to figure out the parking logistics. I'm looking forward to walking a bit more.

More than anything though, I'm looking forward to what I'm going to get back. In the last four months, I've managed to finish approximately four books, because instead of spending my commuting time reading, I've been spending it sitting in traffic, listening to the radio. So I'm really looking forward to the quiet time with my books. It's been sorely missed.

Observation #5

Often, when someone goes to a new hairdresser, the hairdresser will try to upsell them on additional services -- for example, hair color. After the customer politely declines, asking "Are you sure that you don't want to cover the gray?" will not work to change the customer's mind, and will, in all likelihood, reduce the hairdresser's tip.

Observation #4: Tragedy and Humanity

I was riding the Metro into work this morning, and my mind naturally drifted to yesterday's tragedy. My heart goes out to the families of the victims, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a sort-of kinship with them, in a way that only people who have lost others in a very shocking and sudden way could possibly understand.

Then I looked across the crowded train and had a moment of clarity: Other than perhaps the very smallest children, every single person on that train has, at some point, been touched by tragedy. Maybe big, maybe little, maybe someone close, maybe indirectly, but this shared experience of loss is one of the main things that makes us human.

Observation #3

If you go to a moderately-sized, reasonably-priced restaurant in a relatively busy part of the city on a Friday night at 6:00, and you are practically the only people in the restaurant, there is a high probability that the food is going to stink.

Observation #2

A positive side effect of having experienced actual tragedy is that it makes you better able to distinguish between the real thing and what is, for lack of a better term, just a bummer.

Observation #1

I've decided that, on occasion, I'm going to post little observations containing the incontrovertible nuggets of wisdom that I've obtained over the years. Hopefully this will be the first of many. Consider them gifts.

This occurred to me on the way into work this morning. I'm sure you can figure out the context if you try.

The harder you try to be on time, the more likely it is that you will be late.

Corollary: When you're in a rush, the person who gets on the elevator after you is, inevitably, going to the next floor.