Living Below the Radar

This is my 27th year at my job and I have done an incredible job living below the radar. I work hard, keep my nose to the grindstone and fade into the background. I am happy.

Recently, I shared some workplace stories with our company PR representative. Evidently, this brought me and what I do for the organization to her attention. Thus, she wanted to interview me for a company newsletter which is emailed to hundreds of people in our community.

I really, really wanted to decline this ‘honor’. But, I can’t say no. So, I said, “Okay.” Begrudgingly.

I thought the interview went well. I was not happy to learn the article required my photo. So, I posed for a ‘selfie’ and emailed this to our PR Lady. She did not like my selfie and asked if she could come to my office and take my picture.

My office is my haven. In other words, it is a mess. But I cleaned my office and when she arrived, I posed for my picture and sent her on her way. Check that off my list.

That was Friday.

At 3:00 a.m. Saturday morning, I sat bolt upright in bed. I had just remembered that while I had straightened my office, I neglected to remove an incriminating picture from my pegboard. This picture would be clearly seen in my newsletter photo.

What was the picture? Well, I answer a lot of questions for people at work. All kinds of questions. No matter the question, I try to answer patiently.

As a joke, a friend sent me a quote that tickled my funny bone. Usually this quote sits in my desk drawer, to be viewed occasionally when I need a pick-me-up. But, recently, I’ve had a lot of silly questions. So, I took this quote out of my desk drawer and posted it on my pegboard.

It’s a joke. I don’t know why, but it makes me smile.

But, having this quote featured prominently in the company newsletter featuring the staff member of the month was quite honestly horrifying.

So much for living below the radar….

Time to Listen

My husband is a stamp collector. Over the years, I have learned a lot about stamps but to be honest, talking about stamps is pretty much a snoozer for me.

The terminology is exhaustive and exhausting. Hinged. Not hinged. Fine. Extra fine. Plate blocks. Hidden watermarks. Perforations. The words keep coming at me on a daily basis.

The other day, my husband was talking and I was not listening. I was reading a book and wishing I could stay in my happy place. But being a dutiful wife and not wanting to appear rude, I responded occasionally with a “That’s nice.” or “Uh huh.” or “That’s interesting.”

As his monologue continued, some of his words began to register. “Friend.” “Scantily clad.” “Sushi.”

I thought, “whoa, whoa, whoa!” pay attention! This is not his ordinary postage stamp conversation.

I put my book down and said, “Could you tell me that again?”

Husband: “Sure. Our friend went to that sushi place across from the family restaurant on the west side.”

Me: “That’s nice.”

Husband: “When their food was ready, a woman sat on their table and reclined onto her back.”

Me: “Uh huh.”

Husband: “She was scantily dressed.”

Me: “That’s interesting.”

Husband: “Then the waiter came and placed the sushi on her body. Her bare skin was their platter.”

Me: “Well, I sure hope she exfoliated.”

And then she said…

I’ve had the same hairstylist for several years. Once you find that perfect hairstylist, you will travel a long distance to keep your stylist. Mine happens to be about 90 miles away.

A while ago, I was sitting in her chair at the salon explaining a new color and cut I wanted to try.

Me: “I want to add some red highlights and go shorter in length.”

My Stylist: “No! That is a horrible idea.”

Me: “Well, I brought a picture. Take a look. I think it would look great.”

My Stylist (tossing the picture on the counter): “That cut would not look good on you and you can’t possibly want that color.”

Me: “But I do. I am ready for a big change.”

My Stylist: “Nope. I won’t do it.”

Me (sputtering): “Well, I am the one paying you to deliver what I want.”

My Stylist: “No, you are paying me to look beautiful. Let me go mix your color. I will be right back.”

And with that said, she disappeared into a back room. I slumped in my chair when I noticed the woman sitting in a chair next to me.

If you could have seen her expression! She was stunned. She was outraged. She was ready to file a complaint on my behalf.

The Woman: “She was really tough on you. You have to say something! And if you don’t, I will!”

Me: “Well…..I’m pretty sure she only talks that way to me. You see, that stylist is my daughter.”

Maybe We Should Have Been Less Enthusiastic with Our Applause

Dad was ingenious. Each summer, our family vacation coincided with his paid speaking engagements. We thought it was normal. Traveling long distances in a car with two adults and four children {pre-air conditioning} to a remote family camp so our father could work all week while we, the kids, drove our mother nuts.

Pure bliss for us. Mom? That poor woman.

Dad scored a recurring camp invitation to the Rocky Mountains for several years. Oh, the memories, the scrapes, the madcap adventures.

The highlight of the camp each year, for me, was the talent show that dad MC’ed at the end of the week. I was continually amazed at the talent, or lack thereof, we witnessed. Singers, jugglers, musicians and would be thespians. Please people! Let’s try to have some self-awareness.

One year, a man of considerable, and I mean considerable, years came on the stage with his fiddle. What ensued was minutes of ear shrieking horror that was barely recognizable as a folk song. If you weren’t covering your ears, you were wishing you could. When the kindly old gent finished, the auditorium erupted in applause, cheers and much foot stomping. Thank the Lord. He is done!

The curtain closed.

Ah, the relief.

And then, unbelievably to our eyes, a bow came slowly slicing between the closed curtains as the old guy swung the curtains wide and stepped forward for an encore. What!?!

Maybe, we should have been less enthusiastic with our applause.

The auditorium was struck into complete silence. Please. Please. This cannot be happening.

He lifted his fiddle and a second song began but now the audience was not so polite. The grumbling started. The barely concealed ‘boos’ were emanating from the back.

Dad walked onto the stage and stood by the fiddling fool. He smiled at the audience, raised his eyebrows while shrugging and then began to clap. Taking our cue, we began to clap too. As we raised the volume of our clapping and cheering, the fiddling was overpowered with our own noise. We continued this way until the bow was lifted from the strings. Then dad gently grasped the man’s arm as he chatted with the fiddler and escorted him {bowing as he went} off the stage.

Now the applause was thunderous. What a night. What a man, my dad…

Ridiculous Memories Linger

With aging comes a little more time to sit quietly and reflect. I have no idea why my reflections are often filled with ridiculous memories.

While some people use their time to do mind boggling amazing endeavors (17 Year Old Builds Neural Network to Detect Breast Cancer in a Web App), when I have extra time, I find my mind wandering back to memories from the past. Usually these memories make me giggle or cringe.

In junior high, all 7th graders had to take home economics classes. Boys and girls learned about cooking, sewing and taking care of a home in a classroom setting. I loved the cooking classes. I did not love sharing my cooking space with boys. They often caused trouble. There was the knife tosser, the flame eater and of course the mad scientist who always tried to blow up the mini-kitchen.

One day, I noticed the boys in my group were unusually cheerful. I knew right away that something was up. What to do? Be a tattler and forewarn the teacher or get out of the way and enjoy the show. I got out of the way.

When the teacher finished the lecture portion of her lesson, groups began moving toward their kitchens to cook. Hoping to delay my arrival at our kitchen and thereby be far away from the upcoming disaster, I added some very important notes in my notebook. I am pretty good at dawdling and making it look like I am working hard.

Soon the room was filled with screams. It seems the ingenious boys from my station had taken rubber bands and wrapped them around the water sprayer nozzles. As each group turned on the water to fill pots for boiling, they were doused with a shower of water, right in their faces. It was pretty brilliant.

Unfortunately, the boys in my station forgot to affix a rubber band on our own water sprayer and even worse, did not turn it on and get wet. The teacher, being a smart college graduate, figured out quickly which team was responsible for the mayhem. With no time for explanations, my group was marched down to the office to learn the finer points of kitchen etiquette from the principal. It was the best detention I ever had.