I wore flip flops to work today. This made me happy, because while no one ever came out and said I couldn’t wear them at my old job, I always felt inappropriate when I did. The skirt I wore them with was happy as well.

I’m fighting a sore throat. I think I’m the only person who is capable of getting a sore throat is August, while getting plenty of rest, eating well and exercising.

I bought a plane ticket today for my college reunion in the fall, except that 30 seconds after I pressed purchase, I realized that I chosen the wrong departure date. After a momentary freak out, I connected via America West’s instant messanging service to an agent and she cancelled my purchase and I was able to rebook with the correct date. The woman I chatted with emphasized what a favor she was doing for me, and to be more careful next time. I bet they say that to all the girls.

I stopped at the Salvation Army on my way home from work, and the woman in front of me in line told me I looked sharp in my black v-neck cotton tee-shirt. At least someone out there thinks I look good.

I went to a pilates class yesterday after work and now I can hardly lift my legs.

My sister (the future rock star) was flown down to San Francisco this weekend to open two shows for a friend of her’s. She’s amazing.

With that folks, we wrap up this collection of tidbits. Better stuff tomorrow, I promise.

I got up extra early yesterday, wanting to make a good impression by showing up in a timely manner for the new job(I tend to be punctuality challenged). I spent the morning running around my apartment and rushed a friend who had called to wish me well off the phone. I paused at two minutes to eight to glance at my email and it’s a good thing I did. My new supervisor had shot me a quick note, asking me not to come in until 10:30, because she had been on vacation and needed a little time to get settled before she could devote time to me. So instead of rushing out the door, I had a leisurely morning, finishing my coffee on my couch, with the remnants of Sunday’s newspaper.
I walked over to the new job, and was absolutely dripping when I arrived. I was immediately introduced around the office, face beet red and hair sticking up and down in a million directions. Probably not the best way to make a first impression.
I spent the rest of the day with “the new supe,” filling out payroll paperwork, learning about some of my new responsibilities and getting an introduction to the department email address (that’s going to be my responsibility).
What has been the most interesting for me about the this new job is that I’m not feeling really excited or nervous or anxious or really anything. Typically, I’m an anticipator. I look forward to the plane flight, the vacation, the birthday, the new school year (although that hasn’t happened in awhile) or the new job with deep emotion. But this time around, it has just felt so ordinary. My mom would probably tell me that this is what it’s like to grow up. I’m okay with growing up, but surrendering that new experience excitement is giving me pangs. Well, at least that’s some emotion.

My father was 21 when he proposed to my mom, who was about to turn 23. They had only known each other two weeks, when he asked her to spend the rest of her life with him, and so she responded by saying, “Okay, but don’t tell anyone, in case we change our minds.”

They had met at a Subud potluck in San Francisco. My dad was living in the Bay Area, completing his alternative service (a firm belief in pacificism and a family that included many generations of Quakers and Unitarians had won him consciencious objector status). My mom had just graduated from Temple and was living with a guy named Stacey in Philly, when at the last minute, my grandmother invited her to go to San Francisco, she went.

They didn’t change their minds, and began to announce their engagement. My mom flew back to Philly, packed up her apartment, broke up with Stacey, gave away her two cats and left the east coast for good.

On August 1st, 1970, they married, on hill overlooking the bay. My dad’s stepfather (a Unitarian minister) performed the ceremony and my mom wore a dress she had made. The reception was a potluck dinner.

35 years later, they are still together. They have fought, they have struggled, they nearly imploded on several occasions, but they kept going. They taught me, mostly through osmosis, that when both parties are really committed to making a relationship work and survive, that you can and you do.

Happy anniversary, guys. I love you bunches.