May 2009

Furlough, night one. A lazy night drive, a stop off at Sonic for tots and limeade, leads us to north Georgia.

Most of the wedding party is out making a late-night run to Waffle House. I need sleep more than I need caffeine, so I’m staying here at the house instead, winding down slowly and typing myself to sleep. Jeff has the video camera and I trust he’ll capture anything that’s awesome.

Red Shift, the red-and-black quilt, has been given away. Jeff has video of the giving. There is hilarity and much profanity. I will post it as soon as I can get my hands on it. I survived the giving, and Jim and Tracey did indeed keep the secret from each other, and oh, I will not live this stunt down any time soon.

It was absolutely, emphatically, utterly worth it.

I’m in Atlanta, helping coordinate Jim and Tracey’s (AKA 4x4 and Spitty’s)
wedding. Here’s what I’ve been up to:

• 11:17 PM ET: Tales from the Furlough #1: not dead, no video: http://ping.fm/puctY
• 11:19 PM ET: @Psyche Aside from DeKalb County Farmers Market, which is huge and raucous and awesome? (and I don’t even live in Georgia!)
• 7:29 AM ET: To a sleepy me this morning: “This is a Southern house. We believe in the power of the biscuit.”
• 10:12 AM ET: Hey, did you know that I have a wedding coordinator voice? It’s totally awesome. It sounds … competent.
• 9:18 PM ET: Go on, drama, I double-dog-dare you. maddog, banana, and I will bring our ‘A’ game tomorrow.
• 10:26 PM ET: Tales from the Furlough #1: crashy: http://ping.fm/y5IyW

Those of us who make handmade gifts wait for moments like these:

That’s 4x4 and Spitty on their wedding day, posing with a sunburned me in front of ‘red shift,’ finally given and acknowledgeable at last. I have video of the giving, which is hilarious and NSFW and must be uploaded somehow, but for now, this photo has to suffice.

I don’t know if the intention matters when I work on a quilt, but while sewing, I think a lot about the person (or people) it’s for. I find myself hoping that the intentions, the well-wishes, the hopes and dreams and all kinds of intangible thoughts somehow work their way into the stitching.

I’m in Detroit, teaching a class to librarians. Can we say ‘learning experience’? Here’s what I’ve been up to:

I’m in Minnesota, taking a day off. Here’s what I’ve been up to:

• 10:52 PM CT: OMG cheese curds. I am in squeaky, squeaky love. Weather’s gorgeous. Hope it’s as pretty here in daylight hours.
• 9:30 AM CT: "The other moose are over here." … -snicker-
• 10:33 AM CT: Minneapolis is Nina Simone and kid photography and sore feet and laughter.
• 10:57 AM CT: @jmcclure Agreed with you. I love @gfmorris but I can’t handle his many @ tweets to people I don’t know. He knows this.

Next to last city. Since a week ago today I have been in:

• Huntsville, Alabama
• Atlanta, Georgia
• Detroit, Michigan
• Minneapolis, Minnesota (technically Eden Prairie and St. Paul but who’s counting?)
• Denver, Colorado
• Fort Collins, Colorado

I remain here until Saturday afternoon, when we’ll switch back to Denver one last time. I fly home Sunday.

Everything intended has been done. 4x4 and Spitty are married. Class has been taught. Deep-dish pie accomplished with Dan and Stephanie. Shopping with jowilson done. Ethiopian food with all of the Minnesota folk. Drupal library meetup in Denver. There’s more left to do, but all in due time.

I’m in Colorado, doing random Drupal work. Here’s what I’ve been up to:

• 7:04 AM MT: Windows open. Birdsong. My last lazy morning of furlough #1. I fly in 25 hours, and while lovely here, it’s time to go home.
• 10:24 AM MT: Showered, starting to pack up. Soon we drive to Denver - the last city on the tour. Tonight, tequila and hot tubs … and dreams of home.
• 2:40 PM MT: Packed up. Leaving Fort Collins, heading to Denver.
• 6:22 PM MT: Drinks with Dan and Chris. Hoping they’ll let me sober up before my flight.
• 7:30 PM MT: Margarita and wings consumed. Now the hot tub.
• 9:35 PM MT: Revenge on gaggle of preteens who were jerks in the hot tub: we hit all the breakers on our way out.

Start simple. A cherry limeade and tater tots will do, eaten in a silver car that quickly heads further south along a freeway very familiar to the both of you.

Dress it up. Put on your red shoes, your best pearls, your genie pants and go, go, go until you can’t walk, can’t think, can’t stay awake. Watch them say "I do." Say goodbye. Let your friends take you away afterwards, where you sleep in the car, lulled by the freeway, for nearly two hours.

The peanut butter and German honey sandwich you are given will be the last meal you eat in someone’s house for some number of days. You suspect this, and your drive to savor this last piece of house and home wars with your immediate need for food.

You are late. His photographic memory was of a Detroit that no longer resembles the Detroit of today, and the library is closed. There is no parking, and you are achingly aware that you are late. You are failing before you can even walk in the building, and the horrific sensation of falling is claiming your stomach even as you walk toward your classroom.

You have a classroom. That’ll be one square inch of stomach lining, please.

You are out of time, and you have fourteen students. They look at you with this expectant look. You flash the smile that gets you kindnesses from strangers, knowing full well this smile must somehow last for eight hours, and you reach in your camera bag for your laptop.

The car crash begins there.  You have over-planned, and you are about to pay for it.

You reassure yourself that O’Hare will not screw you like last time, despite your sub-forty-minute connection. The land on the other side of your second flight is unknown to you, but you get on the plane anyway, recognizing that every airport, every flight, on this trip leaches a little of your individuality away.

No one is special in an airport. You walk down corridors that see hundreds of travelers per hour, all purposeful, all just as nameless and faceless as you. You are disconcerted to realize that within an hour, you will remember no faces and, in turn, will be just as forgotten. You wonder if you are the only person who becomes a little more transparent, a little less opaque, every time she goes through another airport.

Denver comes with a blast of dry air and a welcome-back nosebleed. You call vaguely-new netfriends and get an offer of electrons and wi-fi from his place of business. You pick up a rental car that cost a fourth of your Detroit rental and head through industrial Denver for a temporary place to roost.

You celebrate your unemployment with a margarita and stuffed peppers at a Mexican restaurant.  When your turn comes to speak, you do it easily. No wings, no fear; it’s just a room full of librarians, after all. When the opportunity for a mid-afternoon coffee run comes, you jump in the minivan with newly-minted colleagues for a cold shot of caffeine.

The ‘neon’ series chronicles furlough #1 not as it was, but how it felt. Start with ‘neon : peachtree street’ and read forward. Those of you with a literal bent might want to couple those entries with the twitterlog for the trip, which starts with this entry from Friday. it is so incredibly easy to allow the ability to log 140-character real-time notes about a trip to substitute for an actual travelogue; consider the ‘neon’ entries my belated, thoughtful apology.

I made my final decision regarding drupalcon Paris this morning. In the time since I’ve known about the location of the event I’ve gone back and forth on the question until it felt like madness and whiplash. Do I spend the money? Is it worth it? How will I explain to my friends? Am I right to burn vacation days on this madness?

Until this morning, I had plausible deniability and weasel words.  "I think I’m going," I would say. "Not sure, though."

This morning’s announcement on twitter forced me to choose. I knew that drupalconDC sold out, so I knew I should make my decision quickly. I wasn’t expecting the decision this morning, though, while sitting on the couch in my comfy shorts and contemplating quilty goodness.