worry http://domesticat.net/taxonomy/term/301/atom/feed 2008-02-09T17:30:11+00:00 Zero hour http://domesticat.net/2006/08/zero-hour 2006-08-30T11:38:08+00:00 2007-10-28T13:35:12+00:00 domesticat There is nothing left to do, and little left to say. Three years' worth of work culminates in this, a five-day span in which I will work harder at something than most people would ever dream of calling 'fun.'This database has grown beyond what any of our predictive abilities believed it might become. We expected a flat, two-dimensional set of data: names, addresses, phone numbers. What it became, though, was a central point around which everything else revolved. A repository.

]]> There is nothing left to do, and little left to say. Three years' worth of work culminates in this, a five-day span in which I will work harder at something than most people would ever dream of calling 'fun.'This database has grown beyond what any of our predictive abilities believed it might become. We expected a flat, two-dimensional set of data: names, addresses, phone numbers. What it became, though, was a central point around which everything else revolved. A repository. A tool for building working relationships, building teams, finding potential leaders and making a cohesive staff.

Somewhere along the way, we got organized. There weren't just people based out of different rooms; there were crews. After bribery with donuts, a Regency day crew appeared. Danielle gathered a Centennial day crew to her. The smartasses coalesced in Ops and, if we're lucky this year, the logistically-minded folk will do the same in Harris (our equipment room).

I am still terrified that my system won't work. It doesn't matter that there are months of testing behind it, months of gradual, feature-at-a-time enablement and crash-testing. Nor that I tested the Ops computer last night myself and verified that it worked. No, all of this counts for something, but the moment I'll know is this:

I'll be sitting in Ops, cranking through processing people as they arrive, getting the staffer behind my back to read over his/her information while I make quick corrections. If I have my wish I'll have my two compatriots with me, Chew Toy on my right side and Duckie on my left; one divvying out badges and shift-related paperwork while the other handles headshots and any other administrivia.

If that happens, and I realize we're just alt-tabbing between windows and saving off information and handling shift clock-ins as they happen, then … then …

… the unthinkable: it is done. Truly done.

There will be changes, and there will be upgrades, but this now, with all its particulars, is surprisingly close to the 'future' I envisioned three years ago. If it works as even I have begun to suspect it might, it means that I will walk into my new job next week with a light heart, knowing that I did what I set out to do.

Oh, and if this works, we are throwing one hell of a party.

If you know where Centennial Five is, then you know where you need to be.

]]> thanksgiving http://domesticat.net/2003/11/thanksgiving 2003-11-25T07:18:02+00:00 2008-02-09T19:50:06+00:00 domesticat When I awoke from my nap the clock said 10:12; the room, dark. Almost automatically, my awareness drifted down to my legs and found him: there, snuggled close. Not interested in being cuddled or petted, but in nearness, in gathering warmth. I swirled fingertips down his back, and his muscles quivered and rippled in response, his spots and orange splotches shivering with the touch and then settling back down to their normal spaces.

]]> When I awoke from my nap the clock said 10:12; the room, dark. Almost automatically, my awareness drifted down to my legs and found him: there, snuggled close. Not interested in being cuddled or petted, but in nearness, in gathering warmth. I swirled fingertips down his back, and his muscles quivered and rippled in response, his spots and orange splotches shivering with the touch and then settling back down to their normal spaces.

I've always wondered about fur markings. Occasionally I'll pick up a shed piece of orange fur from one of the boys and stare at its changing coloration, wondering how the (hair? fur?) follicle knew when to change from light orange to dark orange in just the right place to create what we see as a spot or a stripe.There's a saying that any domesticated cat is just one missed meal away from blowing off humanity and going it alone. I sometimes find myself thinking that the domesticated human is far more dependent on the cat-in-residence than the other way around.

We get just a little attached. (Says she who has to reach around both sides of the 13-pound cat to type this entry, hands occasionally drifting away from keys to gently fuss an ear or scratch a chin.)

* * * * *

I almost didn't answer the phone this afternoon when it rang. I was literally on my way out the door, shopping list in hand. I was running late, and was determined not to run any later. I can't even say that some breath of Fate or warning caused me to pick up the phone.

By definition, an 'accident' cannot be predicted; it is the moment that comes when life, otherwise running smoothly, no longer does so. For Heather and Andy, that day was today; while Heather was home, a man broke into their house and ransacked it.

She did everything right. She did not confront the man, or even let him know that someone was home. She picked up the cordless phone, hid in the garage, and called 911. Only when she was given the all-clear did she come out.

I was the post-apocalyptic call; the practical, non-hysterical friend who filled in the gap after the arrest but before Andy could get home to be with her. The friend who tried to make her voice as calming as possible as Heather realized she couldn't find Kernel, and tried to stave off the worst of the emotional reaction until Andy could get there to be with her.

Halfway through the call, Kernel appeared, scared and undoubtedly a bit confused, but okay. Heather interrupted our call to scoop him up and tuck him safely behind the closed door of the nearest bathroom.

The cats were safe. She was safe, even though she wasn't going to feel safe for a while. When she said she needed to speak with the forensics team, I told her to call if she needed me again, but to try my cell phone.

Crisis or not, cat food had to be bought.

* * * * *

One of the nasty things about being an adult is learning the necessity of a judgment call. Before picking up a set of #4 tips for my circular knitting needles, cat food, and the ingredients for Jeff's heavenly baked beans recipe, I made two judgment calls: "There's nothing you can do, and she's ok, but you need to be aware of this, and you might want to check in on her."

It made me inexpressibly angry to think that a friend of mine - someone I care very much about - hid, in fear, in her own home. There is no proportional response to an event such as this one, no way to remove from her memory that the perceived safety of her home has been violated.

All I could do was call two of her friends and say, "I don't think she has time to talk with you right now, but you might want to make sure that you're available to talk to, because I think she's going to need it."

* * * * *

I am thankful that, despite everything in my life that might have made me turn out otherwise, I have become a person who can be the post-apocalyptic voice on the phone. While I'm not thankful that accidents happen, I am thankful that, when they do, my friends think of me as someone that can be relied on.

At 10:12 p.m., I woke Tenzing with my absent-minded petting. He snuggled closer, plainly grateful for the warmth and security. I found myself hoping that, on the third floor of a house in the suburbs of D.C., Heather and Andy could find some of the same.

]]> Debates, political process, car worries, and rubber chickens http://domesticat.net/2000/10/debates-political-process-car-worries-and-rubber-chickens 2000-10-04T04:06:26+00:00 2008-02-09T17:30:11+00:00 domesticat I'm starting to worry a bit about my car. I guess I should be celebrating; I got a call from the body shop this afternoon to let me know that they'd finished up the exterior repair work. They'd also taken the car by the machine shop and had the engine looked at. An explanation—a day after the accident, the 'check engine' light came on.

Suspicious, I asked the body shop to check that out to see if it was part of the problem.

The insurance won't pay for it. The car was rear-ended, and the sensor's up front, so they're not willing to pay for it; even though I'd had it replaced a few months before the accident. Granted, I understand their immediate position—since they can't see a direct correlation, of course they aren't going to pay for it.But it's still frustrating nevertheless, because I have trouble believing that the sensor would've been jarred loose if the accident hadn't happened. Either way, though, it needs to be fixed, and we've got to pay for it.

]]> I'm starting to worry a bit about my car. I guess I should be celebrating; I got a call from the body shop this afternoon to let me know that they'd finished up the exterior repair work. They'd also taken the car by the machine shop and had the engine looked at. An explanation—a day after the accident, the 'check engine' light came on.

Suspicious, I asked the body shop to check that out to see if it was part of the problem.

The insurance won't pay for it. The car was rear-ended, and the sensor's up front, so they're not willing to pay for it; even though I'd had it replaced a few months before the accident. Granted, I understand their immediate position—since they can't see a direct correlation, of course they aren't going to pay for it.But it's still frustrating nevertheless, because I have trouble believing that the sensor would've been jarred loose if the accident hadn't happened. Either way, though, it needs to be fixed, and we've got to pay for it.

We can afford the repair. That's not a problem. But for one reason or another, it's reactivated my worry about being able to get the car through two more years. I'm not wanting to get rid of my car until we get Jeff's truck paid off. By my estimate, we have just around two years left before we pay off the truck. Granted, we're paying it off early. My car, though, is six years old now, and my level of worry is slowly increasing that the next repair is going to be The Big One.

I know that I'm a worrywart, and I know that I'll feel better about this in the morning.

I'm just going to say over and over to myself, "It's a minor repair. You're overreacting. You know that you can wait two more years, so just be patient." Whether I like to admit it or not, I really like to have control over my life, and I hate leaving things to chance or fortune. I get nervous when I don't have that control.

Debates, political process, and rubber chickens…
I watched the debates tonight—it was somewhat frustrating watching the arguments go back and forth between Gush and Bore, knowing that one of those two men was going to be elected to the presidency of this crazy country.

I wish I could support either of them, but to me, both of them are merely decorative human tissue over a skeleton formed entirely of corporate money.

I'm probably going to wait to see how the pre-election polls in Alabama are shaping up. If Bore has a chance in Alabama, I'll probably hold my nose and vote for him. While I don't care for him, I have even more serious issues with Gush, and would like to cast a meaningful vote against him. However, if Bore doesn't have a chance in hell of winning Alabama, I'm voting my conscience and voting for Ralph Nader.

True, Nader has no chance. But…dammit…a vote for Nader actually means something. Those numbers get tallied and stared at by the two major parties, who ask themselves what in the world —no, WHO in the world—were they unable to reach with their power TV ads and their spin control and two-second soundbites.

They're going to look at those numbers and worry. Imagine what would happen if Nader and Buchanan were allowed into nationally-televised debates; I don't doubt that their numbers would skyrocket. (For Nader, this is good. Buchanan's to-the-right-of-Attila-the-Hun rhetoric terrifies me.)

I think what I have with my government is a total feeling of apathy. I grew up in one state with few electoral votes, and I moved to another state with few electoral votes. My vote isn't wanted, or needed, or even asked for.

For all the jokes I make with Brad about moving to Canada, I care deeply about this country I was born into—America, a land of such promise… until it was sold on the stock market to the highest bidder. We preach freedom and rule-by-democratic-vote when, in truth, my vote doesn't matter one whit except as a pointless political statement on my part.

We, ourselves, have turned our back on the country that could have been an impressive and incredible one…and we were so close to having it right. Most voting Americans feel such an incredible distance from our lawmakers in Washington that our representatives don't even seem like they're from the same planet.

We are not stupid sheep. We know that without tickets to the $1000-a-head rubber chicken fundraising dinners, our voices don't matter and aren't heard. We are not corporations offering to fund a thirty-second soft-money attack ad during the six-o'clock news. We are individually-written letters on plain paper with no checks enclosed.

We are the people the lawmakers "fit in" two-minute meetings with between power lunches and subcommittee meetings, because we aren't important enough to actually talk to … that is, unless the cameras are rolling.

We are voters, and when we act alone, we are powerless. So we stay home and ridicule the debates for the posturing they are, call our representatives bought-and-paid-for puppets and wonder if a nuclear strike to D.C. would actually improve property prices there.

I look to the north sometimes and wonder if it's different there. I wonder if the governmental leech is a species native to the U.S., or if it's spread into a worldwide pestilence.

I curse my apathy and nurture the secret wish that somehow, some way, a truly honest and unbeholden person could run our government for a short while. I'd be curious to see what happened as a result, but I know in my heart it will never happen. The only way to win Washington is to play the political game, the nature of which causes the truly honest and unbeholden to never play in the first place.

I'm an idealist at heart.

Here's to rescuing somebody else's country, because we're too damned stupid to save our own.

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