What a helluva 48 hours.
A major national account. A team that lives in their lease truck, with their dogs and her lip glosses on the dash and their 'home' bagged in plastic on both the upper and lower sleeper bunks. This couple has pet dogs they love, and the woman enjoys silver earrings. A dream catcher hangs above the cab.
hmmm. not gonna get this post finished.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
1977: The Year Star Wars Was Released
1977: The Year Star Wars Was Released
After your teen watched Star Wars, did he shrug and say, “What’s the big deal? The prequel is way better.”?
Try the Black Hole antidote. This entirely forgettable Disney film was released in 1979, a year and a half after Star Wars changed everything about sci-fi films. (Okay, I’ll add a shout-out to Close Encounters, which also came out in 1977.) BH was melodramatic, sterile and cheesy in the tradition of sci-fi flicks. Until SW came along.
1977
There it is. A teen in 1977 got 3 channels, no computer, no internet, no cell phone, no smart anything, probably no vcr. And those channels? They went off the air late at night. Maybe he had a boom box that weighed 10 pounds. If so, he was the cool kid. That kid saw his friends at school and in the neighborhood and he maybe had a pen pal (corresponding via real pens and snail mail). And he’d better not tie up the phone with those friends (no call waiting and no cordless phones) or he’d get his ass handed to him. … Is it any wonder Star Wars blew our socks off?
So, okay parents, we get that things are way better now. Would you want to go back to 1977? (Be honest.) Still, that’s no reason to let your teen dis on the not great, but great for its time, Star Wars.
Oh and don’t try to tell me it’s a great film. You’ve seen the bar scene, same as we all have.
After your teen watched Star Wars, did he shrug and say, “What’s the big deal? The prequel is way better.”?
Try the Black Hole antidote. This entirely forgettable Disney film was released in 1979, a year and a half after Star Wars changed everything about sci-fi films. (Okay, I’ll add a shout-out to Close Encounters, which also came out in 1977.) BH was melodramatic, sterile and cheesy in the tradition of sci-fi flicks. Until SW came along.
1977
1. VHS tapes were introduced in the US. The VCR player sold for $1280, over $4500 in today’s money.
2. Most homes had ABC, NBC, CBS, and Public Broadcasting. That’s it. If lucky, maybe a local channel or two. If luckier, the new satellite-available Ted Turner (see#3) or fledgling HBO channels.
3. This was the second year of the first nationwide basic cable network. What did it carry? “Old movies, situation comedy reruns, cartoons, and sports.”
4. The first personal all-in-one computer (the Commodore PET) was introduced, as was the Apple II. (The Macintosh wouldn’t arrive until 1984.)
5. Jimmy Carter became president.
6. The Seattle Mariners played ball for the first time.
7. Queen Elizabeth celebrated her Silver Jubilee. (Her Golden was in 2002. Her Diamond in 2012.)
8. Anita Bryant and her crew of bigots led a successful repeal of a Miami-Dade County gay rights ordinance.
9. 200,000 protesters in San Francisco marched against Anita Bryant’s anti-gay slurs and the hate-inspired murder of a gay man.
10. The Son of Sam was murdering/getting arrested in NY, and the 25-hour New York City blackout wreaked havoc – tense tense times. (Not much changes when it comes to that.)
11. The first oil of the new Trans-Alaska pipeline reached Valdez, Alaska.
12. Hell, the Walkman cassette player didn’t come out until 1979.
13. Elvis died.
14. The first video piracy resolutions were announced – that’s those warnings you ignore on your dvd’s today.
15. Small Pox was eliminated. The last case was found in Somalia.
16. Harvey Milk was elected, the first openly gay official of a major city. (Okay, I've mentioned gay rights events 3 times -- '77 was a big year for gay rights. Crazy-late to the civil rights party, huh?)
17. The Internet, btw, was still in its sperm-meets-egg infancy. There wasn’t even a fetus with fingernails there.
18. Women were first allowed into the regular Navy. (Before that, they were in a separate status as WAVES, ie Women Accepted for Voluntary Emergency Service. Whatever.)
19. Orlando Bloom, Shakira, Chris Martin, Kanye West, Tom Brady, Ludacris, and that douche ‘my penis is a Nazi’ John Mayer were born. Robert DeNiro and Jack Nicholson were the young studs of the day.
20. It was the year of Smokey and the Bandit, Oh God!, Annie Hall and the fabu hockey strip-tease moment in Slap Shot. Haven’t seen it? DO. Notice the absence of special-effects mind-blowers in that list?
There it is. A teen in 1977 got 3 channels, no computer, no internet, no cell phone, no smart anything, probably no vcr. And those channels? They went off the air late at night. Maybe he had a boom box that weighed 10 pounds. If so, he was the cool kid. That kid saw his friends at school and in the neighborhood and he maybe had a pen pal (corresponding via real pens and snail mail). And he’d better not tie up the phone with those friends (no call waiting and no cordless phones) or he’d get his ass handed to him. … Is it any wonder Star Wars blew our socks off?
So, okay parents, we get that things are way better now. Would you want to go back to 1977? (Be honest.) Still, that’s no reason to let your teen dis on the not great, but great for its time, Star Wars.
Oh and don’t try to tell me it’s a great film. You’ve seen the bar scene, same as we all have.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Finger
I got the finger today from a 20-year-old Barbie in her mom's Cadillac Escalade. Too late, I thought of our outlet supervisor, the fab Ms T, who always crows, "That's right, I AM number one!" when she receives the bird.
God, I love driving and drivers. And our warehouse folks.
I was coming out of a store's parking lot, today, making a right on a busy street. I didn't have a mambo-trailer behind me, but still, I would have been prudent to use the two lanes and meridian-turn lane in front of me in order to make my turn. I'm always prudent.
I was taking up the driveway, waiting for traffic, worrying about lunatics behind me who might tuck themselves into various blind-spots and inconvenient 'holes' ... when young Barbie with her well-manicured middle finger and her mama's pearl-white SUV pulled into the meridian. She wanted to make a left into the drive after I had already pulled into the driveway, effectively blocking it.
I waited for oncoming traffic and began gesturing for 'young-platinum-girl' to move her vehicle forward. "Move on down. Move on down," I chanted as I gestured on down the meridian. Using the index finger, not its neighbor.
Imagine my surprise when she threw up her cheer digit! In 20-20, I wish I'd given her a double-number-one gesture, right and left in unison. Or jumped from my rig and explained to her in detail, with pictures and crayon-maps she might understand, the prudence behind asking her to move on down the road so that my 35 ton rig might make a safe right turn onto the boulevard.
Instead, I gestured again and repeated, "Move on down. Move on down." So much for thinking on my toes. I did, at least, smile at her in a smirking, amused, elder-woman way.
And she Did move on down.
Trucker, one. Number one, that is. ... Barbie, zip.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Trucker Tans and Prufrock
"I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." So lamented one J Alfred Prufrock in TS Eliot's poem. The shrinking, the diminishing, the awkwardness of aging. The props.
I have new reading glasses. Gawd, what a difference. No more holding the page arm's length away. No more squinting at my paperwork.
And I have a trucker tan. Tan, you say? 'Good, you.' Ah but this is no ordinary tan.
Left arm considerably more toasty than the right, until mid-bicep where each are equalized by my tee-shirt's protection. You can imagine what happens at the point where neck meets collar, as well.
And I'm wearing shorts! for the first time in my professional life. One one hand, I hear your approving, 'Yay, you.' So cool. So comfy. On the other hand, extra brown knees and milky-white below the boot line.
As Prufrock lamented, 'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.' ... but I'm okay with that.
I have new reading glasses. Gawd, what a difference. No more holding the page arm's length away. No more squinting at my paperwork.
And I have a trucker tan. Tan, you say? 'Good, you.' Ah but this is no ordinary tan.
Left arm considerably more toasty than the right, until mid-bicep where each are equalized by my tee-shirt's protection. You can imagine what happens at the point where neck meets collar, as well.
And I'm wearing shorts! for the first time in my professional life. One one hand, I hear your approving, 'Yay, you.' So cool. So comfy. On the other hand, extra brown knees and milky-white below the boot line.
As Prufrock lamented, 'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.' ... but I'm okay with that.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Say Hey
M'goodness, it's been over a month since my last post! I've been uninspired, maybe, or nose-grindstone-en.
Here's a fun one you may not know. While the etiquette is being lost (as is etiquette in all facets of society), many a big rig driver will greet a peer on the road in a relaxed nod and an easy wave sort of way. We head bob and do a 'say hey' sort of deal.
My favorite is a reverse-three-finger wag. I swing up my left arm, nonchalant-like, my palm facing inward, and raise my thumb, index and middle fingers. The other two remain loosely curled. Accompanied with an easy 'wha'sup' nod.
I'm also fond of the guys who do the 'wagons-ho!' wave. They begin their swing at the shoulder, fingers starting in the curled position, then straighten as the wave arm thrusts forward towards the windshield. Or horizon. Ho-ohhhhh! John Wayne, you flutter things in me that oughtn't-a flutter.
No finger wagglers to-date. Drivers are too cool for finger waggling. No frenetically-friendly wavers either. That would just be pushy. No, it's always a relaxed, coooool sort of greeting, an acknowledgment that we're peers. We're a club. We're different from the road-remoras who flit and flow around us.
Can you imagine sending even a nod-eyebrow-lift greeting to the soccer moms and tie-wearers on the road with you? Sending even the most brief of messages that says, "I know you. You're one of my kind," to them? Hah! Get ready for soccer mom to send you a single-finger message of her own. (That's right, I am number one! ... or so I tell my bird-flipping friends.)
The art of the brief-greet across highway lanes is dying I'm told. Still, retro-grrrrl that I am, I'm working on my say-hey and head bob, in hopes of a trucker-etiquette renaissance.
Here's a fun one you may not know. While the etiquette is being lost (as is etiquette in all facets of society), many a big rig driver will greet a peer on the road in a relaxed nod and an easy wave sort of way. We head bob and do a 'say hey' sort of deal.
My favorite is a reverse-three-finger wag. I swing up my left arm, nonchalant-like, my palm facing inward, and raise my thumb, index and middle fingers. The other two remain loosely curled. Accompanied with an easy 'wha'sup' nod.
I'm also fond of the guys who do the 'wagons-ho!' wave. They begin their swing at the shoulder, fingers starting in the curled position, then straighten as the wave arm thrusts forward towards the windshield. Or horizon. Ho-ohhhhh! John Wayne, you flutter things in me that oughtn't-a flutter.
No finger wagglers to-date. Drivers are too cool for finger waggling. No frenetically-friendly wavers either. That would just be pushy. No, it's always a relaxed, coooool sort of greeting, an acknowledgment that we're peers. We're a club. We're different from the road-remoras who flit and flow around us.
Can you imagine sending even a nod-eyebrow-lift greeting to the soccer moms and tie-wearers on the road with you? Sending even the most brief of messages that says, "I know you. You're one of my kind," to them? Hah! Get ready for soccer mom to send you a single-finger message of her own. (That's right, I am number one! ... or so I tell my bird-flipping friends.)
The art of the brief-greet across highway lanes is dying I'm told. Still, retro-grrrrl that I am, I'm working on my say-hey and head bob, in hopes of a trucker-etiquette renaissance.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Don't Tread on Me
Okay, so that pun was so obvious, it's a groaner. What's coming? A post on ...tires!
What to do about the common occurrence of nails in the tires? (Remove 'em, spray soapy water, watch for bubbles. Call the tire guy if you see bubbles.)
How about various tread wear patterns? Flat spots across the entire tire -- probably from locking up the breaks. Wear on the outsides of the tires -- often under-inflation, maybe an alignment problem. Wear on the inside of the tires -- over-inflation. Cupping, as in occasional flat spots around the entire wheel -- a variety of causes, such as an unbalanced wheel or alignment problem. And never underestimate the impact of bad drivers.
But the answer as to what to do should be easy. As a driver, you aren't paid to think. Certainly not to process cause-effect. You do a pre-trip; you do a post-trip; you record what you see; you give the record to your boss.
Your boss thinks. Isn't that brilliant?
I love that.
I don't have to think when I look at wear. I just have to pull out my tire tread depth gauge (or a Lincoln penny). On a steer tire, I need a minimum of 4/32nds of an inch; on a rear tire, 2/32nds of an inch.
Now, of course, driving for a small company without an on-staff mechanic in a county without a scale house (with its threat of inspection) requires an extra skill-set many-a-driver may not need -- one must be able to repeat, over and over, "California law says..." "California law says..." "The CHP says..." "The CHP says..."
Not much thinking involved. When the resident warehouse 'expert-in-all-things' wants to talk about tread depths and what's safe versus what's in the Commercial Driver Handbook, what's 'real' versus what's bureaucratic BS, you can say, "But the CHP says..." ... Then clock out and go home at the end of your shift.
I mean, really. Tread depth rules are yet another government conspiracy? Don't you think the government is awfully busy covering up other frauds, like the lack of cheese in American cheese?
What to do about the common occurrence of nails in the tires? (Remove 'em, spray soapy water, watch for bubbles. Call the tire guy if you see bubbles.)
How about various tread wear patterns? Flat spots across the entire tire -- probably from locking up the breaks. Wear on the outsides of the tires -- often under-inflation, maybe an alignment problem. Wear on the inside of the tires -- over-inflation. Cupping, as in occasional flat spots around the entire wheel -- a variety of causes, such as an unbalanced wheel or alignment problem. And never underestimate the impact of bad drivers.
But the answer as to what to do should be easy. As a driver, you aren't paid to think. Certainly not to process cause-effect. You do a pre-trip; you do a post-trip; you record what you see; you give the record to your boss.
Your boss thinks. Isn't that brilliant?
I love that.
I don't have to think when I look at wear. I just have to pull out my tire tread depth gauge (or a Lincoln penny). On a steer tire, I need a minimum of 4/32nds of an inch; on a rear tire, 2/32nds of an inch.
Now, of course, driving for a small company without an on-staff mechanic in a county without a scale house (with its threat of inspection) requires an extra skill-set many-a-driver may not need -- one must be able to repeat, over and over, "California law says..." "California law says..." "The CHP says..." "The CHP says..."
Not much thinking involved. When the resident warehouse 'expert-in-all-things' wants to talk about tread depths and what's safe versus what's in the Commercial Driver Handbook, what's 'real' versus what's bureaucratic BS, you can say, "But the CHP says..." ... Then clock out and go home at the end of your shift.
I mean, really. Tread depth rules are yet another government conspiracy? Don't you think the government is awfully busy covering up other frauds, like the lack of cheese in American cheese?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Top Ten
It ain't funny or quirky, but I recently learned that I'm in a field that regularly shows up in the "top ten most dangerous jobs in America" lists. Often above police or fire fighters.
According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, in 2009, drivers were 9th. In 2010, we rose to 7th.
But neither cracks the top 10 on our list of America's Most Dangerous Jobs. Going by fatality rates, workers have more to worry about in such seemingly mundane professions as roofing, farming and sanitation."
Forbes.com slideshow: America’s most dangerous job
... and apparently, commercial driving.
In 2009, police officers weren't in the top 10; in 2010, they were listed10th. Firefighters in 2010 were 13th.
When I think on it, it makes sense that drivers/transportation workers face high fatality (and injury) rates. We all know how dangerous the roads are -- and commercial drivers are on them 40+++ hours per week. We also don't have the training, societal awareness or support that our brave (and aware) public servants have.
We get on down the road. I've said it before and I'll say it many times, I imagine, "If you bought it, I brought it."
My point? Give those rigs a break. and love your trucker.
According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, in 2009, drivers were 9th. In 2010, we rose to 7th.
(from msnbc.com, with the 2009 numbers) "Miners and police officers face many dangers. In 2009, the most recent year for which we have statistics, 101 miners and 97 police officers and security guards died on the job, making for a roughly similar fatality rate of around 13 deaths per 100,000 workers.
Forbes.com slideshow: America’s most dangerous job
... and apparently, commercial driving.
In 2009, police officers weren't in the top 10; in 2010, they were listed10th. Firefighters in 2010 were 13th.
When I think on it, it makes sense that drivers/transportation workers face high fatality (and injury) rates. We all know how dangerous the roads are -- and commercial drivers are on them 40+++ hours per week. We also don't have the training, societal awareness or support that our brave (and aware) public servants have.
We get on down the road. I've said it before and I'll say it many times, I imagine, "If you bought it, I brought it."
My point? Give those rigs a break. and love your trucker.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
BAD Betty
You may not believe this, but I'm unused to being deliberately, consciously cold-hearted.
Today, I was *Looking left, right. Conspiratorial whisper* a bitch!
I'm going to pay for it tomorrow, but for tonight, it feels, well, kind of wonderful.
Year, month, week, day, moment after moment, we see what needs to be done and what isn't being done. Year, week, moment after moment, we take the high road and do what's needed.
Not today.
I offered to do overtime, knowing overtime was needed to get the runs done. Cocky Dock Guy, who won't ask for help, who stomps around like he's all that, shrugged and said, it didn't matter. I asked, "Really?", knowing that it did, and that he was too much the self-congratulatory martyr to ask for help. Predictably, he repeated, "It doesn't matter."
So I said, "If it doesn't matter, then I'll go on home on time."
Talk about one silent, sullen Cocky Dock Guy. He cancelled one of the last two runs. And he'll find a way to pin it on me. But for me, what a revelation!
I. Can. Be. A. Bitch!
I'll feel guilty tomorrow, but for tonight, *happy dance, happy dance, happy dance!*
Today, I was *Looking left, right. Conspiratorial whisper* a bitch!
I'm going to pay for it tomorrow, but for tonight, it feels, well, kind of wonderful.
Year, month, week, day, moment after moment, we see what needs to be done and what isn't being done. Year, week, moment after moment, we take the high road and do what's needed.
Not today.
I offered to do overtime, knowing overtime was needed to get the runs done. Cocky Dock Guy, who won't ask for help, who stomps around like he's all that, shrugged and said, it didn't matter. I asked, "Really?", knowing that it did, and that he was too much the self-congratulatory martyr to ask for help. Predictably, he repeated, "It doesn't matter."
So I said, "If it doesn't matter, then I'll go on home on time."
Talk about one silent, sullen Cocky Dock Guy. He cancelled one of the last two runs. And he'll find a way to pin it on me. But for me, what a revelation!
I. Can. Be. A. Bitch!
I'll feel guilty tomorrow, but for tonight, *happy dance, happy dance, happy dance!*
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Last Hurrah
I did the 7am run up to Mendocino County today. Crawled into work after finishing at 6pm the night before, and the Soop's Soop laughs, "Living the dream, huh?"
Two hours later, I'm on the "ridge" at the top of the pass separating lower-elevation Ukiah from higher (in more ways than one) Willits. Hippie central. Home of Wavy Gravy's ranch and the Kate Wolf Memorial Folk Festival. ... oh, how I love both.
There's a dusting of snow on the ridge, and I'm on a four-hour trip, holding consults with Bruce Springsteen, Antonin Dvorák, Lyle Lovett and Annie Lennox, four minutes at a time.
The Soop's Soop is in a warehouse in a typical mid-sized city, in meetings and checking email.
Me. On the Blue Star Highway with snow-dusted evergreens. Him. In a windowless office in a concrete building. Me. Enjoying the radio on the kind of rainy day that is all big cumulus clouds and blue skies. Him. Sighing at each never-ending cell phone call and chime of the incoming email.
Yes, I'm living the dream.
Two hours later, I'm on the "ridge" at the top of the pass separating lower-elevation Ukiah from higher (in more ways than one) Willits. Hippie central. Home of Wavy Gravy's ranch and the Kate Wolf Memorial Folk Festival. ... oh, how I love both.
There's a dusting of snow on the ridge, and I'm on a four-hour trip, holding consults with Bruce Springsteen, Antonin Dvorák, Lyle Lovett and Annie Lennox, four minutes at a time.
The Soop's Soop is in a warehouse in a typical mid-sized city, in meetings and checking email.
Me. On the Blue Star Highway with snow-dusted evergreens. Him. In a windowless office in a concrete building. Me. Enjoying the radio on the kind of rainy day that is all big cumulus clouds and blue skies. Him. Sighing at each never-ending cell phone call and chime of the incoming email.
Yes, I'm living the dream.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
I Stink.
Or more accurately, I stank.
You KNOW how much I adore my night showers. Spring has arrived, and with it, spring temperatures. Summer's 80's and 90's are coming, but for now, a 70-something day leaves me sweaty, bone tired, and meat-grinder sore.
When I got home tonight, I hopped under the pelting water of the shower head, not simply to enjoy a dunk, but because I stunk, dear reader (everywhere). And because my face felt pasty and stiff. ugh. hate that. The shower was wonderful.
Spring is here and summer approaches. I started this job last September, so I've yet to experience a summer. ... I'm thinking the coming triple-digit-months are going to teach me a great deal about exhaustion in unfair heat.
Stinky or no, I'm livin' the dream.
You KNOW how much I adore my night showers. Spring has arrived, and with it, spring temperatures. Summer's 80's and 90's are coming, but for now, a 70-something day leaves me sweaty, bone tired, and meat-grinder sore.
When I got home tonight, I hopped under the pelting water of the shower head, not simply to enjoy a dunk, but because I stunk, dear reader (everywhere). And because my face felt pasty and stiff. ugh. hate that. The shower was wonderful.
Spring is here and summer approaches. I started this job last September, so I've yet to experience a summer. ... I'm thinking the coming triple-digit-months are going to teach me a great deal about exhaustion in unfair heat.
Stinky or no, I'm livin' the dream.
Monday, April 4, 2011
I Grow Old, I Grow Old
Okay, enough reference to J Alfred Prufrock.
I grow old.
Yesterday, a dock worker at one of the stores turned 21. I'm twice his age! 2 21's!
If only 1 of those 21's was my left buzzy, and the other, my right. No, indeed not. The buzzies continue their slow unwind. Two weights in a grandfather clock.
And then there's my dock guy. He makes me feel old. Weary. World-worn. Even though he's probably older than I am. Two days of overtime. Not necessary overtime. Stupid overtime. I don't mind the former (weee! money!); hate the latter (my dock bitch is screwing up! in stupid ways!)
He has the unfortunate inability to realize when he's drowning until he's up to his nostrils in murky swamp water. He tries to do it all. Just as Nick Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream wanted to play his role and everyone else's role, too, so does my dock guy. .... He. Will. Not. Ask. For. Help. ... Even when he is repeatedly told to and offered help.
I'm old. I'm annoyed. He makes my ass twitch.
I'm reminded of that classic joke about the man, waiting on his roof as the water rises. A man in a row boat comes by, offering aid. "No thanks. God will save me." A man in a power boat comes by. "Nope, I trust in my God to save me." A helicopter hovers overhead, and it too is declined as the man waits for God's salvation. The water overtakes him and he drowns.
Up in heaven, he asks God, "God, why didn't you save me?" and God replies, "I sent you a row boat, a power boat and a helicopter. What more did you want?"
... Curmudgeon, here I come.
I grow old.
Yesterday, a dock worker at one of the stores turned 21. I'm twice his age! 2 21's!
If only 1 of those 21's was my left buzzy, and the other, my right. No, indeed not. The buzzies continue their slow unwind. Two weights in a grandfather clock.
And then there's my dock guy. He makes me feel old. Weary. World-worn. Even though he's probably older than I am. Two days of overtime. Not necessary overtime. Stupid overtime. I don't mind the former (weee! money!); hate the latter (my dock bitch is screwing up! in stupid ways!)
He has the unfortunate inability to realize when he's drowning until he's up to his nostrils in murky swamp water. He tries to do it all. Just as Nick Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream wanted to play his role and everyone else's role, too, so does my dock guy. .... He. Will. Not. Ask. For. Help. ... Even when he is repeatedly told to and offered help.
I'm old. I'm annoyed. He makes my ass twitch.
I'm reminded of that classic joke about the man, waiting on his roof as the water rises. A man in a row boat comes by, offering aid. "No thanks. God will save me." A man in a power boat comes by. "Nope, I trust in my God to save me." A helicopter hovers overhead, and it too is declined as the man waits for God's salvation. The water overtakes him and he drowns.
Up in heaven, he asks God, "God, why didn't you save me?" and God replies, "I sent you a row boat, a power boat and a helicopter. What more did you want?"
... Curmudgeon, here I come.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Alpha Grrrl Protects Her Turf
So our other class A has left the building. (I won't say why. That would be indelicate.) This leaves me with five other class C's. Yep. I'm alpha grrrrrrrrl. Of course, I was alpha from the day I arrived, but that, too, would be indelicate to crow over. (Besides, others might disagree. and be wrong.)
So they're advertising for another class A. Even interviewing in the brief days since listing the position, hoping to return us to full staff quickly.
Among the fav's, a driver with "lots of experience." Is it wrong that one part of me is happy with the idea of having a knowledgeable class A around, a mentor, as it were? But the larger, meaner part of me is digging in, thinking, "Mine." ...My turf, my seniority, my Mack, my alpha.
I've put on the metaphorical metal conical breasts protectors. Bring on the new guy.
So they're advertising for another class A. Even interviewing in the brief days since listing the position, hoping to return us to full staff quickly.
Among the fav's, a driver with "lots of experience." Is it wrong that one part of me is happy with the idea of having a knowledgeable class A around, a mentor, as it were? But the larger, meaner part of me is digging in, thinking, "Mine." ...My turf, my seniority, my Mack, my alpha.
I've put on the metaphorical metal conical breasts protectors. Bring on the new guy.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The new career, flashing before my eyes
I'd rather be lucky than good, any day.
...and that's all I've got to say about that.
...and that's all I've got to say about that.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
aka 'Just a Normal Day in the Warehouse'
Okay, now, this is important stuff.
Real important.
We gotta get this very important stuff figured out.
Problem-solve it.
Analyze it.
Synthesize it.
Evaluate it.
Come up with a solution for it.
Now, not tomorrow.
This real important stuff needs our absolute
*Squirrel!*
This other stuff.
It's really important other stuff.
We'll need to put our heads together right away on this really important other stuff....
Real important.
We gotta get this very important stuff figured out.
Problem-solve it.
Analyze it.
Synthesize it.
Evaluate it.
Come up with a solution for it.
Now, not tomorrow.
This real important stuff needs our absolute
*Squirrel!*
This other stuff.
It's really important other stuff.
We'll need to put our heads together right away on this really important other stuff....
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Don'Care Delight
Yesterday, the Soop told me I'd be shuttling two to three runs from one (small) warehouse to our (big, main) warehouse, daily for several days. Until the small warehouse is cleared out.
'Ahhh, logistics.' ... No, indeed. 'Ahhh, clear communication.' I'd take even half-assed communication.
First thing today, I had to empty yesterday's run into the big warehouse before taking the empty trailer to the small warehouse. I opened the rolling door and Wham! Two wooden headboard/footboard sets fell on my thigh, leaving a baseball-sized bruised knot-o-flesh. Cursed a blue streak at the useless bastards who put four two-foot-tall planks of wood upright on the end of a trailer.
The Soop's Soop, coming to take a look, said, roughly, "I didn't know they were sending this stuff. We've cleared out the outlet center for their other stuff."
I said, "Their other stuff is out there in a trailer in the back 40."
He said, "Huh?"
I said, "It's been there for days. I hear we're moving in a bunch of loads of this stuff before unloading that other stuff."
He began wondering why that might be, by golly, and speculating on communication failures.
And I said, "Don' care. I'll drive, load and unload whatever you tell me. Just tell me. Beyond that ... I. Don'. Care."
He said, "It's good to be the driver."
Indeed.
(I edited on this one a wee bit, just so's you know.)
'Ahhh, logistics.' ... No, indeed. 'Ahhh, clear communication.' I'd take even half-assed communication.
First thing today, I had to empty yesterday's run into the big warehouse before taking the empty trailer to the small warehouse. I opened the rolling door and Wham! Two wooden headboard/footboard sets fell on my thigh, leaving a baseball-sized bruised knot-o-flesh. Cursed a blue streak at the useless bastards who put four two-foot-tall planks of wood upright on the end of a trailer.
The Soop's Soop, coming to take a look, said, roughly, "I didn't know they were sending this stuff. We've cleared out the outlet center for their other stuff."
I said, "Their other stuff is out there in a trailer in the back 40."
He said, "Huh?"
I said, "It's been there for days. I hear we're moving in a bunch of loads of this stuff before unloading that other stuff."
He began wondering why that might be, by golly, and speculating on communication failures.
And I said, "Don' care. I'll drive, load and unload whatever you tell me. Just tell me. Beyond that ... I. Don'. Care."
He said, "It's good to be the driver."
Indeed.
(I edited on this one a wee bit, just so's you know.)
Monday, March 7, 2011
Whim is My Copilot
I've been mighty active the past few weeks. Maybe I'm just finally getting into the rhythm of work. Or done grieving the opposite-hours schedule with the Sweet Babboo.
I think it's those things, plus more hours-o-daylight. I'm a sucker for sunshine. (Yep, I'm one of those evil Californians who moved to Seattle -- just to realize that Kurt Cobain's mopes made perfect sense. Every Starbucks should come equipped with a Prozac salt lick.)
Still, I think it's more than spring fever or emergence from the blues. I think I'm finding that sweet spot where my job is a job and my personal life is my own. Most days, I am relaxed and thinking of not much of anything as I drive to work ...and enjoying the return to the surface as I drive home from work. Weird. ... and I know some of you totally get what I'm talking about.
I'm no techno-phobe luddite, but, damn, we've supercharged our lives and plugged our psyches into the 24/7 news cycle. We're the animal that never sleeps. Work invades our weekends, our commutes, our homes, our dreams. Down-time is something we schedule time for ... and approach with bizzarre intensity. Ironic? Uh, yah.
Not to mention our "I want it all and can have it" delusion. A student bitched me out once because I 'couldn't understand' her limitations, given that I was (then) single and childless, and therefore had an easy, uncompromised life. (Hah!) She was a wife and mother and employee and full time student, after all, so she couldn't possible be expected to be held to a standard I'd hold for other students.
Tip to the over-committed: You Cannot Have It All.
Sorry and thanks for playing.
You have only so many hours in the day, so many resources, and so much potential. (Gasp if you like, but I weren't never going to be Baryshnikov's dance partner. 'Oh say it ain't so, Missy! Why you can do anything you put your mind to!' ... See what I mean?)
But I digress.
If you're tuned in, hardwired to the grid and happy, then more power to you. I have lots of friends who are.
As your classic burn out, I'm just sayin', I love that I'm not out to have it all. That several hours of each day are driven by whim.
I also love that my new career has just enough challenge to keep me interested. But not so much that I'm taking it home with me. Home is for hubby nuzzles, dog adorations, slow cooker experiments (pulled pork bbq today!), apple butter canning, garage door installations, firewood stacking, phone calls with the Mothership, facebook boasts, 8 hours of sleep a night and the occasional blog post.
I think it's those things, plus more hours-o-daylight. I'm a sucker for sunshine. (Yep, I'm one of those evil Californians who moved to Seattle -- just to realize that Kurt Cobain's mopes made perfect sense. Every Starbucks should come equipped with a Prozac salt lick.)
Still, I think it's more than spring fever or emergence from the blues. I think I'm finding that sweet spot where my job is a job and my personal life is my own. Most days, I am relaxed and thinking of not much of anything as I drive to work ...and enjoying the return to the surface as I drive home from work. Weird. ... and I know some of you totally get what I'm talking about.
I'm no techno-phobe luddite, but, damn, we've supercharged our lives and plugged our psyches into the 24/7 news cycle. We're the animal that never sleeps. Work invades our weekends, our commutes, our homes, our dreams. Down-time is something we schedule time for ... and approach with bizzarre intensity. Ironic? Uh, yah.
Not to mention our "I want it all and can have it" delusion. A student bitched me out once because I 'couldn't understand' her limitations, given that I was (then) single and childless, and therefore had an easy, uncompromised life. (Hah!) She was a wife and mother and employee and full time student, after all, so she couldn't possible be expected to be held to a standard I'd hold for other students.
Tip to the over-committed: You Cannot Have It All.
Sorry and thanks for playing.
You have only so many hours in the day, so many resources, and so much potential. (Gasp if you like, but I weren't never going to be Baryshnikov's dance partner. 'Oh say it ain't so, Missy! Why you can do anything you put your mind to!' ... See what I mean?)
But I digress.
If you're tuned in, hardwired to the grid and happy, then more power to you. I have lots of friends who are.
As your classic burn out, I'm just sayin', I love that I'm not out to have it all. That several hours of each day are driven by whim.
I also love that my new career has just enough challenge to keep me interested. But not so much that I'm taking it home with me. Home is for hubby nuzzles, dog adorations, slow cooker experiments (pulled pork bbq today!), apple butter canning, garage door installations, firewood stacking, phone calls with the Mothership, facebook boasts, 8 hours of sleep a night and the occasional blog post.
Friday, February 25, 2011
ooooohnew twucks!
Okay, so they're just baby trucks -- class C box trucks, gross vehicle weight about 26,000 lb. But they're so cute! and so comfy!
Girl moment. They have cup holders (unlike our others which Used to have cup holders way before I arrived). yayyy! And cruise. and a little thingy to plug in my i-pod. (I drive an '02 Rav, what can I say? I have a cell phone that is used merely as a phone. Cut me some slack.)
Ahhh, but the other shtuff! 6 cylinder in-line. automatic transmission (by Alison). Plenty-o-power for our highway and town purposes.
Girl moment, again. I can reach all the dipsticks and belts and air break drain cords! ... Unlike that pphhhhltttt GMC where absolutely Every fluid and belt check item you need to reach daily is damn near impossible to get to. I'm particularly unfond of the option of standing on my tire in order to reach and pull the auto transmission fluid stick (some 3 freakin' feet long) ... while imagining myself falling into the big spinning fan. fun.
Ahhh, but the International MaxxForce (now there's the name of a pro wrestler or porn star) ... Its nobs, I can reach!
Having a great time reading the manuals. Like I said, these things must be boys cuz they're all laid out in a book. My Mack, #1 in my heart, but the Int's make the day happy, too.
Girl moment. They have cup holders (unlike our others which Used to have cup holders way before I arrived). yayyy! And cruise. and a little thingy to plug in my i-pod. (I drive an '02 Rav, what can I say? I have a cell phone that is used merely as a phone. Cut me some slack.)
Ahhh, but the other shtuff! 6 cylinder in-line. automatic transmission (by Alison). Plenty-o-power for our highway and town purposes.
Girl moment, again. I can reach all the dipsticks and belts and air break drain cords! ... Unlike that pphhhhltttt GMC where absolutely Every fluid and belt check item you need to reach daily is damn near impossible to get to. I'm particularly unfond of the option of standing on my tire in order to reach and pull the auto transmission fluid stick (some 3 freakin' feet long) ... while imagining myself falling into the big spinning fan. fun.
Ahhh, but the International MaxxForce (now there's the name of a pro wrestler or porn star) ... Its nobs, I can reach!
Having a great time reading the manuals. Like I said, these things must be boys cuz they're all laid out in a book. My Mack, #1 in my heart, but the Int's make the day happy, too.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Why We Do It
Well, for one, there's my Origami Dog, our dalmation mix rescue girl who can fold herself down into something that would tuck easily into an overnight case. And there are her pug mix 'brothers' ~ all of whom think Sweet Babboo and I are the best hunter gatherers ever.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
"Come Home to Me"
We end our phone calls with, "I love you."
Somewhere in the conversation sneaks, "Be safe," or sometimes, "Come home to me."
The typical exchange of husband and wife drivers.
Somewhere in the conversation sneaks, "Be safe," or sometimes, "Come home to me."
The typical exchange of husband and wife drivers.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Flares
Sky flares were a part of my childhood, growing up on a moth-balled army base along Highway 101, close but not too close to its civilianaive transit corridor. From my childhood home, a WWII-era barracks, I watched cars and trucks travel on their night-drives, along a far off section of the highway. This was the 70's, the era of big rig Christmas lighting, when the independent operators decked their tractor trailors in burning yellow and white and red, from nose to trailer.
Big-rigs offered the land-flares. In contrast or complement, the military sky flares cracked from the gun and hung in the summer air along an empty valley. No Viet-Cong (the enemy past) and no Taliban fighters (the enemy, as yet unimagined). Just the lazy, slow float of yellow light, witnessed by a child on a bluff above the river plain on a 90 degree summer night.
Even on those nights, big trucks featured in my fantasies. A truck, strung with lights and the hit Alabama tune "Roll On" braying over the FM -- In my dream, this truck and its driver would stop, and the paternal, safe, home-spun hero would take me along for the ride. I'd be his side-kick, his girl Friday, the Bear to his BJ. (Okay, now there's a dated tv reference for ya.)
What kid doesn't fantasize about being that gypsy spirit? And yet, how many kids have memories of the crack of the flare gun, the pop and glow and drift of the flare, and its interminably slow death as it fell in increments of night?
Another kind of flare impacts this adult me, its potential banked in 12-inch red tubes that are stored next to the emergency triangles. So uninspired and unimaginative, these flares are lit much as a match is ignited ... by the friction drag on a hard surface. They have their own beauty, I suppose, but they're the sad things hissing on wet asphalt next to fender benders. For that matter, mostly they're the tubes rolling around in my cab.
I'm not much on nostalgia. I'd be the last to say that the world was better, safer, more innocent in 'my day.' Still, flares in a childhood that experienced truly pristine night skies. Those were damn cool.
...
Big-rigs offered the land-flares. In contrast or complement, the military sky flares cracked from the gun and hung in the summer air along an empty valley. No Viet-Cong (the enemy past) and no Taliban fighters (the enemy, as yet unimagined). Just the lazy, slow float of yellow light, witnessed by a child on a bluff above the river plain on a 90 degree summer night.
Even on those nights, big trucks featured in my fantasies. A truck, strung with lights and the hit Alabama tune "Roll On" braying over the FM -- In my dream, this truck and its driver would stop, and the paternal, safe, home-spun hero would take me along for the ride. I'd be his side-kick, his girl Friday, the Bear to his BJ. (Okay, now there's a dated tv reference for ya.)
What kid doesn't fantasize about being that gypsy spirit? And yet, how many kids have memories of the crack of the flare gun, the pop and glow and drift of the flare, and its interminably slow death as it fell in increments of night?
Another kind of flare impacts this adult me, its potential banked in 12-inch red tubes that are stored next to the emergency triangles. So uninspired and unimaginative, these flares are lit much as a match is ignited ... by the friction drag on a hard surface. They have their own beauty, I suppose, but they're the sad things hissing on wet asphalt next to fender benders. For that matter, mostly they're the tubes rolling around in my cab.
I'm not much on nostalgia. I'd be the last to say that the world was better, safer, more innocent in 'my day.' Still, flares in a childhood that experienced truly pristine night skies. Those were damn cool.
...
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