I finished my second day at my new job. It is chaotic right now – I started the same week that the company is releasing a new build, so I'm spending a lot of time reading documentation and harassing my new coworkers about obtaining access to the various things I need to access.
I see a couple of rough weeks ahead as I adjust to this new schedule and a new work environment and philosophy.
Although the length of the workday is about the same, the day overall is longer. I'm up earlier, before 6:00 AM, in order to get to the gym to work out and still leave myself enough time to catch a second bus to Squirrel Hill without worrying about being late due to traffic. I leave later then when I worked downtown, between 5:15 and 5:30 PM and change buses downtown. Changing buses in the afternoon is a risk, as anything later than 6:30 PM from downtown means throwing myself upon the mercy of the South Busway gods and waiting an hour or longer for transportation if I leave too late or the gods become angry.
I'm trying not to obsess over the inevitable delays and near misses that come with riding and transferring buses. Yesterday I watched one speed by as I walking down to the stop and had to wait for a later one. Later, as in 10 minutes. Today I managed to catch the earlier bus only to have the driver stop for a bathroom break near the T station. As I dashed out of the office and towards my stop this afternoon, I saw a bus pulling away from the curb and had to wait for the next one while quietly fretting.
I'm also not used to a new level of communication, with multiple, built-in redundancies for contacting each employee.
As tired as I am, I no longer feel as if I am being pressed into the floor every morning. I walk into a modern, bright open space with workstations at the appropriate height, chairs with an appropriate level of comfort and lots of natural, ambient light. My space is at the window, so I can peer down into the street and watch the people passing by and admire the shoes in the store across the street.
It was a good move.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A Long List of WTF's...
It was a good day. I went for a bike ride. I browsed through a bookstore. I spent some time in my favorite coffee shop, with a vegetarian pannini sandwich and a pot of Earl Grey with Lavender tea.
I also spent far too much time poking around the Internet, reading articles I would normally ignore. I made the mistake of diving into the comments at Slate and came out convinced that a large segment of the population who reads Slate is insane, Emily Yoffe is a scold and that my brain needed an acid bath.
Apparently I've had my head in the sand for far too long, because the “news” that John Edwards allegedly fathered a love child has been around for a year. This piece of “news” was published by that bastion of truth, The National Inquirer. The sources of this “news” are unnamed (therefore unverifiable) and another man has stepped forward to claim paternity of the love child in question.
None of the above was enough to stop Jack Shafer of Slate from calling Edwards a “sex hypocrite” for violating the sanctity of his marriage vows and lamenting the mainstream media's disinterest in the story, which he attributed to bias on the part of the liberal media. Apparently, since the media reported the arrest of Republican Larry Craig for soliciting gay sex in the stall of a bathroom, they are also duty bound to report on the unsubstantiated rumors swirling around John Edwards. Rumors which he denied when the National Inquirer broke the story last October and December. Rumors he denied again when the National Inquirer published a recent update.
I moved from the article to the comments, which left me desiring the above mentioned acid bath to remove the etchings of memory of my brief foray from my brain. After several hours and a visit to one of my favorite feminist/political/miscellaneous fun stuff blogs, I was able to stop the spinning in my head and figure out what really bothered me about the story. It was a hatchet job, full of “if”, “but” and “yet” statements and beautifully constructed gems, to wit “If Edwards had had no affair, he wasn't a hypocrite, not then and not now”. Language carefully constructed to call Edwards a philanderer without explicitly calling him a philanderer, to leave the reader with the impression that Edwards is a philanderer.
Oy, the mind spins.
Emily Yoffe (who called Edwards a “sanctimonious phony”, but I digress) continued her habit of acting sanctimonious towards her readers* with this response to a reader who wanted to smooth over a relationship after having a one night stand with a good friend's brother: “Look, I'm going to leave aside the question of one night stands, I just hope your not making a practice of them”.
If she is leaving aside the questions of one night stands, why is it necessary to make such a comment?
Moving on from the sanctimonious, the New York Times had an article today about brides paying for (and sometimes requiring) botox and other treatments, including breast augmentation and tooth bleaching, for their bridesmaids. While the times played off the brides gone amuck angle, I still found myself a little skeeved out by the idea that a bride could require and compel members of her wedding party to submit themselves to sundry beauty procedures.
Thankfully, I don't have any friends of the type mentioned in the article.
*Prime example: In response to a reader who was not interested in having kids and wanted advice on how to shut up members of the why-haven't-you-had-babies brigade, Yoffe took it upon herself to give the reader the “you might change your mind someday” speech.
I also spent far too much time poking around the Internet, reading articles I would normally ignore. I made the mistake of diving into the comments at Slate and came out convinced that a large segment of the population who reads Slate is insane, Emily Yoffe is a scold and that my brain needed an acid bath.
Apparently I've had my head in the sand for far too long, because the “news” that John Edwards allegedly fathered a love child has been around for a year. This piece of “news” was published by that bastion of truth, The National Inquirer. The sources of this “news” are unnamed (therefore unverifiable) and another man has stepped forward to claim paternity of the love child in question.
None of the above was enough to stop Jack Shafer of Slate from calling Edwards a “sex hypocrite” for violating the sanctity of his marriage vows and lamenting the mainstream media's disinterest in the story, which he attributed to bias on the part of the liberal media. Apparently, since the media reported the arrest of Republican Larry Craig for soliciting gay sex in the stall of a bathroom, they are also duty bound to report on the unsubstantiated rumors swirling around John Edwards. Rumors which he denied when the National Inquirer broke the story last October and December. Rumors he denied again when the National Inquirer published a recent update.
I moved from the article to the comments, which left me desiring the above mentioned acid bath to remove the etchings of memory of my brief foray from my brain. After several hours and a visit to one of my favorite feminist/political/miscellaneous fun stuff blogs, I was able to stop the spinning in my head and figure out what really bothered me about the story. It was a hatchet job, full of “if”, “but” and “yet” statements and beautifully constructed gems, to wit “If Edwards had had no affair, he wasn't a hypocrite, not then and not now”. Language carefully constructed to call Edwards a philanderer without explicitly calling him a philanderer, to leave the reader with the impression that Edwards is a philanderer.
Oy, the mind spins.
Emily Yoffe (who called Edwards a “sanctimonious phony”, but I digress) continued her habit of acting sanctimonious towards her readers* with this response to a reader who wanted to smooth over a relationship after having a one night stand with a good friend's brother: “Look, I'm going to leave aside the question of one night stands, I just hope your not making a practice of them”.
If she is leaving aside the questions of one night stands, why is it necessary to make such a comment?
Moving on from the sanctimonious, the New York Times had an article today about brides paying for (and sometimes requiring) botox and other treatments, including breast augmentation and tooth bleaching, for their bridesmaids. While the times played off the brides gone amuck angle, I still found myself a little skeeved out by the idea that a bride could require and compel members of her wedding party to submit themselves to sundry beauty procedures.
Thankfully, I don't have any friends of the type mentioned in the article.
*Prime example: In response to a reader who was not interested in having kids and wanted advice on how to shut up members of the why-haven't-you-had-babies brigade, Yoffe took it upon herself to give the reader the “you might change your mind someday” speech.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
How Not To Resign From a Job
A storm came through at 8:30 last evening, filling the sky with an eerie, creamy gold-yellow light. It poured through the dining room curtains onto the floor. As I pulled apart the curtains in the front window to take a closer look at the sky, Axel leaned forward and viewed the world with wide eyes and J worried about tornadoes.
I want to write about the ongoing wrap up of work at my current position, but every time I sit down to craft an entry I have find myself sputtering incoherently with rage. Exquisite, homicidal, ferocious rage. The kind of rage that compels me to mix up "there" and "their", (as J pointed out to me in response to one of my recent rant-filled email missives), grind my teeth and come home with splitting, stress-induced migraines.
I have spent the past five working days being jerked around by an ersatz* manager (REAL manager was out dealing with a family crisis) who decided that part of the process of wrapping up my duties was to compel my co-workers to take on the sundry non-testing tasks under my domain. As the departing party, I have ZERO authority to compel anyone to do anything. Naturally ersatz manager was too busy to take on any of the tasks.
Although ersatz manager was busy, s/he** was not busy enough to provide me with work and insisted that put in a full eight hours even though I had absolutely nothing to do for 4.5 of the past 5 working days. Until this afternoon, when s/he repeatedly indicated that s/he expected me to work a full, eight hour day tomorrow (my last day), even though s/he is not the (pardon my Old English) fucking manager.
The moral of this story (and there have been other, unwritten indignities I'm too much worked up to write about) is that I shall never give two weeks notice, ever again.
*ersatz: substitute, artificial and often inferior; using substitute components.
**Trying to avoid gender. Just to clarify, ersatz manager is the same one alluded to in a previous post who is carrying on a "special friendship" with manager.
I want to write about the ongoing wrap up of work at my current position, but every time I sit down to craft an entry I have find myself sputtering incoherently with rage. Exquisite, homicidal, ferocious rage. The kind of rage that compels me to mix up "there" and "their", (as J pointed out to me in response to one of my recent rant-filled email missives), grind my teeth and come home with splitting, stress-induced migraines.
I have spent the past five working days being jerked around by an ersatz* manager (REAL manager was out dealing with a family crisis) who decided that part of the process of wrapping up my duties was to compel my co-workers to take on the sundry non-testing tasks under my domain. As the departing party, I have ZERO authority to compel anyone to do anything. Naturally ersatz manager was too busy to take on any of the tasks.
Although ersatz manager was busy, s/he** was not busy enough to provide me with work and insisted that put in a full eight hours even though I had absolutely nothing to do for 4.5 of the past 5 working days. Until this afternoon, when s/he repeatedly indicated that s/he expected me to work a full, eight hour day tomorrow (my last day), even though s/he is not the (pardon my Old English) fucking manager.
The moral of this story (and there have been other, unwritten indignities I'm too much worked up to write about) is that I shall never give two weeks notice, ever again.
*ersatz: substitute, artificial and often inferior; using substitute components.
**Trying to avoid gender. Just to clarify, ersatz manager is the same one alluded to in a previous post who is carrying on a "special friendship" with manager.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
When Odd Little Facts Drive You Crazy
Starbucks is closing 600 stores. A list of the stores slated for closure has been released to the general public.
Several years ago This American Life did a segment on a storefront in the Washington (D.C.) area. This storefront, a former pizza parlor whose owner maintained a larger-than-life presence in the community, was considered cursed. There was a murder, the parlor closed and the storefront became the setting for a series of highly unsuccessful businesses, even though the location was considered highly desirable. The conclusion of the story was the report that a new business was moving into the storefront. A Starbucks.
So is this Starbucks on the list?
Several years ago This American Life did a segment on a storefront in the Washington (D.C.) area. This storefront, a former pizza parlor whose owner maintained a larger-than-life presence in the community, was considered cursed. There was a murder, the parlor closed and the storefront became the setting for a series of highly unsuccessful businesses, even though the location was considered highly desirable. The conclusion of the story was the report that a new business was moving into the storefront. A Starbucks.
So is this Starbucks on the list?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Retirement
I'm a little bit off the ball on this one, but I would be remiss if I did not mark the passing of my favorite NHL player.
Martin Straka has not died, although it is going to feel a little bit like that to me when I take his autographed jersey to be cleaned and framed. For three years I have worn his size 52 to games. The cuffs are grimy and the numbers on the back are slightly black from incidental contact with a dirty car.
For years friends have teased me over my love of who J and I refer to as “my other husband”. Straka will never be listed among the greats – Gretzky, Lemieux or Crosby.
He was not a big guy. He was a small and swift skater, strong enough to take a hit, smart enough to know when one was coming.
He was not much of a fighter, although he could throw a punch. Hockeyfights.com has no record of any fights and the only time I recall seeing him tangle with an opposing player was during the 2006 Winter Olympics.
He was accident prone, breaking his leg (the same one, twice), multiple bones in his face and damaging his back within a 14 month span.
He was underrated. The first to be traded away when a team's payroll became too heavy, he bounced to six different teams in the span of his 18 year career in the NHL, half that time spent with the Penguins. He skated under the radar, with 257 goals, 460 assists and 717 points.
Straka was a player's player, I think. He showed up, he practiced, he played, he supported his teammates. I'll never be sure, since I never met him in real life. The closest I ever came was standing near the boards to watch him warm up, earlier this year.
I always said that once he retired, I would retire his jersey. Now that he has signed with HC Lasselsberger Plzen and effectively left the NHL, the time has come.
Martin Straka has not died, although it is going to feel a little bit like that to me when I take his autographed jersey to be cleaned and framed. For three years I have worn his size 52 to games. The cuffs are grimy and the numbers on the back are slightly black from incidental contact with a dirty car.
For years friends have teased me over my love of who J and I refer to as “my other husband”. Straka will never be listed among the greats – Gretzky, Lemieux or Crosby.
He was not a big guy. He was a small and swift skater, strong enough to take a hit, smart enough to know when one was coming.
He was not much of a fighter, although he could throw a punch. Hockeyfights.com has no record of any fights and the only time I recall seeing him tangle with an opposing player was during the 2006 Winter Olympics.
He was accident prone, breaking his leg (the same one, twice), multiple bones in his face and damaging his back within a 14 month span.
He was underrated. The first to be traded away when a team's payroll became too heavy, he bounced to six different teams in the span of his 18 year career in the NHL, half that time spent with the Penguins. He skated under the radar, with 257 goals, 460 assists and 717 points.
Straka was a player's player, I think. He showed up, he practiced, he played, he supported his teammates. I'll never be sure, since I never met him in real life. The closest I ever came was standing near the boards to watch him warm up, earlier this year.
I always said that once he retired, I would retire his jersey. Now that he has signed with HC Lasselsberger Plzen and effectively left the NHL, the time has come.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Ends and Odds
Fact about Pennsylvania I did not know until today: PA has more wooden roller coasters than any other state in the US. Fifteen to be exact.
I have nothing right now. I'm in that limbo time between jobs, waiting out the end of my notice at my current position, secretly disappointed that my employer decided not to shorten my two weeks. My fantasy of flying off to Madrid on a whim will remain unfulfilled. Or returning to Paris and trying to rent one of the Vélib' bicycles I saw workers installing last year and did not get an opportunity to try because the program was launched the day after I left.
There has been great drama in the city of Pittsburgh, in the form of the imminent sale of the Steelers to an investor outside the Rooney family. Reassuring articles profiling the buyer (a long-time Steelers fan with Pittsburgh roots) not withstanding, the general consensus in Pittsburgh is that 3 of the 5 brothers are greedy, selfish individuals who value making money (from racetracks and gambling) above tradition (the Rooney's have owned the team since 1933) who have seriously disappointed their long deceased, still beloved (by fans) father.
I have nothing right now. I'm in that limbo time between jobs, waiting out the end of my notice at my current position, secretly disappointed that my employer decided not to shorten my two weeks. My fantasy of flying off to Madrid on a whim will remain unfulfilled. Or returning to Paris and trying to rent one of the Vélib' bicycles I saw workers installing last year and did not get an opportunity to try because the program was launched the day after I left.
There has been great drama in the city of Pittsburgh, in the form of the imminent sale of the Steelers to an investor outside the Rooney family. Reassuring articles profiling the buyer (a long-time Steelers fan with Pittsburgh roots) not withstanding, the general consensus in Pittsburgh is that 3 of the 5 brothers are greedy, selfish individuals who value making money (from racetracks and gambling) above tradition (the Rooney's have owned the team since 1933) who have seriously disappointed their long deceased, still beloved (by fans) father.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Moving On
After four (FOUR!) interviews, several email exchanges and multiple phones calls, I sat down to craft a resignation letter to my current employer.
The downside of staying employed at various places for extended periods of time is that I had no idea what kind of resignation letter to write. Eager for advice, I looked up some examples. And, interestingly enough, most of the advice offered suggested saying nothing except “I resign, effective X date from Y position. Thank you”.
I can't explain why I find this to be revolutionary, but I do. Perhaps it is because after years of listening to others tell me that I must elaborate, finally someone, multiple someones, suggest that I get straight to the point.
As I perused the examples, I came across an article and three year long thread on giving immediate (as opposed to two weeks) notice. As I have fantasized quite often over the past year of walking out without notice, the thought that an employment expert would advocate giving same-day notice is tantalizing. I went for the standard two weeks instead.
And promptly walked into the situation described in the article. While my lab manager is surprised, he is very willing to let me work out the two weeks. However, he warned me that I may be leaving sooner than planned once my resignation reaches the upper levels of management.
The downside of staying employed at various places for extended periods of time is that I had no idea what kind of resignation letter to write. Eager for advice, I looked up some examples. And, interestingly enough, most of the advice offered suggested saying nothing except “I resign, effective X date from Y position. Thank you”.
I can't explain why I find this to be revolutionary, but I do. Perhaps it is because after years of listening to others tell me that I must elaborate, finally someone, multiple someones, suggest that I get straight to the point.
As I perused the examples, I came across an article and three year long thread on giving immediate (as opposed to two weeks) notice. As I have fantasized quite often over the past year of walking out without notice, the thought that an employment expert would advocate giving same-day notice is tantalizing. I went for the standard two weeks instead.
And promptly walked into the situation described in the article. While my lab manager is surprised, he is very willing to let me work out the two weeks. However, he warned me that I may be leaving sooner than planned once my resignation reaches the upper levels of management.
Friday, July 04, 2008
FYI...
Happy Independence Day!
And...
Wall•E is the possibly the cutest movie about anything I have ever seen. I was so taken away that the characters appeared in my dreams last night.
And...
Wall•E is the possibly the cutest movie about anything I have ever seen. I was so taken away that the characters appeared in my dreams last night.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Just Too Much
The problem with choosing a non-medicinal form of therapy for depression is that it is far too easy to get derailed when injured and much more difficult to force myself back into a routine that I know is good for me, especially when the derailment is followed with enough stress to push me back into a downward spiral.
Hobbled (literally, I could barely walk for several days) two weeks ago after a 20 mile bike ride by a massive, multi-day muscle spasm that pushed on the sciatic nerve, I was forced to stop exercising, pop ibuprofen and pray for relief from the pain. One of our friends, a licensed, non-practicing PT, was kind enough to run an ultrasound on the affected muscle, which bought me much needed relief and a very good, albeit embarrassing story, to share within our circle of acquaintances.
My self-esteem has taken a small beating as a potential job dematerialized after three intensive interviews. Asked to submit a technical writing sample “with some length” I spent part of my weekend holiday and late into the wee hours of Sunday crafting a sample that was non-proprietary. I received an email Monday morning that the potential employer would contact me shortly to set up a final interview – then nothing. Apparently my carefully crafted sample was a resounding disaster.
Normally I would not think too much of it. But emotionally vulnerable, weary of the various layers of crap at my current place of employment and simple physical tiredness have taken its toll on my psyche. Mysteriously vague emails from J were not reassuring. I returned home cranky and moody to discover J experiencing the same level of negativity as myself, without the spectator of depression hanging over his head.
It has been quiet for too long, which is the only reason I can come up with for J's father calling him before eight AM to complain that I had not yet send a thank-you note for my birthday gifts or for my in-laws attendance at the non-birthday party, held on my birthday, at my parents home ten days ago.
The party which was held in honor of my twin brother making it halfway through his second tour in the service of Operation-Whatever-the-Hell-the-Shrub-is-Calling-it-Now. My mother deliberately withheld the information that it was our birthday from the guests. Some knew, most did not. One friend, upon learning that it was our birthday, asked my mother why she had not mentioned it.
In turn, my mother chastised me for “asking for gifts” and said that I was too old to be behaving like that. As all I had done was tell the friend that I had spent the prior day celebrating early with J and some close friends, I found the conversation a tad bewildering. Later that evening she also told me that my shorts were ugly.
And she wonders why I don't come home much.
As I had not wanted anything to do with the party and only changed plans to make my parents happy, J knew that this complaint would make me irate. His attempt to withhold information about the conversation from me was an admirable, but unachievable goal when both of us are equally at odds with the universe. After venting my displeasure and suggesting that J's father needed to have his head examined* I pulled out the cards (as I had intended to write notes to everyone that week) and wrote out a thank you.
I realized after I sealed the envelope that I forgot to mention one of the gifts. No doubt he will be happy to have the additional ammunition in his next round of complaints about me.
Is it ironic that a thank you note from one of J's second cousins, for the graduation gift we gave to her four weeks ago, was in the mail today?
On the upside I spent this past weekend in Chicago. Photographs will be forthcoming (defined as whenever I get around to gathering all the equipment necessary to download the photos to my laptop). My first trip, ever, to such a lovely, lively city and I had a lovely tour guide, in the guise of Lisa and her friend Glenn, to show me around.
Friday I took trip to the Art Institute of Chicago to view its beautiful (temporarily limited) collection of Impressionists paintings. I sat in front of Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte and listened to my thoughts bounce from the song Sunday in the Park with George to The Simpson's infamous interpretation of the same painting. I wandered through the other galleries to take some photographs.
I met up with Lisa and Glenn (at the Bean, natch) for dinner at Taste of Chicago and some blues. Saturday was some work in the morning for the failed job application, a trip to Shaler's for lunch, then off to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cubs.** More fighting the mob at Taste of Chicago (I blame Stevie Wonder) for dinner and the sounds of the Orchestra Baobab at the pavilion.
Sunday was sleep, more writing, a plane ride home and the aforementioned late night.
*In all seriousness. He had a stroke last year and has gone from friendly control freak to petty and mean spirited.
**First time in recent memory that I actually saw a competitive baseball game.
Hobbled (literally, I could barely walk for several days) two weeks ago after a 20 mile bike ride by a massive, multi-day muscle spasm that pushed on the sciatic nerve, I was forced to stop exercising, pop ibuprofen and pray for relief from the pain. One of our friends, a licensed, non-practicing PT, was kind enough to run an ultrasound on the affected muscle, which bought me much needed relief and a very good, albeit embarrassing story, to share within our circle of acquaintances.
My self-esteem has taken a small beating as a potential job dematerialized after three intensive interviews. Asked to submit a technical writing sample “with some length” I spent part of my weekend holiday and late into the wee hours of Sunday crafting a sample that was non-proprietary. I received an email Monday morning that the potential employer would contact me shortly to set up a final interview – then nothing. Apparently my carefully crafted sample was a resounding disaster.
Normally I would not think too much of it. But emotionally vulnerable, weary of the various layers of crap at my current place of employment and simple physical tiredness have taken its toll on my psyche. Mysteriously vague emails from J were not reassuring. I returned home cranky and moody to discover J experiencing the same level of negativity as myself, without the spectator of depression hanging over his head.
It has been quiet for too long, which is the only reason I can come up with for J's father calling him before eight AM to complain that I had not yet send a thank-you note for my birthday gifts or for my in-laws attendance at the non-birthday party, held on my birthday, at my parents home ten days ago.
The party which was held in honor of my twin brother making it halfway through his second tour in the service of Operation-Whatever-the-Hell-the-Shrub-is-Calling-it-Now. My mother deliberately withheld the information that it was our birthday from the guests. Some knew, most did not. One friend, upon learning that it was our birthday, asked my mother why she had not mentioned it.
In turn, my mother chastised me for “asking for gifts” and said that I was too old to be behaving like that. As all I had done was tell the friend that I had spent the prior day celebrating early with J and some close friends, I found the conversation a tad bewildering. Later that evening she also told me that my shorts were ugly.
And she wonders why I don't come home much.
As I had not wanted anything to do with the party and only changed plans to make my parents happy, J knew that this complaint would make me irate. His attempt to withhold information about the conversation from me was an admirable, but unachievable goal when both of us are equally at odds with the universe. After venting my displeasure and suggesting that J's father needed to have his head examined* I pulled out the cards (as I had intended to write notes to everyone that week) and wrote out a thank you.
I realized after I sealed the envelope that I forgot to mention one of the gifts. No doubt he will be happy to have the additional ammunition in his next round of complaints about me.
Is it ironic that a thank you note from one of J's second cousins, for the graduation gift we gave to her four weeks ago, was in the mail today?
On the upside I spent this past weekend in Chicago. Photographs will be forthcoming (defined as whenever I get around to gathering all the equipment necessary to download the photos to my laptop). My first trip, ever, to such a lovely, lively city and I had a lovely tour guide, in the guise of Lisa and her friend Glenn, to show me around.
Friday I took trip to the Art Institute of Chicago to view its beautiful (temporarily limited) collection of Impressionists paintings. I sat in front of Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte and listened to my thoughts bounce from the song Sunday in the Park with George to The Simpson's infamous interpretation of the same painting. I wandered through the other galleries to take some photographs.
I met up with Lisa and Glenn (at the Bean, natch) for dinner at Taste of Chicago and some blues. Saturday was some work in the morning for the failed job application, a trip to Shaler's for lunch, then off to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cubs.** More fighting the mob at Taste of Chicago (I blame Stevie Wonder) for dinner and the sounds of the Orchestra Baobab at the pavilion.
Sunday was sleep, more writing, a plane ride home and the aforementioned late night.
*In all seriousness. He had a stroke last year and has gone from friendly control freak to petty and mean spirited.
**First time in recent memory that I actually saw a competitive baseball game.
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