I sent it where?

Considering I've only ever had two packages get lost in the mail (knock on wood), one coming and one going, I've had pretty good luck with the Postal Service.

At least, with stuff I would blame them for.

On the other hand, I don't always have the best luck with mail when it ISN'T the fault of those fine, heavily armed men and women in blue.

Today, I'm wearing a sweater/sweatshirt thing my parents brought me back from Alaska, cheerfully emblazoned "AK - Alaska."

It's probably their way of reminding me of my postal misadventures.

When I was a college senior, I was applying for jobs in journalism just about everywhere.

I got one offer. About three weeks before graduation. And seeing as how I was supposed to get married back then, I took it immediately.

"Don't you want to know what it pays?" the Easton Express-Times' news editor asked.

"No. That's OK. I'll take it."

"Are you sure."

"Well, why don't you tell me."

He told me. It wasn't much.

"OK," I said, "I'll take it."

"You don't want to think about it at all?"

"Well, OK, let me think about for a couple of days, then I'll call you back and say yes."

I hope this gives you some idea how desperate I was... a would-be sportswriter winding up on a news copy desk.

Anyway, I'd sent out another resume, earlier in the process, to a place whose ad for a sports-desk-of-one described it as "Ketchikan, AK."

How bad could it be to work in Arkansas, I figured. Yeah, it's the Deep South, but hey, a job's a job.

About three days after I put it in the mail, it dawned on me that "AK" isn't the postal code for Arkansas.

Michelle was aghast. "You applied WHERE?"

My father gleefully informed me Ketchikan, Alaska, gets more rain than Seattle, depends on the fish cannery for its industry and is on an island you have to get to by boat.

And wouldn't you know it, they called. Gave me a phone interview and everything.

I suspect one reason I didn't get the job was I wouldn't commit to three years there, which they were asking candidates to do. I offered two and a half years, the amount of time until Michelle was supposed to graduate from college.

They posted the ad again in six months. Guess whoever they hired didn't like the rain. Or thought they were headed to Arkansas.

Links:
• The United States Postal Service
• The Express-Times, which hired me
• Visit Ketchikan, AK. Bring an umbrella
• Arkansas, which, like Stewie, goes by "AR"

For the curious, the two packages I lost were a bunch of used DVDs I mailed to a reseller, which cost me about $125, and a cookbook my parents mailed to me, which had more sentimental value than monetary value and was easily and cheaply replaced via eBay.

Let it snow, yes or no?

So it finally snowed in New Jersey over the weekend, and it's apparently going to snow again tonight - which should make my drive home a living hell, as usual.

I have mixed feelings about snow.

On one hand, it's a royal pain in the ass to drive in. I paid extra for a FF car (that's front engine, front wheel drive, for you non-"Gran Turismo"-players) with antilock breaks and traction control in part because I was tired after years of sliding all over the road in my FR mini-Mustang.

But even that FF doesn't mean much in Jersey weather. It mostly means I can actually GET home, just slowly and at the cost of added white in my hair (and I don't mean snow or dandruff) and an increase in my blood pressure, which is otherwise doing quite nicely, thank you.

On the other hand, I don't mind the cold, and I don't mind being snowed on. I kind of enjoy it, if it's nice, fluffy snow or light flurries, and not that heavy, crappy kind.

And some of my fondest memories involve the snow in some way.

The first time I ever appeared in a newspaper wasn't a byline, in fact, it was a picture of me as a little tyke, crashing off my sled (one of those big red saucer-discs) on the hill across the street from my house. The one my mother always worried I'd go spinning off into the road.

I should say I only did once. And of course, it was right into the path of a car. Which, fortunately, was going slow enough to easily avoid a small bundled-up Asian and his out-of-control saucer.

My mother probably still has that newspaper clipping somewhere. (Hey, I was a cute little kid. No, I don't know what happened. Puberty, I suppose, which ruined my complexion, and Domino's, which went on the college meal plan and ruined my waistline.)

Then there was the freshman-year weekend, years later, with Michelle at college, the one and only time in my life I've ever REALLY been snowed in somewhere. That was when I learned that the warmth of holding someone you love close to you is the single best feeling in the world. Yes, better than being drunk. Better than sex. Better than victory. No matter what parts of our relationship can and should fade, I can still feel the warmth of her body curled up against mine, the smoothness of her skin. Curled up on some cheap-ass dorm bunk, watching the snow fall through this tiny little window, just in love and never wanting to let go.

Another snow day in college was a Sunday during my freshman year. I worked at the school paper, a weekly, and we did our production on Sunday. One of the deals we had was with Papa John's, which brought us pizza in exchange for ad space. A great deal, except the weekend they brought 10 Hawaiian pizzas (ham and pineapple, if you've never tried it, and I recommend you never do). Ick.

But anyway, that weekend, Papa John's wasn't delivering. I don't blame them. There was probably a foot of snow on the ground - remember, in Pittsburgh, it's always raining. Lower the temperature, and presto!

So Chris Restifo and I drew the task of wading to the only place that was open, the Subway on Craig Street, about a half-mile away. A breeze in the spring. Not so much in the summer. Chris had quit the fraternity I had joined, years earlier, so I didn't know him well, and most of what I knew I'd heard third-hand, in a negative way. But I liked him, and we really had a sort of bonding experience on the trip. Was nice to get to know someone and be pleasantly surprised. And Lord, whomping through that snow may be as close to polar exploration as I ever get. Though I hope not.

And that makes me think we could've used some dog sleds, but that's not the point.

Speaking of dogs, this brings me to one more fond snow memory, and it's a Morgan one.

Morgan, as I've mentioned, was a dachshund, and therefore what I'll charitably call low-slung. And he hated hated hated (to quote another low-slung kind of critter, Roger Ebert) to get his tummy wet.

So walking him in the snow or rain was an adventure. He never got very far and was eager to run for home. He could dodge puddles, and mostly stay out of wet grass, but in any snow more than about an inch and a half deep, he was in trouble.

So he'd hop. Like a bunny, with his back arched and tummy sucked in, back paws to front paws to back and so on, trying desperately and futily to stay dry.

(Is futily a word? I don't know and I don't edit on this blog. Futile-ly.)

And he actually would look miserable the whole while. Very expressive dog.

I still love to watch the snow fall. And I get a kick out of watching the guys who plow the driveways in my complex run their little Bobcat around, popping it in circles and stuff. Hey, I pay for that, and it keeps going up, so I'm entitled to watch and laugh. It so looks like a toy.

Well, I'll think happy thoughts about snow now. I'll be swearing at it in a few hours as I literally sweat my drive home, no matter the temperature.

Links:
• All About Snow
• Front-wheel drive vs. rear-wheel drive
• Why RWD beats FWD, an opinion piece
• Domino's Pizza
• Papa John's Pizza
• Carnegie Mellon...
• ... and its newspaper
• What Roger Ebert hates
• And something I hate

And yeah, I'm a cold-weather person. I'm surrounded by co-workers who are always cold, and I'm always hot. Hey, if you're cold, you can add layers. If you're hot, there's only so much you can take off, unless you're on a beach in France or at a nudist colony.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

In one of life's questionable ironies - questionable in terms of itself, and whether in fact it's ironic at all - I find myself cleaning up both before and after my cleaning ladies visit.

Yes, I pay someone to clean my house.

Two reasons: 1. I don't clean bathrooms. Ick. 2. I think cleaning is a job best handled by professionals, in terms of hygiene, actual cleaning, etc.

OK, three reasons: 3. Laziness.

In my (weak) defense, I do actually enjoy doing many household chores, including vacuuming. I just don't have the time, energy or real desire. Plus, like I said, there's something vaguely comforting about the thought that professionals are cleaning the house.

But that's not the point. The point is, I clean. Right before they arrive, and right after they leave. Which strikes me as odd.

Why before? Well, I am this sort of schizophrenic/bipolar slob/OCD person. Half my house has everything EXACTLY - and I mean EXACTLY - where I want it, and the other half is a raging mess.

So I clean up the messy part. Two reasons: 1. It's kind of embarrassing. Bad enough strangers see the bathroom - which is not disgusting or anything, but hardly a model of sparkly clean. But I don't need to be reminded of the pile of dishes in the sink, the empty cans/bottles on the counter instead of the recycling bin, etc. 2. I do this sort of sweep-and-clean mission about once a week anyway. No time like the present.

Why after? Well, that's the half for the OCD person, rather than the slob. Like I said, for some reason, I want some things right where they should be.

Part of me suspects it's because I'm generally depressingly disorganized, so I keep some stuff just so, so I can find it.

But I'm like this with everything. My day planner is a wild mass of lines, stuff scratched out, arrows, etc. On the other hand, I have a day planner I write so much crap in, I need lines, arrows and scratches to fit it all.

At work, when I book the section (lay it out), I've got a ton of papers scattered all over my desk. On the other hand, that's how I can tell what stories are in, what stories I need and what goes where.

I have three bookshelves' worth of books crammed full of paperbacks, hardbacks, trades, borrowed, owned (maybe even stolen?) in one room. And my LE hardbacks displayed lovingly between my monkey bookshelves on the coffee table. Big monkey sit. Little monkeys puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuullllllll!

Mind you, I also have one bookshelf full of Civil War books organized by subject, chronologically. See what I'm getting at?

Back a little closer to point, when the cleaning ladies leave (no, I don't really know their names. I know, that's terrible. But they're here once a month, very early in the morning, and they don't speak English very well and I don't speak Spanish, and I know that's not really an excuse, but the point is, we don't talk much other than "hi!" and "bye!" and "thanks!" and I'm sure they've told me and I've just forgotten - it used to be a different group every month, which didn't help, but these two have been my regular crew for a while now. I don't know if they know my name, either, except that it's probably on the appointment book, and on my check)... well, that really roamed far afield from cleaning into guilt.

When they leave, I clean. Because they move stuff around. I mean, they have to, it's not like it's their fault. But it's not quite where I want it, and sometimes it's not even close to where it was before they cleaned. It's not like I want my toothbrush exactly six centimeters from the sink in the master bathroom. But it would help if it's actually somewhere in the vague vicinity of the sink, since that's where I brush my teeth. Or you know, if they knock a piece off one of my various decorative toys, I put it back, so I don't lose it or it doesn't get vaccuumed next month.

On the other hand, I really have no excuse for why I move all the picture frames around and stuff after they go. I think it's just part of my chemical imbalance or something. Not that chemical imbalance, the other one.

Well, off to straighten up downstairs. And then, nap time. Did I mention they get here WAY too early in the morning?

Links:
• "Is Cleanliness Next to Godliness?," an article from Bible.org
• Maid For You, Bridgewater, N.J.

I've sat here for six minutes trying to think of something witty to write here. But I just keep yawning. Sorry.