The Potential of Paperforms

We bought a box of Paperforms at a cool design shop shortly after we moved here.  They've been sitting in the closet for a couple months, but I just saw a frozen yogurt shop that had used them to decorate an entire wall and it looked really cool.

Time to get moving with them.

The Paperforms are a creation of a local company called mio. You can read more about them and see the other designs here.  (This is one of several cool products they offer.)

(This is not a sponsored post, by the way.  I have no sponsored posts. Probably no one wants to sponsor a blog that only 8 or 10 of my friends and family read, ha ha!)

They're supposed to come 12 to a box, but somehow we got a baker's dozen plus a lagniappe in our box--14 tiles total.  I hope we have enough paint to cover them all.

Here's what they look like now. Will post another pic when we get them finished and installed.

Never Say Never: Observations from a Mid-Life Job Hunt

Hunting for jobs in my early 40s has not been a pleasant experience. When is job hunting ever a pleasant experience? Probably never. I recall it being pretty unpleasant when I was 22 years old and fresh out of college, too.

I'm starting to wonder if we shot ourselves in the foot not bringing a car to Philadelphia. The greater metro area isn't as well-served by public transportation as I expected. As I commented in an earlier entry, I've seen some great jobs for which I probably would have been a shoo-in (life insurance companies offering jobs almost exactly like what I did in my last two jobs at the insurance company), but they were out in suburbs that I can't access by public transportation. And even the suburbs that I can access, I kinda sorta don't want to. If I wanted to live downtown and have a lengthy commute to the suburbs for work every day, I would have stayed in Omaha. I'm not at the point yet where I'm so desperate for a job that I'll take something that involves a lengthy commute by train or bus, but if the time comes I certainly will do whatever is necessary. Never say never.

But ... here's to hoping that time doesn't come!

I feel a bit out of my element in today's job market. Friends who work where I used to work, take note: that place is not adequately training and preparing you for continued advancement in your career if you ever leave the company. Most of the places offering positions similar to what I did before also want someone who is a CPA, some even want a JD (yes! and they're not willing to pay any more than what I was paid!) or who is able to program and run their own reports in SQL or other database technologies. They'll want project-management experience in methodologies like Agile and Scrum, and maybe a PMP certification to boot. (Go look all that stuff up if you don't know what  it is. If you have a chance to get trained on any of it, DO IT!)

My four industry certifications and hard-won product and process experience are not as useful outside of the old workplace, and I find I'm having to market myself as a potential employee based on a lot of general skills that may have made up just a part of some of my previous jobs.

Something that has paid off in more ways that I can count: my job at the perfume website. First off, they just gave me a 25% raise.  :-)   Second, having visible proof that I am a published writer, that I have extensive editing experience, that I have basic HTML skills and CMS experience is proving more valuable than I would have guessed (for all kinds of occupations), and all I will say for now is that it is prompting some possible changes in career path for me that I wouldn't have been able to consider before. (Never say never!)

In an effort to increase my visibility as a job candidate, I've had to face the reality of today's tech-driven world. I'm networking on LinkedIn. (And you all should be doing this, too, if you're not already.)  I had previously thought Twitter was a waste of time, but now I have a Twitter account, which I'm not doing much with at the moment, but never say never! I tweet when I have a new story on the perfume site, when I come across something interesting to share or when I have good coupon codes for perfume shops. I troll Monster.com, Careerbuilder, Dice, MediaBistro, indeed.com, insurancejobs.com, Greatinsurancejobs.com and Craigslist every day for possible job leads. (Those merit their own entry one of these days, oy!)  I have specialized resumes prepared emphasizing my general business experience, my experience as a writer and in corporate communications and I can tweak either one to emphasize certain skills to better match a job posting. I have a series of cover letters that go with each one and are easily tweakable, too.

All of this was extremely difficult for me to do, being a humble Midwesterner and an Introvert--selling myself is not my strong point. But it's getting easier. Never say never!

My Favorite Things: "Phantom of the Paradise"

Welcome to another episode of My Favorite Things.

This week, I'll share a corny movie that many of you have probably not heard of and have never seen, even though it was written and directed by an esteemed and well-established Hollywood figure, Brian de Palma.

This film is "Phantom of the Paradise."  (It is available via Amazon Instant Video for those interested.)

I first caught this on cable sometime in the mid-1990s, when I was home from work with the flu. At the time, I thought I had vague memories of it from the 1970s--either on TV or from reading about it in a magazine, but I would have been young and certainly didn't recall most of it if I had in fact seen it.

I was struck immediately by the sets, costumes, music and gore, all of which are ridiculously over-the-top and were presumably meant to be that way.  (Or not? It was early in de Palma's film career.) It was all very 1970s tacky and was hopelessly out-of-date at the time I was watching it, even thought he 1970s were very much cycling back around in the 1990s, in terms of fashion and music influence.

The sets were decorated by a then-unknown Sissy Spacek, and the music--all written and mostly sung by Paul Williams, who also stars as the film's sex symbol [yes!] and bad guy--was nominated for an Oscar.  My favorite performance was Gerrit Graham as Beef, in a deliciously campy send-up of 1970s glam rockers.

I watched the movie repeatedly during the two months it ran on cable.  Then I forgot about it.

Then it made the rounds on cable again in the late 1990s, and my obsession was born. This time I shared it with a few others, some of whom agreed with me that it was a masterpiece of kitsch.  (Some found it boring and ridiculous, of course.)

A friend bought me my first VHS cassette of it in the early 2000s. It was one of the first DVD's I bought when we upgraded to the new technology. Another friend made me a copy of the soundtrack from Napster (the soundtrack was not available in the US at that time and was obtainable only as a very expensive Japanese import).

And upon surfing the web, I was delighted to discover I am not the only person who thinks this movie is fantastic. It is a "midnight movie" that plays in a lot of places (kind of like Rocky Horror Picture Show) and there are websites devoted to it, annual fan conventions, highly-detailed reconstructions of the Phantom costume for sale, etc.

I actually got a chance to see it in a theater at the Dundee when we lived in Omaha, where it played as a midnight movie in October 2007. To my surprise, Mr. 42 and I were NOT the only people in the theater. There was a reasonably-sized crowd in attendance, possibly because the movie stars and contains the music of Paul Williams, who was born and raised in a suburb of Omaha.

I will admit it looked a lot cheaper and cheesier on the big screen than on my TV, and the film reel they had was in pretty bad shape, but it was still fun to see it in its original format, with popcorn.

The pièce de resistance in my Phantom collection is the original movie poster from the 1970s release, which Mr. 42 found for me at an antique store that was going out of business. It was professionally framed and marked down from $179 to $139 in the close-out sale. That's probably more than I would have paid, but it was wonderful to receive such a thoughtfully-chosen gift, and its bright colors and cheesy graphics have graced the living rooms of four different apartments now.  

67 Days

It has been 67 days since Mr. 42 and I last drove a car, which was the date we arrived in Philly and returned the very expensive one-way rental Mitsubishi Gallant we drove here.

That is without a doubt the longest I have ever gone without driving a car since I got my learner's permit at age 15. (Technically speaking, I started driving at age 14--not uncommon for rural Nebraska, where many kids learned to drive at even younger ages if they grew up on farms, which I didn't.)

During these 67 days, we have used the "leather express" (aka our feet) to get almost everywhere. We rode in a taxi to and from the art museum, and that was the only time we've been inside a car since our move. We have only used the subway three times. We rode a bus to and from Ikea.

An ATC I made in 2010. Watercolor and ink on Yupo.

We thought we would be making more use of public transportation here (and we might, someday) but we've also been pleasantly surprised at how many of the things we need to go/do/see/buy are within walking distance. My definition of "walking distance" has expanded a bit, too. If it's within a 30 minute walk and it's not raining/snowing, it's worth the walk.  It is possibly worth the walk up to 45 minutes. If we're talking an hour or more away, we look for some other way to get there or we just don't go (King of Prussia Mall, I'm talking about you)!

The day we gave our car to my niece and her husband--just a couple days before we moved--was one of the happiest days of my life. I've never been one of those folks who regard cars as a status symbol (though I'm not judging those of you who are this way, and I acknowledge that having had constant access to a car or even multiple cars since age 15 puts me in a relatively privileged position to begin with). Once I began my lengthy commutes between Omaha and Lincoln, I came to view cars and driving not as a privilege, but instead as a necessary evil and a pain in the butt. I am so excited to finally be living somewhere that doesn't require you to have a car in order to complete the most basic tasks of life. (Omaha had a bus system, sure, but let's be honest--it sucked.)

Life without a car here has proven challenging in some regards, especially for buying groceries and job hunting. I've had to let several good opportunities slide because they're in a suburb of Philly that is not accessible by public transportation. Plus, I did the lengthy-commute-between-cities thing for five years and I'm not eager to repeat the experience anytime soon.

I am firmly convinced, though, that all this walking is improving my mental and physical health and will trim some pounds off me. Eventually. As soon as I learn to resist the Spanish fries with Whiz...

Sweet and Sour

Sour:  The three boxes that went missing in the move could not be found.  After extensive searches at both the point of origin and point of destination, the moving company has officially confirmed that they're lost.

They were unable to explain how or why the boxes the moving company packed themselves and labeled with a large label that had our last name and order number, as well as the little orange sticker with our lot number, and which were logged on their official inventory and bill of lading as both received and shipped, just disappeared. (They think it occurred in the Omaha warehouse somehow but no other details beyond that.)

Someone stole them? They accidentally got packed into somebody else's crate? Who knows? 

Sweet: We got our settlement from the moving company today. Apparently, they can put a value of some kind on things like pictures which have mostly sentimental value. Plus, we had a definite value on the more practical items like clothes, shoes, etc, that were lost. At this point, I've accepted that the photos are gone and that we can't get them back, and I'm just glad to have it over with. Things could certainly be worse. I'm counting my blessings. At least the two of us, our two cats and most of our things arrived safely in the move. At least Hurricane Sandy didn't wipe out the photos plus everything else we had and leave us shivering in a cold, dark, wet apartment for two weeks.  

Sour: I found out today a job I had applied for and been really hopeful about was given to someone else.

Sweet: A recruiter from the same company contacted me about another job opening they have, and while I'm not interested (it's in a different city and I'm in no hurry to repeat the move experience anytime soon), at least someone is noticing my resume and I have a contact in HR at that company now.

Sweet:  A surprise bottle of expensive and beautiful perfume arrived in the mail today.  (On top of the Tauer bottle that already arrived!)

Sweet and Sour: I ate a hot dog topped with baked apple slices and cheddar cheese for lunch.  ;-)

Sweet: It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Woo hoo! (This is the street our apartment overlooks.)

My Favorite Things: Blue Cat Painting

I just read the annual O The Oprah Magazine edition with "Oprah's Favorite Things."

Why do we care about Oprah's favorite things and how she found them? Most of them are things I can't afford, even if I like them (and there's an awful lot in it that I don't like. I mean, sure, if she wanted to give them to me it might be a different story ...)

I have a lot of my own favorite things already. Most of them were not expensive. Some were gifts. Some probably technically aren't "things" but I won't split hairs. I thought I would share them with you from time to time, and I would love to hear about your favorite things, too.

Here's an easy one that many of you have probably already seen, if you ever visited my house in Lincoln or any of my apartments in Omaha.

One of my favorite things is this Blue Cat Painting.  I informally refer to it as "Chess," sort of short for "Cheshire Cat," though this picture isn't exactly of the Cheshire Cat. Just a grinning cat, really.

I found him at an antique/craft mall on Cornhusker Highway in Lincoln back in 1997. He was $35. We had just bought our house and some new furniture to put in it, and we were pretty broke after that, but he was perfect for the decor in our guest bedroom and I couldn't get him out of my head.  We were getting ready for our house-warming party and I just knew I had to have him.  I emptied out my spare change jar, which had almost $30 in it, and scraped together a few more bucks to go get him.

(I put the change in my bank account and did NOT actually pay for him with the almost $30 in pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters, LOL!)

He was displayed in the bathroom at my three Omaha apartments, and is in the bathroom here in Philly as well. I had good luck finding a semi-matching shower curtain that further emphasizes his blueness.

Chess is large and heavy--2' by 3', professionally framed with a wooden frame and thick glass.  He is a watercolor painting with pen-and-ink details. Artist unknown. If it is signed, it's either on the back of the painting or under the frame where I can't see it. The bright blue frame is totally part of the painting's appeal for me. It matches the blue of the cat so perfectly.

The painting has just three colors in it, and most of the shadows and values are created by crosshatch lines. You can see some drips, streaks, brushmarks, etc. on him. The paper is not as white as it used to be, but the colors are still vivid.

I used to dislike the color blue, but this picture helped me learn to appreciate it, and I now have a number of blue things in my home, some of which you  may see in future editions of My Favorite Things.

Philly Fashion in Four Easy Pieces

Here's a totally frivolous entry free of kvetching about the move, free of politics, free of musings on my dying uncle, and free of hurricane-related humor and horrors.

One of the things I didn't like about Boston was the very "uptight" vibe that coursed through the city and even manifested in how people dressed. From the business formal attire (suits, hose, heels) of the company that interviewed me, to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts students who looked more like a J. Crew ad than art school students, I didn't see how I would fit in.

When we visited Philly last summer, we stayed in the business district, and all the ladies out on their smoke breaks and lunch breaks wore bare legs and comfy dress sandals or even flip-flops. We also happened to be a block or two from the Art Institute of Philadelphia, and day-glo hair, ripped tights, combat boots and the usual art-school drag were in full effect. I took all that as a sign that we were headed in the right direction.

In my 40s, I'm no longer comfortable dressing in garments that are too tight, too short or show too much cleavage/bare skin. Finding age-appropriate clothing is hard, but I'm not ready to resign myself to "Mom jeans" and white tennis shoes yet. Part of my wardrobe got lost in the move--shoes, belts, scarves, purses and clothing. I'm trying to put a positive spin on it and think of it as a chance to figure out how I want to dress.

I'll take a pass on one of Philly's most popular fashion trends--front thigh tattoos, which are about the last thing my dimply middle-aged thighs need--but I have enjoyed adopting these other Philly staples:

1) Skinny pants/leggings/jeggings--I had a couple of these in my wardrobe already, but have bought another pair since I moved here. Ross, Marshall's, H&M and Macy's all have plenty in all sizes and colors. (I always wear mine with a tunic or dress over them.)

2) Boots--Philadelphians wear boots, even in hot weather.   Short boots, tall boots. Cheap boots, fancy boots.  There's a strong preference for the cognac/tobacco/camel shades, but black and grey and any other colors are also acceptable. I had some great boots that got lost in the move, so I have treated myself to a couple new pairs, including the gorgeous brown leather beauties you see above. 

3)  Scarves--okay, those of you who know me know that I already love and wear scarves all the time. Some got lost in the move, but I've managed to hold my new acquisitions to just three so far, including this one. 

4) Zip hoodies--nothing ground-breaking here, but everyone has at least one of these, and they're a great equalizer. The ones from Old Navy look just like the ones from Gap or American Apparel.  (My hoodie is actually purple but I tinted the pic orange to match the other items in this entry.)

Now I just need an Eagles or Phillies or Sixers t-shirt and I'll look like a true Philadelphian.   

Famous Blue Raincoat

I have an uncle who is in very poor health, with multiple conditions:  pancreas removed several years ago, diabetes, COPD, amongst others. He takes more than 20 medications a day, and he's really been touch-and-go for the last year or so. He was previously rejected for a lung transplant due to his poor overall health, but he finally made small improvements over the summer, enough that a transplant center was willing to see him in October for a consultation on a possible lungs transplant.

He had several conditions which needed to be met in order for them to consider him a candidate: he needed to gain weight, he couldn't have any more blood clots and he could have no more hospitalizations for any condition before his appointment in October.

Unfortunately, he had another hospitalization in September, and between his medications and diabetes, he is unable to gain any weight. He went for the consultation anyway, but as you might imagine, he was rejected yet again. He's basically been sent home to live as long as he can in general failing health, or in other words, sent home to die.

I wonder what that feels like.   

We will all face this at some point, in either our loved ones or ourselves. After watching my mother-in-law and another uncle die slowly from cancer, I'm convinced that those of us who go quickly--in a heart attack, stroke or car accident where we don't know what hit us--are the lucky ones. I'm not even convinced that the short sharp shock of a sudden death is any more traumatic to our loved ones than watching us die slowly over weeks/months/years from a terminal illness. There is a different trauma that comes with watching someone you love suffer so long and knowing you can't do anything to change it.  

Those of you who know me also know that I am ever the eternal optimist--Pollyanna, even. I get sad or mad for a bit, but the setback or disappointment or traumatic event passes and I move on and look forward to the next good thing that is sure to come.

Those good things will end at some point.  

Whether we go quickly or linger for weeks/months/years with a terminal illness, there will come a day where we've seen our last sunrise or sunset. Drank our last coffee.  Eaten our last meal. Had our last kiss or hug or words with someone we care about. 

Is it better to know death is coming, and sooner rather than later? What about folks who know the date and even the time of their upcoming death, such as inmates on death row? Would I have the courage to decide the date and time myself if I were terminally ill and it became clear there was nothing else to be done except be kept comfortable and wait for nature to take its course? 

Food for thought after receiving the news about Uncle Mike, on a rainy Friday, while listening to Leonard Cohen.

A Life in Pictures

Can't sleep. The lost photos are driving me crazy.

I think of all the crap that made it here somehow and which we probably should have thrown away before we even moved, compared with the few things that got lost, and I'm disgusted.

Why didn't we bring the photos along with us in the car? I don't know, and yet I sort of do:

A. We weren't very organized the day the packers came, and they moved through the apartment very quickly. A living room, kitchen, dining room, bedroom, home office, three large closets and the contents of assorted shelves and storage areas were packed, very safely and efficiently, in less than two hours.

B. We had limited room in the car, and we knew we would already be taking all our important papers (due to risk of identity theft and/or for documentation purposes in case of tax audits, etc.), my jewelry (of which I have very little, believe it or not--just two small boxes), things that the movers wouldn't take like my perfume collection and acrylic paints, five days worth of clothes, the cats in their crates and the stuff we needed for them, plus the awful airbed and some bedding. There was no room to spare.

C. Frankly, it just didn't occur to us that anything would get lost. We expected some breakage, perhaps, so we opted for Full Value Protection of our goods, minus a small deductible, but we thought all of our boxes would make it there.

And of course, photos have really no dollar value, only their priceless sentimental value.

The photos were in two photo boxes which we stored in the closet that also contained the items in the lost boxes. We believe the photos are also in those lost boxes.

One framed photo of Mr. 42's dad was somehow in with our craft supplies, and we are thankful to have it.

I am sad to lose things like my photos from childhood, our wedding photos, pictures of pets we used to have, etc., but some of those things I can possibly get copies of from other family members. And those family members are still alive.

I am beyond sad about Mr. 42's photos. Both of his parents are deceased and the photos are all he had left of them. When we brought the photos back from Mother-in-Law's house after she passed, he went to great lengths to get them all sorted and organized and neatly boxed, etc. It meant a lot to him (and to me) to have those photos, and for reasons I won't go into here, we are not able to get any photos from his other family members, if they even have any.

We had very few photos of Mother-in-Law to begin with. Her family's house caught on fire when she was 14 years old.  She was very badly burned and her young boyfriend was actually killed in the fire trying to get her and her little brother out of the house. Most of her family's possessions were destroyed in the fire, including family photos. When we sorted through the pictures, we found no childhood pictures and just two photos of her from her youth, both taken in her mid-to-late teen years.

There were photos of her from Mr. 42's childhood, but not many. She disliked having her photo taken, and there were very few photos of her taken after she was in her 40s. We have had a digital camera for more than 10 years, but somehow we have no digital photos of her, so at this point, we have NO photos of her. Not a single one.

Well, what's done is done. Unless they can find the missing boxes (and I really don't care about the missing clothes and shoes at this point), we have to accept that the photos are gone. I am creating this blog entry as a last ditch missive to the universe, with hopes that some kind soul will find the missing boxes, or at least the photos, and return them to us. Universe, do you hear me?

Stress-Induced Blindness (and Stupidity)

It's starting to seem real, people. We'll be on the road in two days!

Stress is making us do dumb things.

Case in point: I was convinced the remote control for the parking garage was lost.  It wasn't in its usual spot in the middle of the visor on the passenger side.  It has a loose clip and it sometimes slides off and drops on the floor.  I had to take Boycat to the vet for shots this morning, and when I couldn't find the remote, I had to get out of the car and use the control panel inside the garage to raise the exit door.

I took a moment while in the parking lot at the vet's to tear the car apart and look for it, under seats, down between seats, under the floor mat, etc. No luck.  I figured it must have fallen out of the passenger side door and would be waiting in my parking stall. Hopefully I hadn't run over it.

"I'll call Mr. 42 and have him come down and let me in," I thought. Good plan, but I had forgotten my cell phone at home.  Oops.

Since I couldn't get back into the garage without my remote, I parked in a metered stall on the street and hustled my 18-lb. cat plus a bag of take-out food down the block. In pouring rain, of course.

Mr. 42 and I went back to the parking garage to see if the remote was there, hopefully intact but maybe in pieces? Nope.

I told him to go stand by the door and open it for me when I was close.

Mr. 42 went and stood by the EXIT door on the other side of the garage, rather than the entrance. Oops. He saw me at the other door and ran to let me in.

When I pulled in, he got in the car with me on the passenger side and said, "Look, it's right here."

The remote was on the visor.  It had slid all the way to the end, right by the door, but it was plainly visible (black against the light-colored interior of the car).

I just couldn't see it.

Oops.

Omaha Bucket List: FAIL!

As I noted yesterday, I was hoping to cross two items off the list on Thursday:  #5: Scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents and #6: Eat a Godfather's taco pizza.  

No prob on #6. Fail on #5.

The plan was to replicate a tradition in Mr. 42's family, during which they ate a meal at Godfather's, visited Fort Atkinson and then bought fireworks on their way home. Obviously, the fireworks part is not going to be possible in September, but we thought we could accomplish the other two things, with the main intent being to scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents at Fort Atkinson.

This didn't work out, for several reasons:

1: There is a question of legality regarding scattering ashes in a public place. It is possible we could have gotten caught and gotten in trouble, like a ticket for littering and maybe a fine or community service.

2: We actually opened up both containers, and there is more "ash" than we thought there would be. The internet indicates the average female leaves four lbs of ash, and the average male six lbs.  That's 10 lbs of ash, people, and also . .

(Skip the next two paragraphs if you're squeamish.) 

3: It's not actually ash. What's left after the cremation process is a dried pile of bones, which the crematorium then pulverizes for you in a special blender-like device, so that you have a much more compact pile of cremains that is uniform in consistency. Well, sort of, anyway. Mr. 42's dad was cremated in Colorado (where everything is inferior!) and had a lot more . . . um. . . bony chunks and chips in his container than Mr. 42's mom, who was properly cremated and processed here in Nebraska. It made me a bit weak in the knees to look at the cremains, actually. There is no way the 10 lb. pile of bony chunks and white bone powder could have been scatterable without being conspicuous. Some of it would have been too large to be dispersed by the wind.

*Also, side note: don't take the bag of ashes out of the container provided by the crematorium. The bony hunks in Mr. 42's dad's cremains tore little holes in the bag and we had a small mess on our hands. Ahem.

If you learn nothing else from reading these entries, I hope you will all consider what you might like to have done with your remains after you die, and will let your family know. I suggest also making it easy on them and NOT ask to be scattered someplace that will present logistical or legal difficulties, such as Memorial Stadium. How about someplace nice and personal like the garden in your own backyard? (To be fair, Mr. 42's parents did not request to be scattered any particular place. We thought it would be neat to scatter them at a state park they had enjoyed as a family, without realizing how impractical it would be. We brought this on ourselves, and it has made us think about what we want for our own final resting places.)

Both of us were sad that we could not accomplish #5 on the list, and it feels like we're leaving something undone, but it's not the end of the world. We will be taking Mr. 42's parents to Philadelphia with us. Mr. 42's dad actually loved to travel and would probably have enjoyed the trip. Mr. 42's mom was more of a homebody, but she loved being near her husband and son and would probably be happy to be on the trip for that reason. We'll figure out what to do with them once we get there, which may just be buying a fancy urn to keep them in, rather than trying to secretly scatter them somewhere meaningful but illegal, or paying hundreds of dollars to put them in a scattering garden or scatter them at sea in an official and legal manner.

Omaha Bucket List: Henry Doorly Zoo

We visited Henry Doorly Zoo for what is probably the last time yesterday.

Mr. 42 grew up in Omaha and visited more than me, but I had relatives here and visited several times throughout childhood. We also came together as adults, and with our niece and nephew. A visit to the zoo was also a highlight of the Nebraska stay of my former co-workers from India.

Voted the #1 Zoo on TripAdvisor.com, it is a delight any time of the year. Yesterday's cool temps made for a comfortable visit, though we could have done without the rain that kept us trapped in some indoor exhibits longer than we would have liked.  We also opted to skip some of the exhibits we had seen before (rainforest, butterfly pavillion, aquarium) in favor of seeing some other animals we liked more (apes and cats).

So . . . #4:  Visit the Henry Doorly Zoo.   Check!  Pics below.

Two more items to cross off the list, hopefully after today:  #5: Scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents and #6: Eat a Godfather's taco pizza.  These two things are related, though not in a gross way or any way that you might think.  If all goes well, I'll be back to explain tomorrow.

Running Total: Omaha Bucket List

Omaha Bucket List:

1.  Give notice at work.


Office, consider yourselves served.   ;-)   I gave notice today and decided to designate Sept. 7 as my last day.  I was afraid if I waited until Sept. 14 as originally planned, I wouldn't be giving myself enough time to sort through and organize my crap, and that I wouldn't have as much time to spend with friends and family as I wished.

So, one item down. (Many  more to go.)

Next up:

2.  Put in notice at the apartment complex.

(The office manager is a friend of ours and already knows what's going on. We just need to make it official and fill out their little form.) Mañana, my friends.

And I promise there are more fun things on the Omaha Bucket List than these "honey-do's." Case in point:

3.  Put on my dancing shoes and go dancing one last time with The Jade Dog. Also mañana. Can't wait!

Preparing to Purge

We had a moving company provide an estimate for our move last week.  Less than we budgeted for (hooray!) but still more than I was thinking it would be, based on my parents' recent move (we have much less stuff than them and we are moving it a shorter distance).  But it's a good estimate and we'll probably go with it.

Before they came, we went through each room of our small apartment and tagged the things we knew we would not be taking:  dining room table and chairs (we never really liked these and want a different set); wine rack; four pleather storage cubes that have been thoroughly "cattened" (i.e. marked and/or destroyed by cats who crawl, leap, scratch and bite objects and/or people with complete disregard for the object's value or the victim's well-being); a fold-down sofa and fold-down chair that made a great guest bed, also cattened (and while we're on the subject, Boy Cat and Girl Cat thoroughly cattened the carpet here, too.  We'll be shelling out big bucks to have it replaced when we leave.  Sigh.).

For example, the fold-down sofa (and this is a leather [albeit, cheap bonded leather] sofa we purchased new in 2011):

Culprit #2 confesses but is defiant and says he'd do it all again

Culprit #1 denies all involvement

Not tagged but also not being moved: assorted books; clothing; shoes; small appliances; dishes; cookware; non-perishable foodstuffs; cleaning supplies; possibly some jewelry, handbags and perfume; possibly the opened contents of the liquor cabinet unless we manage to drink it up before we move. (And we're workin' on it, trust me!)

We've promised some things to our niece and her husband already, and anything that's really trashed or not useful is going to be thrown away, of course.  (I will not be donating any 50-lb. broken TV's to the local homeless shelter or Goodwill.   Ask Bobbi or Chad how they feel about those.)

I plan to start putting up the other items for my friends' consideration on Facebook or this blog.  Let me know if you see something you want--first come, first served.    :-)

And don't feel obligated to take anything.  Mr. 42 and I have worked hard over the years to de-clutter our lives and I certainly don't want to create more clutter for anyone else.

Thoughts on Work

This is probably better suited to a longer post, but as I'm starting to job hunt in Philly, I'm reminded of how much I wish I had chosen more wisely when it comes to a career.

(That probably would have started with choosing differently in education, too, though I'm still a believer in education for education's sake, and not just to prepare you for a job.  Most people I know don't end up working in their field of study, or else they didn't study in the field they truly wanted to because they worried they wouldn't be able to make a living at it.  It's six of one, half a dozen of the other for most of us.)

I had a double major in college.  First, Women's Studies.  Then, in my junior year, when I had to designate a minor, I chose instead to designate a second major in English.

From my Paris trip: the Women in Art exhibit at Le Centre Pompidou, 2010.  (Go, Guerilla Girls!)

They are equally valuable, or should I say, have equally little value in my workplace, for the most part.  When people I casually meet ask me about my major, I generally say it was Women's Studies.  When potential employers ask me to list my major, I generally say English.

I really don't know what I thought I wanted to do with those majors.

(No, that's not true.  I do.  I wanted to write.  I still do.

That's one of those careers that many people can't make a living at, although I am actually getting paid for my writing and editing skills on the perfume website.  It just doesn't pay enough to live on at this point.  Someday it might.  A girl can dream.)

I ended up with my current employer kind of by accident.  I had no job to go to after graduation, and took a temp job just to start earning some money in the meantime.  The job market at that time was kind of like it is now--a shortage of jobs and too many candidates, and young college grads were having a tough time of it.  I secured a temp job (and my one and only temp assignment) at an insurance company that was experiencing tremendous growth.

My starting wage:  $5.17 an hour.  But there was a chance the job would lead to a permanent position, which it did just three months later. (Then, my starting wage as a permanent employee went up to $7.17 an hour.  Who can live on that?  I sure couldn't back in 1993, and minimum wage in 2012 isn't much more than that.)

The rest, as they say, is history.  After I was there for a bit, I started wanting (or thinking I should want) more money and more responsibility.  I wanted benefits and financial security for myself and Mr. 42.  I thought I wanted a career in the industry, a house and lots of other stuff that turned out to be NOT what I really wanted, upon further reflection (over a period of 19 years).

Until a few months ago, I even thought I wanted to take my current job with me when I move.  Now that I know I can't, I'm actually glad and looking forward to a fresh start, though I'm dismayed to find the jobs I'm researching and/or getting contacted by recruiters for are . . .

. . . in the same industry as I am now.

I tell myself it's just to get established in Philly.  It won't have to be permanent if I don't like it.  I can make a change.  (I just hope I remember that in a few months/years.)