There are many things I hate about my job, but my commute is not one of them. I do not hate the traffic, because it prolongs the time I can spend facing south on I-5, looking at the Seattle skyline between the hills and trees.
If there is rain--and there usually is--the greys are varied and textured and have a depth that has less to do with distance and more to do with intensity. And on the days when it is not raining, and I take the curve onto the 520 bridge, the sun makes mist rise off the waters of Union Bay, and glares off of Lake Washington. On those days, I can see Mount Rainier past the I-90 bridge, and my rubber-necking has resulted in more than one frantic slamming of the brakes. I do not even mind that it's getting darker and darker in the mornings, because it just means that I can see the way each side of Lake Washington--one choppy and one calm--looks in the light as the season changes.
It's funny that of all places, this is where I feel most at home since moving back to the West Coast. This commute, this drive south and then east, this place inside a car with New Hampshire plates (not for long!) moving through space on the Seattle freeways. I may be struggling to find a place in this city that I thought was already my home, but I haven't seen views like these in years.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Horses, Carriages, and the Hidden Bottle of Fernet
This weekend, one of my best friends got married. When the bride & groom saw each other for the first time before the ceremony, the first thing Ari said to her almost-husband was "herro."
And it wasn't so much a big reveal as it was Brendan walking down the stairs to find Ari standing there, looking beautiful in her dress, laughing with her Nest.
Which is, incidentally, exactly how love works. There's no flashing lights or cameras or hullabaloo, no videographer zooming in on your ring finger; you find someone, standing just there, and there they are. To borrow a phrase from another Nestie, your soul settles around them, and that is all that matters.
And it wasn't so much a big reveal as it was Brendan walking down the stairs to find Ari standing there, looking beautiful in her dress, laughing with her Nest.
Which is, incidentally, exactly how love works. There's no flashing lights or cameras or hullabaloo, no videographer zooming in on your ring finger; you find someone, standing just there, and there they are. To borrow a phrase from another Nestie, your soul settles around them, and that is all that matters.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Hoarders
Last night, when driving to Patrick's apartment after playing hooky from one of my jobs (hey, a girl who skipped a total of one class in graduate school AND college has the right to play a little hooky from one of her three dead end jobs, alright?), Jack Johnson's "Flake" came on the radio. Instead of changing the channel like a normal person in the year 2011 would, I kept it on, and--yes I will admit this--sang along. It's a hard soul that can resist the line I know she loves the sunrise; no longer sees it with her sleeping eyes.
I thought about Jack Johnson, about how ten years ago I was listening to this song--on the radio, in my CD player while I walked to the bus stop, on the bus in the early morning rides to junior high and high school. I still have that Jack Johnson CD on my computer, an album among the hundreds of albums I have taking up space on my hard drive. How long has it been since I've listened to it? Or to Blink 182, or Oren Lavie?
Growing up, we had a neighbor named Mrs. Kelly, who kept dozens of cats, had a six acre garden, and a house full of stacks of newspapers, bags of Goodwill finds, boxes and boxes of junk and styrofoam containers, and crates of dried up soda. My grandmother, two houses down, was the same way, and the remnants of her penchant for antique kitchen items could be seen on the walls of my childhood home--though my father and mother did clean out her stash of used napkins before moving in. I know many people with grandparents who are this way; Patrick says that each time he visits his grandfather's house he moves around jugs of old water that his granddad refuses to get rid of.
But me? Jack Johnson, Matchbox 20, that one Bob Marley album we all loved as teenagers: these are the things I keep. While a data mp3 file may take up much less space than all the Readers' Digest issues from 1971-1977, I think the sentiment still comes from the same place.
I thought about Jack Johnson, about how ten years ago I was listening to this song--on the radio, in my CD player while I walked to the bus stop, on the bus in the early morning rides to junior high and high school. I still have that Jack Johnson CD on my computer, an album among the hundreds of albums I have taking up space on my hard drive. How long has it been since I've listened to it? Or to Blink 182, or Oren Lavie?
Growing up, we had a neighbor named Mrs. Kelly, who kept dozens of cats, had a six acre garden, and a house full of stacks of newspapers, bags of Goodwill finds, boxes and boxes of junk and styrofoam containers, and crates of dried up soda. My grandmother, two houses down, was the same way, and the remnants of her penchant for antique kitchen items could be seen on the walls of my childhood home--though my father and mother did clean out her stash of used napkins before moving in. I know many people with grandparents who are this way; Patrick says that each time he visits his grandfather's house he moves around jugs of old water that his granddad refuses to get rid of.
But me? Jack Johnson, Matchbox 20, that one Bob Marley album we all loved as teenagers: these are the things I keep. While a data mp3 file may take up much less space than all the Readers' Digest issues from 1971-1977, I think the sentiment still comes from the same place.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Motivation
I work for an insurance underwriting firm. Now, I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I trust that the insurance agents and underwriters I work with do, so I'm not too worried about it.
I answered the phone at work this afternoon, and the caller asked for someone who will be out of the office for quite some time. When I asked if there was someone else I could connect him to, I followed with,
"What is your question concerning?"
His reply was "Underwriting."
I mean, of course. Underwriting. I should have known.
If there's one thing I've learned in the past few weeks, it's that this in-between time is hard. It is hard to wait patiently, to pay bills in a timely fashion, to work three jobs--not one of which is at all close to what you want to be doing with your life.
But if there's a second thing that I've learned in the past few weeks, it's that working in an insurance underwriting firm can really motivate you to research new career opportunities and PhD schools.
I answered the phone at work this afternoon, and the caller asked for someone who will be out of the office for quite some time. When I asked if there was someone else I could connect him to, I followed with,
"What is your question concerning?"
His reply was "Underwriting."
I mean, of course. Underwriting. I should have known.
If there's one thing I've learned in the past few weeks, it's that this in-between time is hard. It is hard to wait patiently, to pay bills in a timely fashion, to work three jobs--not one of which is at all close to what you want to be doing with your life.
But if there's a second thing that I've learned in the past few weeks, it's that working in an insurance underwriting firm can really motivate you to research new career opportunities and PhD schools.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)