The Stress and Pleasure of Not Knowing Where You Are

Not knowing where you are and how to get to where you want to be can be stressful. 

Even in a well-mapped city in the era of smartphones with readily available maps, it’s sometimes hard to know the best way to get from one place to the next. I was once a passenger in a car in which the driver was following audio directions from an online map on a cell phone. The phone was supposed to be tracking the driver’s location, and provided comments like “In 100 feet, turn left.” As we approached the end of a small road along the river, the phone confidently told us to turn left. It was trying to get us to turn directly into the river. 

Unable to tell that we were not on the bridge system overhead but had somehow gotten ourselves onto a little-used access road alongside a river, our up-to-date app-driven big-brother spying phone wanted us dead, or at least embarrassed. 

This is what happens when you explore.

It’s different when taking a walk. You find yourself in a subway system trying to figure out which red line train to get on when they’re both going the same direction and half the stations are closed for construction. You find yourself trying to figure out whether you want to be on the southwest or the northwest corner of an intersection as you struggle against the knowledgeable crowds towards the real world above. 

But the stress of not knowing comes with the pleasure of not knowing. In a new place, the everyday mundane annoyances of a commute, or the predictable walk from A to B, become explorations, and you have to not know to get the full benefits.  

These characters were fun to stumble upon.

Taking a walk in a new neighborhood or city is an experience to savor. Turning a corner and seeing two larger than life mural characters crossing a bright orange background— that’s fun. Turning a corner after walking between tall buildings for blocks and suddenly seeing everything open before you because you’ve reached a bay—that’s a view anyone can enjoy, but it’s a true delight when you have no expectation of the expanse. 

That is a pleasure reserved for those who don’t know quite where they are.

The Top Five Reasons not to Call an Agenda-free Meeting

Meetings can be useful and essential and even inspiring. They can also be a tremendous waste of time and energy. Harvard Business Review has a handy calculator that helps determine the cost of a meeting. This calculator addresses time spent and the cost to a business based on how much the attendees are paid.

It’s a good start, but it doesn’t address the annoyance cost of the agenda-free meeting.

1. Meetings are not inherently useful. That means they need to have a purpose.

2. Share that purpose with others. Otherwise, it looks like power tripping because . . .

3. The person who called the meeting inevitably has an agenda.

4. Secret agendas are annoying at best. They can also be threatening.

5. Meetings are not inherently useful, and worse, they can be really inefficient and frustrating. Not telling people why they are coming to a meeting increases your chances of an inefficient and frustrating meeting.

Multiply the length of the meeting by the number of people attending to get a rough estimate of the time cost.

PS Telling people you want to “gather information” with no additional detail is not an agenda, but it’s something.

Hendrick’s Gin Really Does Taste Like Rose and Cucumber

I was at the grocery store the other night for a little fun family outing. It was pretty late, so I thought the in-grocery liquor store was closed, but it was not, and I ended up getting my first bottle of Hendrick’s. 

Somehow I had never knowingly tasted Hendrick’s. And for some reason I did not believe that it would actually taste like cucumber and rose. It does, and it is delicious. It is a great warm weather gin, refreshing, and delightful on ice. Or in chilly weather, it exists as a respite from pumpkin spice.  Despite its light flavors, this gin tasted strong— stronger than it is. 

My tasting notes:

Clear, oh my goodness this actually tastes like cucumber. I taste the rose too— slightly floral but nothing outrageous. This is still a gin. On first tasting Hendrick’s, I was so amazed that it tasted like what it was supposed to taste like, that I was unable to focus properly on other flavors. 

I started with a G&T, which I of course liked, as I like G&Ts. I do not think that a G&T is the best use for this gin, though. I like it better as a simple martini (even without the bitters) or as a fizz with a bit of citrus, maybe a splash of simple syrup. It’s fun to play up the cucumber too, as in the fizz idea below. This is not quite a recipe. 

The Hendrick’s Cucumber Lime Fizz Idea 

2 oz Hendrick’s Gin

1/4-1/2 oz lime (to taste)

2 thin cucumber slices

1/2-1 oz simple syrup (optional, balance out your lime)

2 oz sparkling water

I’ll admit this is very tart without the simple syrup, but I like it that way, and it has a very clean and clear line. For people who like to squeeze citrus juice on everything, this is not a problem. It is fun. For people who detect the tiniest hint of citrus juice in a vinaigrette and wonder what went wrong, well. You know yourself, right? This is not for you. 

As for the range in lime juice, again, this is a decision you need to make for yourself if you’re following this idea. A recipe version would call for 1/2 oz lime juice and 1/2 oz simple syrup.

Robot Clothes

Robot in a window, Soho NYC

I have a great new business idea. Robot clothes. Here is the problem: All of the clothes are designed for humans—and they don’t even tend to fit very well. Imagine being a robot and needing a new outfit. Where would you go?

Walking along a crowded sidewalk in the cold, I suddenly realized that I had just walked past a robot in a store window. I backtracked and took a photo for my kids. When I showed them, they were excited. “Did you get one!?” they asked. This robot was larger than human sized and decorative, I said. They waited fairly patiently for more. They clearly wanted me to explain why I had not gotten it anyway.

“It wasn’t a robot store,” I tried again. “It was a clothing store.”

“Did it have robot clothes!?!” They asked. Now they were excited. The logic was definitely there.

It never occurred to me to open a store for robot attire. I am a boring adult, but I’m trying to do better.

Ambivalent Recommendation—Masie Dobbs: A book review

I put Jacqueline Winspear’s Masie Dobbs (published in 2003), the first novel in a series featuring psychologist and investigator Masie Dobbs, on my reading list on the strength of a recommendation card at my local bookstore. I am always on the lookout for a good mystery, especially a good mystery series. 

When I read a mystery, I want to relax, and there is nothing more relaxing than being able to just pick up another book in a series, knowing the world, knowing the perimeters, knowing what will be expected of me as I spend some time with a familiar character. So part of the appeal is that Winspear has published a long series. Seeing that someone has published 15 since 2003 however, also fills me with apprehension. Is the writing going to be annoyingly bad? Is the plotting going to be sloppy? Is this book going to be worth reading for me? 

So I started reading Winspear’s first book with some hope but also perfectly ready to set it aside never to be picked up again. What made me commit was the homage to PD James’ Cordelia Grey series. Less well-known than her series featuring detective Adam Dalgliesh, the Cordelia Grey series is a favorite of mine. When Winspeare introduces Maisie Dobbs as she enters her new office and has a discussion about the hanging of her new name plate, the reference to Grey is unmistakable. The parallel extends: Masie and Cordelia are both female investigators just setting off on her own, as the older men who trained them exit the scene. It was enough for me that Winspear clearly admires James, one of my personal favorite mystery writers— one so good that her characterization, scene-setting, and prose over-all transcends the genre to the point that I include her on my list of top writers. 

Winspear is not on that list. At times, as I read her first Masie Dobbs, I thought about stopping. I don’t read much historical fiction and don’t tend to enjoy it all that much, so the substantial elements of historical fiction didn’t work as well for me as they would for some readers.

The particular form that the sentimentality and over-wrought tendencies of historical fiction takes in the Masie Dobbs series may be deduced from the time period (between the wars) and the fact that Masie, as she often points out, was a nurse in France in WWI. This is a mystery set in the golden age of detective fiction, and that means tea and trains, class warfare—of a fictionally smooth variety—and of course the legacy of WWI. Interestingly, while it is the tendency towards historical fiction that almost caused me to put the book aside, the interest in a different time and place (particularly one so central to a certain kind of detective fiction) is what made me finish the book and put number two on my list as well.

Dispatch 2 from a Novel Formerly Called Red State: Weekend Fiction

Dispatch 1

Introduction to the First Victim: Part II

The way the Commonwealth insisted that even gambling boats moored outside Cincinnati and Evansville were Commonwealth property. That was absurd too, and who benefited from that? People said it was good for the bottom line, but Plunkett felt that mutual promotion of gaming would make for better relationships with neighboring states to the north. Obviously. A Commonwealth Gaming Industry unhindered by corruption and stifling rules and partnering with Indiana and Ohio Gaming-- that would be good for everyone. He had tried to involve the new Secretary of Alcohol and Tobacco, too: Trade of bourbon should be opened, if not with Indiana, at least with Ohio. Small batch bourbon distillers should not be subject to impossibly high export taxes if they wanted to expand their markets beyond the Commonwealth. At the very least, the so-called tax trifecta situation, where both the mayors of  Covington and of Newport implemented-- or attempted to implement--taxation of exports to Cincinnati, and Cincinnati exacted tariffs on many goods, needed to be streamlined. But his counterpart at A and T had no desire to fix things, didn’t even seem to understand Plunkett’s careful explanations of what was wrong. Energy was beyond Plunkett’s interest, but he had attempted to sound out his counterpart on Energy as he sought to build support and been met with nothing but equivocation. 

Plunkett’s attempts to improve things were getting nowhere, and he was not recognized as significant in his own right. The work was disappointing. All he did was go to meetings arranged for him by his adjutant, a sharp-dressing youngster who was carefully deferential, but who possessed an alarming confidence and self-contained energy. 

He remembered the surge of triumph he had felt on the morning of his swearing in, the taste of success, the chance to implement his long-cherished dream of what Gaming could be. To become the Gaming Secretary had been a worthy ambition, one anyone had a right to be proud of achieving. He had dressed with care, with the help of his adjutant, and he knew he looked the part. He had been pleased then to have a former military man at his side, a man who knew his way around a razor and effortlessly selected the right socks for the suit.

 For the swearing in, and even into  the early days of his prominence, as he worked to avoid the mistakes he would have made as plain “Mr. Plunkett,” the grandson of a farmer. He had been grateful to have a military man assist him in his toilette. Now, he felt himself to be cowed by his adjutant. He had thought that, with time, he would gain sartorial confidence, and his adjutant would recognize that competence and find a new job. Then, too, Plunkett himself would know what to do in any situation. 

At first, when people came to him at cocktail parties with requests for favors -- special permits; exemptions; a faster, smoother route through the stifling bureaucracy and whatever arcane legislation stood in their way -- he found himself stumbling along, as unsure of himself as he had always been. He didn’t want to master the machinery of the bureaucracy. He just wanted it gone. Its machinery was stubborn. Well, Plunkett was stubborn too. And if he had been clueless and naive when he stepped into the role, he was no longer. 

Now, he would be wearing a beige and white seersucker suit, spit-polished spectators, and appropriately dashing pink bow-tie and matching socks. He was the gaming secretary, after all, and a bit of flair was just the ticket. He was no longer an imposter. He had picked out his own clothes, and he was learning what to say, who ought to be given special treatment, and who deserved to be left to muddle through paradoxical rules. 

Sometimes he thought his wife was right: He was a fool, in over his head. But he was catching on. Just because he liked a good time didn’t mean he was unable to figure out how things worked, he told himself. It was no accident of Fate that he was the Honorable Secretary of Gaming now. He finished his grits and mentally steeled himself for the arrival of his adjutant. It was an unreasonable hour. Why hadn’t he put his foot down and refused to be talked into this painfully early departure? It was definitely time for his adjutant to move along to a new client. 

Thus it was that his adjutant found Klair Plunkett in an unusually belligerent mood when he arrived at 5 am sharp. 

Nevertheless, being good at his job, he cajoled his reluctant charge and master onto the plane. The Tres Amigos were ready. After a pleasant evening of baseball and bourbon, they were going out to Central City to do a press conference. Flying over the horse fields, even Plunkett felt a sense of satisfaction. Take-off was smooth.  Once he had only dreamed of flying all across the Commonwealth from his Lexington home. Now, that dream was a reality. Here he was, up and flying, while lesser folks slept below him or blearily stumbled home from nights of debauchery he tried to convince himself held no appeal for him any longer. He fell asleep almost as soon as the plane reached its cruising altitude.

When Plunkett was awoken about forty minutes later, the fields and trees below were illuminated by a warm and delicate morning glow. For a moment, he felt the optimism of a new day, but then everything shuddered and a loud buzz filled the plane, which picked up speed. “Buckle up!” called the pilot, his voice tense and hard. 

“S____ ” muttered the adjutant. Plunkett looked up in alarm and the men met each other’s eyes. The usual curated expressions were wiped from their faces by the exigency of the situation. It gave Plunkett pause to see the man’s expression, eyes wide with a terror he could feel reflected on his own face. The adjutant was never alarmed. Things must be bad. 

There was a rumble. “Duck” someone yelled. As if that would help. “Impact in 6” said the pilot “prepare to brace” he added mechanically, certain that the angle was too steep for it to make any difference. 

Plunkett sat bolt upright, as he realized that none of the pilot’s adjustments were doing any good. They were going into the ground. He might be a pathetic gaming secretary and a weak man who would never achieve his dreams, but he would not duck like a coward. He looked out of the window at the cornfields and his eyes fixed on the green leaves on the corn stalks, bending in the breeze and reflecting the morning sun. Despite the icy sweat running down his back, he noticed that his skin felt uncomfortably hot, numb, tingly.

It was the last conscious thought of his life.

How minimalism is a consumerist menace

There is a problem with minimalism. It is most dramatically and publicly illustrated by Marie Kondo—top tidier—selling things on her web site. How does something as self-aware as minimalism; something as interested in eliminating excess, stuff, clutter, from our lives; something as interested in respect for things (central to Marie Kondo) become a tool for excess consumption? 

Packing for a trip always makes me feel the need to buy something. How does trying to choose just what I need for a weekend have the power to make me think that I don’t have enough stuff? And why does it seem that the further the trip, the more I need to bring? That might some sense for some trips—when you need to bring crucial or important items that are not available or are extremely expensive or hard to find at your destination. But I’m not logical about it.

A weekend in a city with virtually all of the stores and products I usually have available nevertheless fills me with the realization that  nothing I own is worth packing, or that I don’t have quite the right black sweater, despite having three. I fight an atypical urge to shop for clothes. 

It is impossible to choose exactly the right things for an unknown future, whether a weekend trip or the rest of my life. Which is fine, as long as the minimization doesn’t lead to unnecessary consumption, either in the form of panicked last-minute black sweater purchases or replacing perfectly useful and reasonably pleasing items because they don’t feel completely perfect all of the time.

I Made Two Rose Barrettes

Last week was Valentine’s Day, and I made each of my kids a ribbon rose barrette. I am not particularly good at sewing, but I know from experience that hot glue does not really work for this project. Besides, I’m not very good at hot glue either. So I got out my sewing kit and ribbon, told my kids I was working on a surprise, and asked them not to look. 

They did surprisingly well, even coming up to me multiple times to share stories, ask for things that were out of reach, and to seek conflict resolution support from me (which sounds quieter than it is), all while studiously ignoring what I was doing. I did not have quiet, uninterrupted time in which to focus on my ribbon rose project. I didn’t have time to re-do anything. If my thread snagged a corner of ribbon in the wrong place, and of course it did, I had to incorporate that particular unintended curl into my rose. If the medium-quality ribbon I had on hand pulled a bit creating a hole in the ribbon (because I am not good at sewing or because someone bumped my arm) as I attached it to the barrette, I had to add a few stitches. 

I like to do things well, but that’s not always practical. I asked myself why I was making these ribbon rose barrettes, when I could go buy something cheaper and / or better, maybe both. By the second rose, I was improving. Just think how much better they would be if I made a dozen. 

The two roses I had time to make are sweet, nevertheless, and the kids were delighted to see them on Valentine’s Day. Of course they were more delighted by the chocolate and the gummy hearts.

When a friend complimented me on them, I said, “Thanks, they’re adorable, but don’t look at the back. My sewing skills are terrible!” She didn’t reply with the obvious, “Oh, no one will look at the back.” She said something equally true and much more interesting: “The point is that you’re their mother and you took the time.” 

Taking the time to make is special, not less so at a time and place where anything can be ordered from Amazon for almost instant delivery, and anything not on Amazon is on Etsy. It is still valuable to make something, to pull the needle through the ribbon, to incorporate the accidental snag into the pattern of a uniquely imperfect rose.

Signs

It’s not just the signs, at The American Sign Museum. It’s the way they make you think. One thing they make you think about is neon.

Satellite shop sign

They also make you think about fonts.

Flour sign. Wait, is this a sign?

I’ve passed many signs for Rock City on road trips. Maybe one day…This is a fake barn non-sign sign.

Not at the sign museum, but is this a sign too?

After spending some time enjoying signs and thinking about things as signs, I started seeing signs everywhere. That’s a worthwhile exploration.