The Long Road to Headmaster

I began my illustrious career in high school, working at the local Knights of Columbus. Catholic drinking clubs - gotta love that. After school each day, I'd walk the mile or so over to the KofC hall. My job was to clean up from the previous night's festivities, which generally involved lots of eating, drinking, smoking and billiards. (my job, that is, not the festivities - they were much worse) One of the tasks with which I was entrusted was restocking all the liquor.

You know, I generally don't use emoticons in my blog, but...


DAAAAAAAAMN!!!

I actually had a set of keys to the hall and the adjoining warehouse, which contained the liquor closet and dozens of kegs of beer. It also contained cartons upon cartons of cigarettes, and perhaps the largest selection of snacks and candies I have ever seen. And did I mention that I had a set of keys? And a car? And lots of friends?

I worked for my dad, who was the President of the club at the time. The thought of working for your dad invokes images of shared experiences, after-hours bonding and lots of time together. Or... not. In my case, not so much. It was veeeerrry tense. I mean, since he'd actually gotten me the job, the slightest slip-up on my part would mean shame and embarassment for him.

Uh, sorry 'bout that, Dad. heh, heh. I will eventually pay for all the damage.


So after what we'll call the "incident", I got a job at a local grocery store. My pay instantly doubled, and I had access to the second largest liquor, snack and candy stockpile I've ever seen. Not a bad trade-off. And since I worked some all-nighters, I had a set of keys to the store. Fortunately, I'd learned a valuable lesson from my previous experience. Never, ever invite friends.

I worked there for 10 years, until I was 27 years old, eventually reaching the lofty status of Assistant Store Manager. The glory was somewhat dimmed, however, by the fact that I had to wear a vest and a name badge. But hey, you take what you can get.


When the chain moved to New Jersey, I was in a panic for what to do. A friend suggested I come with him to take a programming entry test at the Computer Learning Center. And WOW, I passed! (buzz kill - shortly after graduation, I went to work as an instructor at said institution, and discovered the only thing the test is used for is to determine your ability to pay tuition).

For the next year I worked my regular full-time schedule of 48 hours per week (more if I could get them), and went to school nights and weekends. I absolutely loved it. One of the favorite times of my life. For one who'd only dreamed of college, this was close enough. At graduation, my instructor offered me a position at the actuarial firm where he worked his day job. He also got me the teaching gig back at the Computer Learning Center. I guess I must have done something right! A short time later, he came out of the closet in a BIG way, and professed his love for me. >>a-w-k-w-a-r-d<< Ok, so I realized that maybe I hadn't been the smartest person in my class after all.

Anyway, I worked there, in downtown DC, for 10 years, until I was 39. I became a project manager, but fell short of my goal to become a full consultant (actuarial term for "Partner", but without the high pay, equity stake, prestigious status, voting rights and lucrative perks normally associated with that term).

When the firm moved to Jacksonville (jeez, a person could get a complex), I declined their offer to relocate, and went to work for a dot-com software firm. Working on contract as software project manager for some local dot-com startups, I witnessed perhaps some of the most ridiculous business decisions imaginable - those were heady days indeed. As in, those dot-com guys all used to work in head shops.

This local firm I worked for was eventually purchased by west coast software giant, Commerce One. They bought us to build an army of road warriors to install their source-to-pay B2B platform. Sorry guys, I'm a lover, not a fighter. And they paid an exorbitant price - like, 20 times what we were worth. All the execs left within 6 months, taking their millions and heading for higher ground. We went out of business within a couple of years. Big surprise there.

Anyway, I left before they really hit freefall, and tried to start my own business by taking their biggest client. Yep, burned that bridge right to the ground. At any rate, it never panned out.

And so, here I am. Just look at me now.

I blog, therefore I am

There has been a great deal of discussion at the Academy lately, regarding blogging. As in, "Exactly how much time are you spending blogging each day?"

Point well-taken. At least, it is well-taken in theory - right after all the defensive yelling and screaming. But I can't argue with the fact that I'm spending way too much time on the computer. My adult daughter says "AHA! You're on the computer again!" at least 12 times per day. And the rebuttal that "I'm doing the bills" or "I'm working on the budget" only goes so far. I'm on the computer so much that I've had a couple of keyboard blowouts.

So why DO I blog so much? Because it makes me real. Without it, I'm toiling in obscurity, having no contact with the outside world. When I worked every day, I had that connection: dealing with conflict (REAL conflict - not the "someone stole my Power Ranger guy" conflict); using my brain to strategize things from budgeting to planning to staffing to fourth quarter revenue; being a part of a larger whole; putting my creativity into solutions to actual business problems; talking with other adults. Now that I'm home with the kids, I miss it.

Don't get me wrong - I certainly feel blessed to be doing what I am doing, and there is nothing quite like the satisfaction of watching the end-product of your labor, behaving like the angels you know they are (you know, the way I never behaved as a kid). But still, I don't feel whole. I don't feel accomplished.

Is that wrong?

So I blog. I put the stuff in my head down on paper - er, virtually speaking. Granted, when I look back at all the words, thoughts and pictures, it doesn't amount to a whole lot. Its like someone being obsessed with trivia - you know so many facts, but you can't function in normal society. In other words, there is still something missing. But I feel a whole lot better about it. I can deal. The real trick is finding that balance.

Which I haven't.

Yet.

Last election night, they had a television reporter stationed at a local bar that had been reserved for a blogging event. So let me paint for you the raucous scene in that bar: there are several dozen nerdy-looking people, all sitting alone in their chairs, each with their noses stuck in their laptops, keying away furiously. Oh dear God, don't ever let that be me.

I've posted 115 entries in the past three months - that's more than one per day. But that number doesn't tell the story. I swear I'm spending hours and hours a day on the computer. Writing is only a part of it. There's all that other time: uploading and fixing photos; reading and rereading what I've written, and then fixing it; thinking about what I'm going to write; researching things that I'm writing about; getting completely sidetracked while doing that research; checking other people's blogs to see if there is anything new; reading other people's blogs; commenting on other people's blogs; commenting on other people's comments in my blog; checking for other people's comments in my blog; checking to see if someone has commented on my comments in other people's blogs; emailing people offline about their blog; answering offline emails about my blog; sending people links to great blogs and blog entries; changing the links in my blog; checking the profiles of bloggers and commenters; and the MOTHER of all blog time-sinks ==> checking to see how many people are reading my blog. What, you don't have Statcounter? Ooh, do go get it! And then prepare your family for the loss. They'll get over you, eventually.

So actually, a more accurate title for this post might be: "You read my blog, therefore I am."

Hey, thanks for reading.

And speaking of Statcounter, today I got a visit from someone in Germany who had previously been visiting the following web page: http://porn####tv.blogspot.com/2006/12/100-european-####-jobs.html. Ticky-tacky. Ticky-tacky. OY! OY! OY! I can guarantee that blogger isn't getting anything done around the "haus".

I have SERIOUSLY got to clean up my act around here.

And get some hausverk done.

Getting Plastered

Times sure have changed. When I was 10 years old, I hooked up with some friends and we rode our bikes 8 miles or so, through town, to get some ice cream sundaes. I simply cannot imagine letting my 10 year-old do that. Is that wrong?

Anyway, one of these friends was John Morris. (side note: there are few names better suited for a New England accent - Jyawn Mwahris. Wicked pissah.) Jyawn had this wicked cool Schwinn bicycle called the Orange Krate. This bike was radical in its day (which timeframe I am not at liberty to disclose). It had so many features, that I used to drool over it. First, it was painted bright neon orange, it had a cool orange banana seat with racing stripe, and it had orange stripes on the tires. The rear tire itself was a super-wide racing slick, and the fenders were all chromed out.


The front tire was smaller than the rear tire. It extended out farther than other bikes, and the handlebars were very high - all in the style of Easy Rider (which I hear had been a very popular movie WAY before this timeframe). And this is the REALLY cool part - it had a "suicide shifter" mounted on the cross rail. What kid wouldn't have lusted after this machine? Can you imagine that bike selling today? That shifter has lawsuit written all over it. Nope, the only way to own this baby is to buy one on eBay. In excellent condition, this bike goes these days for about $1,800 U.S. Go ahead - you know you want it. Just click on the picture and bid with confidence.


Anyway, ice cream sundaes must have agreed with John, 'cuz on the way back he decided we'd switch bicycles. I took the wheel of his glorious bicycle, and tore off down this long, long hill, hand on the shifter and wind in my hair. Right into the grill of an oncoming car. Hey, it wasn't my fault! Really.

See, in New England, all the roads have "soft shoulders", meaning they are made of soft dirt. The 95 year-old woman at the wheel of the oncoming car kept inching me closer and closer to the shoulder - it was probably a result of that phenomenon where you tend to steer toward whatever it is you are looking at. She obviously was transfixed in her lust for the Orange Krate.

Once I hit that soft sand, the result was inevitable. I swerved out into the road, directly into the path of the car. The bicycle went under it, and I went over it. I landed, arms and hands outstretched behind me, directly on my face, which I used to paint the blacktop for a good couple of yards or so.

The next thing I remember is some woman mopping the blood off my face with what seemed like sandpaper - it was actually a beach towel full of sand. They held me down until the ambulance came. Everyone in the family agrees that the fifty-one stitches produced a vast improvement in profile.

I was told that the little white-haired driver stopped, got out, and surveyed the scene: twisted piece of orange metal; tires rolling down the hill; a body lying lifeless and bloody on the pavement; people racing over to help. Alas, it was all too much for the poor old girl. She got back into her car and floored it.

Using a tag number, the police eventually tracked her down and found her car - it was parked behind her house with some large tree branches draped over it. Granted, she shouldn't have been driving, but that poor, poor woman - I feel bad that the last years of her life were filled with what must have been terrible angst. At any rate, the court case didn't come up for a couple of years. We were living in Virginia at the time, and I had to fly up to Salem, Ma. to testify. She never made it to court that day - she'd passed away. I'll never forgive myself for the role I played in that.

That night, we sought to drown our depression - John and another buddy and I hung out front of Kappy's Liquors on Main Street in Haverhill, Ma., trying to spot someone cool. We were all of 13 years old. We managed to talk a guy into buying us a case of beer, which we consumed with great haste. I don't remember much after that.

Next morning, my brother-in-law arrived super early to pick me up and take me to help him with a side-job sanding wood floors in an apartment building. I will never, ever forget that morning. I've not gotten plastered since.

Well, that kind of plastered anyway. I did make some progress on the venetian plaster this evening. This is a very easy technique that anyone can do. Just be aware that there is no turning back - once you plaster the wall, the only way to get back to a smooth wall is to tear it all down and replace it.

So you begin by smearing joint compound randomly onto the wall, like this...


Work in small areas (say, 4x10), so it doesn't have time to dry. Next, you raise the grain of it with a cement or tile trowel, like this. You are simply pushing the trowel into the compound, and pulling it back off. This can be done very rapidly, 'cuz it doesn't have to be perfect...


What you end up with should look something like this:


Then you start smoothing it out with a 6 inch putty knife. This is called a "knock-down" process. In fact, you can buy knock-down kits, but I think they produce a finish that is too uniform. Anyway, you're just knocking the rough texture down.


Because you'd put the compound on randomly and in "splotches", what you end up with is an overall aged plaster look, like this....


Finally, after its all dry, you sand it lightly with a pole sander - you're just trying to remove any lines left by the putty knife, and make everything smooth.


To finish, you paint with primer, then paint with a base color - in this case, kind of a beige. Then you brush on a glaze, let it dry a little, then dab it off with cheesecloth. I don't have pics of the finish technique yet, but will post them when I do. It really isn't that difficult. The only difficult part is keeping the leading edge of your work wet - but that's the case with any faux finish. This just means you have to work quickly, and you can't stop.

Anyway, the finished wall will look like this. On this wall, you can see that by dragging the edge of my putty knife through the wet compound, I created some faux "cracks".


More info to come.....

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postscript - Hey John, if you're still out there, I never really thanked you for letting me destroy your new bike. It was wicked pissah!

Mascots Gone Wild

Mr. Whipple would be so proud of the Academy's mascot. But ok, this is a little wierd, even by my standards...

GWYR

We took a couple steps backward on our venetian plaster project today. Just as I was about to get started, I realized that the thermostat was located on the wall about to be plastered. hm. Those little voices that torment me said... "what if you ever want to MOVE that thermostat?" (ok, so I hear voices - hey, at least they're not telling me to shoot the cat. yet.) I realized instantly that I had to move the thermostat, just to make the voices go away.

So that's how I spent MY day today - moving Green, White, Yellow and Red across the hall.

The new location sits directly above one of the newly remodeled basement bedrooms. So I had to bust through the wall in the hallway, and bust through the downstairs bedroom ceiling. Its the ONLY unblemished, completely finished ceiling on the whole property! My 2YO granddaughter was not pleased. "Pop-pop, this is MY room! You aren't being very nice!"

Anyway, in spite of all the bitching and complaining, I finally got it moved, replaced and started back up. We have now brought the Academy's furnace into the digital age. And I patched the bedroom ceiling - after paint tomorrow, my granddaughter won't even know what happened. Unless the voices remind her.

And so the Academy's construction corollary remains intact: "The voices resist simplicity. Therefore, the simpler a project appears, the longer it will take".

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postscript - I am SO excited! I've had this new camera sitting in a cabinet for months now because I simply could NOT figure out how to make the macro function work. Since I broke my other camera during the course of this project (don't get me started), I had no choice but to sit down and figure it all out. Which I did. I LOVE this camera!

Hey Fadda, how's the Pasta?

Ah, Spaghetti Dinner at Queen of Apostles Church. I was too young to remember, but I always envision my father asking the question that titles this post. He pronounced "pasta" the way one might pronounce the word "mast", except with a "P" in the front, and an "A" on the end. Which is exactly how he would have pronounced the word "pastor" - one would not be able to discern any difference. Its one of those quaint New England oddities - you kinda have to know the context to understand which "pasta" is being discussed. Which makes dual-context situations like the one above so amusing. (hey, the winters there are loooong - you entertain yourself as best you can)

I'm in a mood to reflect on spirituality today, because a good friend who has an AWESOME blog, turned me onto another AWESOME blog. For one like myself who grew up Catholic and miserable, this guy gives me hope that its not all bad, bad, bad. I mean anyone who quotes the movie "The Big Lebowski" in the context of religious discussion is alright with me.

Anyway, later this month there is a big shindig at our church, St. Mark's in Highland. Its called the Boar's Head Dinner, and its a great opportunity to mingle and embrace the fellowship that comes with shared faith. I've thought about going, but probably will not. I suppose its not the noblest of motivations that draws me to the event. See, I'd simply like to approach the Rector, Rick Laribee, and ask him "Hey Recta, how's the pasta?"

I've posted about this before, but lemme just say that Rick is the cure for what ails me, spiritually. You know what I've observed about 99.9% of the people who choose religion as a profession? Their perspectives are whacked - they're totally in it for themselves. Most of them are there just to hear themselves speak. And We (the congregation) are merely props each Sunday to support them (the chosen ones) in their calling. We are there to help them in their quest to get closer to God. And we should always admire them and defer to them, since they are so much closer to God than us. And that, if you'll pardon me, is an ostensorium full of crap. And its a large part of what turns me off of religion.

One of the reasons I think this is such a whacked perspective is that us lay-folk are just a little busy most of the time. What with our careers and all. Not to mention kids, homes, marriages, etc. etc. Once a week, we go to church to put everything out of our minds and try to connect with our spirituality. So anytime I meet one of those 99-percentiles, I want to say "HEY! You live and work here! You get to do this all the time! On this one day, how about helping ME get closer to God?"

Rick does just that. After the 9:00 am service, all the kids go off to Sunday School, while the adults can choose to go back into the church and hear Rick's sermon. Sit in a clean, quiet place with other adults and NO kids? Sign me up for that. He doesn't give his sermon from the pulpit. He stands among us, looks us in the eye, and speaks directly to US. And what he says is nothing short of inspirational. He lives and breathes this stuff - LOVES IT as he likes to say - and derives a sincere joy in sharing it with you in a way that helps you to really, really understand, connect, and get your God on.

Still, if I'm being honest with myself, its the Headmistress that gets me into the pew each week. Why? 'Cuz I hasta.

---

The Saint Louis Catholic church is located near us, in Clarksville, Md. It has been under construction for as long as I've been here, which is a little more than a year now. There are construction trailers, construction trucks, and construction crews there 'round the clock. Yet, nothing ever seems to change.

Whiting-Turner is the engineering/construction firm doing the renovations. Partly because I have so little real work to do, and partly just because I was curious, I Google'd Whiting-Turner to find out the name of their CEO, Willard Hackerman. I then Google'd his name and "Catholic Church", and came up with an interesting connection with Cardinal William H. Keeler of Baltimore. Seems that the two are close friends. In fact, when Cardinal Keeler received Pope John Paul II on his visit to the States in 1995, he invited Hackerman, a practicing Jew, to bless the Pope in Hebrew. And Hackerman sits on the Executive Committee of the Catholic Charities of America's Capital Campaign, which Keeler chairs.

Its all very interesting, in a "don't have much else to do" kind of way. I had a funny thought that if one were to subscribe to this ridiculous "Christian" notion of a War on Christmas, I suppose one might think of the Whiting-Turner Construction Company as its "Haliburton". And Cardinal Keeler as its Dick Cheney.

Port Discovery

Today was the Columbia Homeschool Community's field trip to the Port Discovery museum in Baltimore. You can always tell a homeschool group gathering, 'cuz no one follows direction, and chaos rules. A good group for inspiring some offbeat photographs.

I didn't get to take that many, 'cuz you know, the Headmistress insists that I occasionally get engaged with the family. Geez, my thirty minutes at bedtime isn't enough?

Anyway, here are some photos from around the museum. The first two are self-portraits, of a fashion. One might be tempted to claim that the third is also. Of course, only if one were drawn to easy and completely obvious humor. The way the Headmistress is, for example.

(because it was overcast, and because I neglected to reset my white balance setting when I went outdoors, all my outdoor photos have a blue-ish tone)

Port Discovery, Family View

Ok, I did manage to take some photos of the fam. while we ate lunch at perhaps the worst restaurant in Baltimore. At least they served some amber beer on tap. And nothing says family, like photos that combine alcoholic beverages and kids, I always say.

So here are the Academy's kids, and grandkids...

OSHA Standards

OSHA sets standards for the use of Personal Protective Equipment, or PPE. These standards provide guidelines for employers to equip their workers with appropriate attire to safeguard against, and minimize exposure to, workplace hazards.

Here at the Academy, we are proud of our relationship with OSHA, and our strict adherence to these standards. Our motto is: "If you're going to work, you must wear appropriate PPE.

Mm hm.

Crave the Texture

A window frame at the Academy.

I love texture. Especially random, unpredictable texture. Its why I love jazz - real jazz - so much: its so random, so textured.

The great thing about texture is you can find it in the most unpredictable places. I can't wait to see what textures we can find at Port Discovery in Baltimore tomorrow.....

You think you bad? You ain't bad.

You think you done? You ain't done.

This morning the Headmistress announced that a french door must be installed to separate the dormitories from the public spaces in Residence Hall. So all that trash talking about git'n 'er done? Ha!

After she left for work, the Headmaster got busy making another pot of coffee to facilitate all the ranting. Then he got busy making more mess. You know, its a good thing she made this announcement before the plaster went up, 'cuz once that's done, there will be no changes - its permanent and unchangeable.

We didn't make a great deal of progress because of today's playgroup at the Dean's. And let me just say, the Headmistress there is none too pleased with my recent commitment to perform drywall services at the Clayton Academy. I seem to have a knack for pissing off Headmistresses.


Anyway, I managed to get the doorway framed, drywalled and ready for the pre-hung door unit. But we'll have to go to the appropriations committee to get that capital purchase approved (personally, I don't think the endowment will support it). Still, I've made sufficient progress to proceed with the venetian plaster finish.



But you know how nothing is ever easy? Especially here at the Academy? Well, in order to frame that door, I had to destroy this door. Which is fine, because this door was on the list as Headmaster Pet Peeve #3 - sliding closet doors. Hate 'em. Absolutely. So now I can frame a nice, hinged, 6-panel closet door there.

Another day.

Kids? What kids?

Its astonishing how the lines between upstairs/downstairs, this-room/that-room are becoming increasingly blurred around the Academy. I certainly won't walk around upstairs with a dress on anymore.


High on the list of things I really like is peace-and-quiet. Sitting in front of a computer screen listening to the soft, steady whirring of the hard drive is actually quite nice. Listening to four kids scream and fight over a Scrabble piece, not so much. Seven years with toddlers running around has failed to diminish my love of all things quiet - if anything, they have increased it. So one of my goals here is to be able to walk into any room, close the door, and not be able to hear the screaming, crying and fighting on the other side. Therefore, every single wall, floor and ceiling gets insulated for sound.

It is simply amazing what a few compressed glass fibers can do for your ears, and your sanity.