Buffalo Gal

Move It On Over

jgriggs@gmail.com — Fri, 2 May 08 11:32:00 UT

I'm not giving up this spot altogether, Journalspace and I have been through too much together...
But I am regularly posting in a new place www.judigriggs.com. If you are a subscriber here you might want to get the feed from that one..
Thanks!

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

making april

jgriggs@gmail.com — Fri, 2 May 08 11:31:00 UT

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

e.e. cummings

I'm not clever or deep enough to luxuriate in poetry. My words are simple tools in a battered box. I found the "i'm not sorry when the sun and rain make april" line on a rubber stamp in a craft shop -- and bought it because I thought it would go well with the photos of all the crazy color springing into my mystery garden.

I looked up the poem online and read it through a couple of times. Initially disgarding any personal relevance at the "far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities" - I am all about splendor, squalor and cities.

But the verses sprung whole to my mind as I walked out of the hospital Wednesday night. It was a hard visit. The shades were drawn and it was dark in Mom's room in every way. As each two-hour cycle of pain medication wound down, her body tensed and mouth twisted in silent screams. Even girded in gown and gloves, we're not allowed to touch her. You could speak, but the pain seemed to drown your words and with the medication came still slumber. If feelings had exponential value like numbers, this would be helpless to the ultimate degree.

Outside the too-slow revolving door exit to the parking lot, a small pack of tattooed tweakers took quick drags on cigarettes and spoke all at once in fragments. One was about to become a father, apparently within minutes. The sole female, possibly the sister of the girl in labor and delivery, make a weak case for him to go in and watch the birth of his son. But the guys supported Dad's inalienable right of neglect and agreed to go with him for a ride.

The Mom in me wanted to grab him by the ear, haul his skinny frame through the door and force him to accept a miracle. I knew I could carry him with ease, but I couldn't force anything else. I got in my car feeling sorry for the child with no choice but to enter this seamy chapter.

But people start with less and do more. They start with more and do less. I said a little prayer for the baby, turned on NPR and drove home.

"around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing"

Not Lassie

jgriggs@gmail.com — Tue, 22 Apr 08 06:53:00 UT

My Uncle Casey has a gorgeous Black Lab who washed out of service companion school for being too affectionate. Thus Augie is impeccably trained and super sweet. Augie could have tea with the Queen.
Cousin Craig has two brilliant hyperkinetic Border Collies who work with him in his Canada Geese removal business.(www.movetheflock.com)
My pal Steven has two sweet, stately greyhounds retired from earning big bucks as racers.
But my dog, Lily, SHE has a unique skill.
For the past week she's been in the charge of the lesser parent, the one who actually goes to work during the day and is not available to scratch her belly at will.
With each successive day Charlie has been travelling, it seems she spends the entire day practicing dejection and exploring new guilt buttons to push.
Thus, I have allowed her out of the crate during the day and even deigned to allow her to sleep with me instead of in the crate.
I'll admit, I'm a coward. For as long as I remember there have been monsters under my bed and yellow-eyed gargoyles in the closet. Add in the semi-rational fears associated with living in the heart of downtown and I appreciate sleeping with a large, retired cop.
Lily , with her wagging tail and nearly nonexistent bark, is not a reasonable substitute for that purpose, but at least she can cuddle up in the glow of the television.
The first night, I woke with a start to Lily standing on the edge of the bed, back fur straight up barking into the corner.
In one shaking motion to the nightstand, I grabbed the panic alarm button and my cell phone while I turned on the light. It revealed .... nothing.
Logically, I could see there was nothing there. The light revealed the cat sleeping soundly on the pillow. But my heart was beating so hard it was pushing my fillings out from the bottom.
I spent the rest of the night watching TV with the lights on. The next night she slept in her crate.
She was sleeping at my feet yesterday evening as I sat at my craft table experimenting with a new cardmaking technique. Suddenly, she scrambled to her feet and started to growl. Because of the nuance of color, my craft room is lit like an operating room. The ceilings are stark white. She was now barking, fur punked straight up along her backbone, at the corner opposite the door. Nothing human had entered the room.
Did my dog talk to spirits? I thought about how our deed went back to the first Mayor of Buffalo, of the wars fought on this space before and after it was tribal land. I wondered if cable might be interested in Ghost Whisperer meets Dog Whisperer. I was writing the pitch in my mind as she ran along the wall barking.
Then I spotted it. All of this furor was for a spider -- small, confused, insignificant arachnoid.
Lily doesn't bark at cats and rarely other dogs. She stood stunned the first time she ran into a bunny in the backyard. But spiders...
I told Craig he could now offer a subspeciality - removing Canada Geese and locating spiders.
He wasn't written back.
But, especially until Charlie gets back, Lily is available for night work.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

Voicemail violation

jgriggs@gmail.com — Mon, 21 Apr 08 19:06:00 UT

I despise voicemail.
Please give me a live person at the other end of the line. If that person is unclear as to what they want or need, I can ask them questions. I like listening to live people. Infinite, rambling voicemail messages give me the heaves.
If I ruled the world, all voicemails would be limited to 15 seconds - with no call backs allowed.
People would actually have to think before they spoke. That's why no one will put me in charge.
I have voicemail on my cell phone and on my office phone. As both are tied to my work I must check them, often retrieving multiple messages on an hourly basis. There's actually a counter display from my work phone which pops up on my computer screen and shows how many messages are coming in while I'm on a real call talking to a real person.
That's just cruel.
One of my favorite bosses went to a time management class where he learned that if you simply go directly to subordinate voicemail with instructions you can skip pleasantries, save time and get more work done.
While I otherwise love working for the guy, I haven't yet found the class to tell me how to get back the chunks of my day spent trying to find him at his desk to answer or clarify the myriad daily one-way requests.
The red light on my desk phone and audible reminder on my cell taunt me in tandem. They take turns pinging if I dare excuse myself to the restroom or run downstairs for a soda.
By the time I get home, I am simply voicemailed out. I rarely use our home phone and never learned the code to pick up messages there. That's Charlie's job... and Charlie has been travelling for nearly a week.
When I pick up the home receiver there's a Tommy Gun series of clicks before the dial tone that gets a little longer every day.
Ed McMahon comes to the front door with those big checks, and anyone else who really wants to talk to me knows my other numbers.
I'm not in the least bit curious about those clicks. Like a toddler, I can stamp my foot and tell voicemail that it is not the boss of me.
At least on that line.
For a few more days.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

Making money with my money

jgriggs@gmail.com — Sun, 20 Apr 08 09:35:00 UT

The notice did not come with the friendly phone call or even an instant email. It was one of those "this is official" mailings where you have to tear off three sides in the correct order to discover what is usually a check.
I didn't know why our bank might be sending us money, but we have been very good customers as of late. Maybe they saw all of the electronic transaction notes on our online account regarding the shower and wedding and are sending a gift...
"Transaction limitations under Federal Reserve Board Regulation D have been reached for this account. Pursuant to the "Schedule of Fees and Transaction Limitations" provided to you at account opening, if limits are exceeded, a $15 service charge wiill be assessed for each transaction over the limit. Please be advised that any account that exceeds the Regulation D transaction limitations during three (3) separate statement cycles may be closed. The three separate statement cycles do not have to be consecutive. "
Huh?
Checking out the Federal Reserve site and a half-dozen articles on my Regulation D-lemma, I discovered section D refers to the "reserve requirement of depository institions" - it was established in 1980 to assure funds are available in the event of a bank run.
But, the act entitles one to unlimited ATM or counter transactions, this applies to telephone,check and other transations from a savings account.
Now I'm really confused.
The amount withdrawn does not matter, it's a Rubik's cube of the number of transactions and how they were placed... created in a time before online banking was imagined. The rule specifically does not mandate bank charges for exceedng certain transaction number limits - only that the account must be closed if it happens three times. It allows charges for breaking the rule, but does not cap them.
Is this getting any clearer to you?
Several articles on the topic have Federal Reserve officials noting that this is an anachronism in these times of online banking, but legislation to change it has not made it to the floor.
Why not?
Could it possibly be that many financial institutions make more money from fees than by simply managing funds?
Tomorrow I will transfer our savings account to make it another checking account, doing my part to contribute to the negative savings rate in the United States today.
The rules around savings are a little too D-manding.

Stuck in the middle

jgriggs@gmail.com — Sat, 19 Apr 08 10:18:00 UT

I bought Jordan Zevon's debut on iTunes when it came out Tuesday. I didn't preview it and hadn't read any reviews, but I liked his cover of his father's "Studebaker" on the tribute album.
I figured it was the least I could do for Warren. As a parent with adult children, I like to think they'll be others looking after them when I'm gone.
It was a pleasant surprise to find the "album" is very good. More produced, poppy and playful than his father, but a distinct writing voice and clear comfort in playing with words.
It's been an ironic soundtrack for a week crowded with the issues of being the bologna of the sandwich generation.
My father is mobile, but his health hs been an increasing concern for several years. My mother has been in critical condition for almost two weeks now.
One daughter is getting married in a few weeks, the other is making choices for which she can't face her family. After years of guiding, directing and sometimes scolding... it's brutal to stand on the sidelines and force yourself to accept that the choices are hers alone.
I'm a baby boomer, the bully generation which has always had it our way. How can I be so ineffectual?
I can neither take credit for the joy of the coming wedding or blame for her sister's choices.
I made a poster with labelled photos of my father, brothers, our spouses and our children for the wall at t foot of my mother's bed. The nurses use it as a visual aid to keep their one-sided conversations going during dialysis and other longer bedside treatments. Other than hanging out, and lightly holding a hand that is too tender for any type of pressure or stroking, that's pretty much all I can do there.
You do what you can and wish it was more.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

Daffodils and scones

jgriggs@gmail.com — Fri, 18 Apr 08 07:27:00 UT

The greyer the winter, the longer the days seem to stretch to the cottage.
Like a schoolgirl, I click off calendar days until the summer. It's never been a question of escaping pencils and books (I've always liked both)but having the daily option of sitting on the porch and doing nothing but watch the water in the creek.
I don't really sit on the porch, Charlie does. But on a day when the wind chill hurts your face and cars are fishtailing all around you, the thought of sunlight reflecting off the water is a lifeline.
We're in the homestretch now, we'll probably be out there next weekend getting the place ready for the season. It's one of the only housekeeping tasks I actually enjoy.
We've been counting the days down to my daughter Jessica's wedding to Michael since he proposed last March. The various preparation milestones have been clicking past. We hosted a shower for her here just last week. Every time I talk to her, she reports how many more days until May 25. The anticipation is a delight in it's own right.
Charlie is currently driving her shower gifts to Texas and will stay with them a few days. I envy his front row seat to the excitement.
We bought this house in October, resplendent in fall blooms. Last night I noticed bright yellow preparing to escape the buds of a dozen new stalks in the yard.
I was awaken this morning when the doorbell rang. I couldn't imagine why I was hearing the chime at that hour.
My heart raced as I ran down the stairs, looked through the peephole and pulled the door open without noticing the alarm's warning beep.
There stood my neighbor with my newspaper and a foil package.
"Homemade scones," he said. "You might want to warm them up." In the yard, daffodils had emerged whole and perfect from the buds of last night.
Both the scones and the flowers were unexpected - and more wonderful for that reason.
I barely entered the alarm code in time to prevent having to share my scones with the responding officers.
I'm going to be a little late for work this morning.
Unexpected gifts like daffodils and scones deserve to be savored.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

Green paper

jgriggs@gmail.com — Thu, 17 Apr 08 15:09:00 UT

I have a bad paper habit - a papyrus monkey on my back.
It started with Big Chief tablets and quickly evolved to all variety (thin/narrow lines, 3- and 5- hole) notebook paper. By the time I was 12, I was quietly hording allowance to buy stationary.
I wrote to hundreds of potential pen pals whose addresses I found in the back of comic books, not to make international friends, but as an excuse to restock my stash.
Over the ensuing decades it came to the place where there is an entire room in my home- my favorite room - devoted strictly to papercrafts. It is the most organized room in the house (if only for the reason it allows me to fit more)and the inventory rivals a good-sized craft store. Let's just say that if we were ever snowed in for four months, I could complete a lifetime of cards for every occassion for everyone in my life without having to leave the room.
You say obsession. I say hobby.
Yet even I was caught off guard by the email from A.C. Moore (the Holy Spirit in my craft store trinity with JoAnn and Michael stores).
They are celebrating Earth Day with a huge sale. The first 100 customers will receive a 12" white scotch pine at every store. The sale items include plastic flowers, Floam (a chemically engineered crafting/ play substance with more toxins than your average Twinkie) and , of course, all kinds of paper products.
This is where the Prius-driving, earth-loving, protect the planet for my unborn grandchildren me should stand up and protest loudly. What an absurd,contradictory, blatant exploitation of an important ideal for commercial gain.
However, I they also included a 55 percent off coupon. I immediately printed several copies.
Sale starts Tuesday.
I haven't decided yet where I'll plant my tree.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

The daily miracle

jgriggs@gmail.com — Wed, 16 Apr 08 06:36:00 UT

Folks in the newspaper business call it the daily miracle. That all the information, argument, insanity and personality somehow come out in orderly columns every day is somewhat awe-inspiring.
I believed it too, until this past week.
It is a gargutuan effort to make a newspaper happen, especially in these days of shrinking newsholes and circulation, but in the end it's an exercise that is used to train puppies.
Working in an Intensive Care Unit, is a daily miracle.
Ostensibly I've spent many hours there recently visiting my mother, but it is the nature of critical illness that most of the visitor's time is spent waiting: for the doctors to finish, for Mom to complete a much-needed nap, for various procedures and housekeeping tasks. I've had a lot of watching time.
"Conversation" with Mom is limited to small nods, awkwardly mouthed syllables and weak squeezes of my hand as the various machines serve the steely function of keeping her alive so she can concentrate on the option of getting stronger.
In the first few days, my thoughts centered on Mom, my Dad, my brother. You're on high alert when you're there and jump out of your skin each time the phone rings when you are not.
But eventually things fall into a rhythm beat out by the steady cadence of the monitors. It's the 10th day now and my brother and I know most of the nurses by name.
There is a phalanx of physicians, each with a speciality and a exclusive focus on that aspect of the condition. They speak to the family only when you catch them.
Their hurried conversations range from the sugar-coated "Her kidneys are sleeping now" (as if a vital organ had been tucked-in with milk and cookies) to the extreme straight-talker my brother groused had seen too many episodes of House. I liked the "House" guy - his pronouncement was negative, but he gave us what he saw.
Many of the doctors focus solely on the Manhattan Phone Book that is her chart, writing copious notes and disappearing through side doors without ever making eye contact with anxious family.
"I am very important," their quick stride says. "I am not here to inform you. I am here to take care of my aspect of the complex case that you see as a human being."
But the nurses deal with the person patient and the family. Day and night, they are front and center in a situation where some of the patients will eventually be transferred to a medical floor, but most will not.
They see families at their best and worst - and patients primarily at their worst -- and deal with it every day, all the time.
Around the other patients, I've watched family members pick fights with nurses and accuse them of absurd nonsense, screaming and threatening.
I've cowered quietly watching how sharp and cruel grief and confusion can make people.
There's been a contingent of security on the door the last few days after a large family group decided to have a rowdy party, complete with alcohol, around their comatose patriarch... and then refused to leave.
Other families scream sadness in their silence, just catching their eye makes your heart hurt.
Eventually you recognize the various monitor alarms bleeting for a hurried response. Things usually just go to the edge of the cliff -- counting on the nurse to pull things back from the precipice. But sometimes the patient goes over and the nurses deal compassionately with family members who suddenly recognize they were not prepared for this possibility.
The room is cleaned and the bed crisply made within minutes after the still guerney leaves with the sheet pulled high. Often the room receives a new patient within hours.
And somehow the nurses start again with cheery introductions and positive pronouncements when that family arrives. They speak to the patients by name and learn the names of family too.
They know the odds are long that things will end well, but they give the patient and family all they have to give.
I don't know how they do it, but I am grateful.
They are a daily miracle.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

Personality plus

jgriggs@gmail.com — Tue, 15 Apr 08 07:20:00 UT

I took a personality test at work yesterday. Apparently, I still have one.
My first association with Herrs Myers and Briggs was back in Texas when a friend convinced me to attend a Christian Singles night at her church (approximately 40 older women, a buffet of colorful casseroles made primarily with jello and Cool Whip and about eight guys who looked petrified). We sat on folding chairs, balancing our fruit punch cups on our knees and revealed our true selves by filling in small blocks with a Number 2 pencil.
I was extremely concerned to learn that as an ENTJ I was the personality model of Jesus Christ himself. Aside from the obvious pressures associated with such a pronouncement (everyone from that point forward would likely expect me to bring the wine) I had a hard time imagining standardized testing in the bibical era. Did an HR consultant assemble the apostles?
I immediately reverted to meeting men in bars, thereby eliminating the WWJD issue entirely.
My next testing encounter was part of a creative group hug at an ad agency. It was all warm and fuzzy until they distributed everyone's results (in an effort for us all to understand and appreciate each other better, harmony and understanding, sympathy and trust abounding, no more falsehoods or derisions, golden living dreams and visions, mystic crystal revelations and the mind's true liberation... or some other song from Hair). Everyone else in my section, including the boss, had the same personality type. I did not.
While it did not state I was a pervert, axe murderer or bunny-hater - it may as well have. This was a matter of major concern to the boss who did not recognize that in seeking his approval some of the junior staff had actually copied answers from others (no sir, I don't have any personality, I borrowed hers...)
The suggestion that a variety of ways to approach an issue might be valuable fell on deaf, but uniform, ears. If he wanted diversity, he'd hire a Protestant.
I decided not to mention that I had it on good Texas Presbyterian authority that the Lord himself might not fit on this team.
Thus I approached yesterday with fear and loathing.
Over the years, I've apparently become an ESNTJ with an even split between Sensing and Intuitive questions. Had they uncovered a latent schizophrenia? I was realy going to miss my office with the window wall. I really liked working at this place. I thought about changing some answers, but pressed SEND anyway.
Thus far there hs been no pressure to conform or be a Savior.
But I can do it if they ask.
My test says I'm adaptable.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

Goosing the muse

jgriggs@gmail.com — Mon, 14 Apr 08 12:36:00 UT

My blog has degenerated to infrequent treacle. This is no way to treat an old friend.
It was there for me when I needed it, but I've callously set it aside.
My friend Mary (www.marykunzgoldman.com) just started her blog. It's bright, fresh and shiny. I'm jealous.
These days I write memos, emails and truncated updates typed with large thumbs on small keys. Only one correspondent, by the long shadow of his own literary accomplishment, forces me to even think about the words I dispense. I'm all about quantity these days-- copy decks, brand communication and such.
The muscle atrophies. My best work in the past year was likely a speech for an awards dinner - for someone else's award.
I could spin excuses for the next hour, but none would ring true.
The outline for Book Two is covered with computer cobwebs. It's written in Word 2003. I opened it the other day in my year-old Word 2007 program and it groaned. It's better than I remember - or maybe my standard has slipped that far.
I'm raining a tsunami of corporatespeak this week, but next week I'm going back to the book.
Yeah. Right.
I can soothe myself with the knowlege of how much I've learned in the past several years, how much richer and better observed today's tome will stand.
Then I read another stellar review of a 20-something wonderkid.
But maybe, with a little exercise and a strict avoidance of the sentimental and obvious, I can blog again.
Let's see what happens tomorrow.

Copyright 2008 Judi Griggs

The Sisterhood of the Scissors

jgriggs@gmail.com — Sun, 2 Mar 08 20:16:00 UT

I was never the sorority girl type. I was over 40 before I owned my first twinset and still don't have real pearls.
I have two brothers - both much younger than I - so the concept of sisterhood had about as much relevance to me as calculus.
But the Scrap Sisters happened anyway.
My cousin Cheryl brought me out to a full day scrapbooking event a few years back. I was ONLY indulging her, I couldn't imagine myself hanging with that many women - let alone spending hours cutting and pasting.
But the idea of pulling together all my years and years of photographs and telling our stories struck an instant nerve. I had recently been pretty ill and both my daughters were far away. It allowed me to hold on to something I needed at that time in the most basic way.
This was just being a magazine editor again, I rationalized. I'm no Martha Stewart and EVERYONE knew it. When Cheryl and I scrapped together, hours would disappear as we talked about family, work and the world as we knew it.
Then another cousin, Darlene, mentioned she had done some scrapping.
The three of us were not children together. Darlene complete high school in the 60s, me in the 70s and Cheryl in the 80s. But we started meeting monthly for scrapbooking, food, drinks and free mutual therapy.
Then Kim started flying in from Maryland for the monthly scraps and pretty soon we drew Karen W. in too.
Kim and Craig finally moved back home late last spring - Kim's first big housewarming event was, of course, our monthly group.
I did a scrapbook for my sister-in-law Karen for her birthday a few years back and had her daughters help me. I could see right away that my niece Lauren "had it." Lauren and Karen M joined the group this year.
There are now seven of us in the monthly group ranging from 16 to... substanially older.
We talk, we scrap, we eat, we scrap, we have a drink or two (except Lauren) and we scrap some more. We over celebrate each other's birthdays, buying each other amazing presents - and commiserate in the challenges that come with living in the real world.
I have "scrapped" back the last 25 years and done several gift albums. I create two or three new albums a year with the pictures and stories of today. So many of the events are shared with my scrap sisters, but come down to our indiviudal pages with unique perspective.
We relive the good times together, we share solutions to the rest.
Today was not the regular scrap day. I asked the sisters to help assemble Jessica's wedding invitations. My friend and colleague, our senior graphic designer at work, Karen B. joined us with her daughter.
Karen B. had typeset the copy insert and took a decent overall concept to something exceptional. She even brought her 13-year-old daughter, Emily, to help.
Karen B. is a gifted professional and a generous soul. I wondered what she would think of our earnest amateurs.
There were a few things I didn't realize going into today.
1) The invitation I designed is ridiculously complicated with more than 15 separate steps necessary to construct each one. I way overdid it.
2) My sisters love me anyway.
We were spread across the living and dining rooms, each mastering one piece of the puzzle, then doing it 100 times over.
Each person brought their personal gifts and shared without boundaries. The invitations grew more beautiful as the day became the night.
Jessica's getting married in Texas and it's so hard to not be there for the planning. My sisters brought the celebration to my dining room today.
Turns out I'm a sorority girl afterall.
Phi Beta Scrappa forever.

Copyright 2007 Judi Griggs

Hard hats

jgriggs@gmail.com — Sun, 3 Feb 08 17:55:00 UT

Even though most of my days divide only between meetings and time in front of a computer, working for a developer means you keep a hardhat in your car in case you have to go to a job site.
The band inside the hat sizes it to your head, but one size does not fit all.
There's a woman in our company who makes her hardhat look like the must-have accessory off the latest Paris runway. Hardhat or not, she's gorgeous and her petite frame, elegantly tailored wardrobe ,and killer smile just make the hat work for her.
In my business suit, heels, pearls and hardhat I look like a construction worker in drag. Fine for Halloween, but not everyday wear.
I can't wear it with the unconscious ease of others at the job site. I study the angle, the tilt and how high it sits on their heads - but can't replicate the look.
As Peter Townsend said "I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth" - but I appear a total pretender to my blue collar roots the minute I mash the hat onto my head.
After the embarassment of having it blown off by wind on the job site I overadjusted the band and had a scarlet ditch in my forehead for the rest of the day.
You can't Google "how to wear a hardhat" and get anything but reasons why you need to wear one. I get that part. I need the how.
Fortunately, the only projectiles I usually deal with are verbal slings and arrows. Lucky for me they don't require any more equipment than a thick skin.
I've been wearing that for years...

Copyright 2007 Judi Griggs

Kindle-ing excitement

jgriggs@gmail.com — Sat, 5 Jan 08 07:46:00 UT

My Christmas present was ordered in mid-November and finally arrived yesterday. Under any other circumstance that would make me cranky.
But not since the baby blue Smith Corona manual typewriter from Santa in 1972 have I been more excited about a gift.
I liked the way Amazon rolled out the Kindle. Plenty of media interviews, lots of information on the web site, and apologizing in advance for the backorder.
Beheading in the square is too good for the Wii folks who announced back in July that there would be holiday shortages of the popular and established product and then proceeded with a full advertising schedule to stoke the fires of parental inadequacy for the thousands who could not deliver.
But Amazon.com was full of information on the Kindle including user reviews, good and bad. One persistent poster lead a crusade against the product because content could not be republished or given to others like paper books. As a writer, I say "hurray." Author rights are protected, trees are not killed and I don't pay sales tax - we're pushing nine cents on the dollar in this burg - on content.
I'll still fell a forest or two and likely buy several pork barrels for our county legislature over the next few years in support of our local independent booksellers. The Kindle is not a replacement for books, but a better way for words to go.
As God is my witness (cue orchestral crescendo here) I will never pay airport prices for a book again. Nor will I make others nervous at lunch counters trying to politely wait for the one grease-marked house copy of the newspaper to be shared.
The Kindle gives me immediate gratification when I want a title and it's electronic ink is easy on my aging eyes.
When I opened the box is didn't challenge me with its sophistication, but welcomed me with a sticker on the display area that said in simple language all I needed to do to start.
The operation is easy and ergonomic. It can be operated with one hand. It's comfortable.
I was wary of the 14-day "free trial" of subscriptions, "buying" the first in instant anticipation of the inevitable flurry of emails and on-hold 1-800 numbers that would result should I decide to cancel.
I ordered the Wall Street Journal. An email confirmed the purchase within seconds and it was on my screen.
I checked my credit card, it was not hit. I browsed the paper and went back to the Kindle Store.
I downloaded the first chapters of four books to check out and looked for the strings attached. There were none. No load charges, no "limited time" no automatic charges after "x" days.
I read all four chapters and bought two books, fully loaded into my Kindle in less than a minute from the moment I pressed buy.
No, I decided, I'd just keep reading the office copy of the WSJ, so I cancelled from my Kindle. The cancellation email immeidately appeared in my computer email box.
There is a cord to connect my Kindle to my computer, but it won't be necessary for my purposes. The Kindle is self-contained.
In the menu they call the rudimentary web browser service "experimental" and downplay it. It's actually pretty impressive. I played with it, as well as the feature that allows you to call out any word or phrase in text and with one click decide whether you want a dictionary entry, Wikipedia entry or Google search on the word. I can dog-ear pages, make notes in margins and save passages in a separate file.
These aren't cool tools buried deeply for geeks, but things that I did last night on the couch while the UPS guy who delivered it was still on his route.
My Kindle was worth the wait.

Copyright 2007 Judi Griggs

Doing good well

jgriggs@gmail.com — Fri, 28 Dec 07 11:56:00 UT

I was a entreprenuer for a few years in the early 1990s -- and was miserable the entire time.
When receivables were slow I would pace all night. When things were good I'd pace in the other direction trying to forecast and prevent the next inevitable downturn.
I paid my employees and vendors first and what was left was sometimes less than I would have made slinging burgers. After two years I took my first vacation - by being hospitalized with pneumonia.
After a few days, I was healthy enough to realize I liked being just semi-conscious enough to stop worrying about work. It finally dawned on me that I am, by nature, a worker bee and not a queen bee.
I don't like the throne, I like sitting next to it. I've sat in some pretty posh courts. I enjoy finding solutions and possibilities without the extreme weight of the crown. It's worked out well for me and, I sincerely hope, the people for whom I've worked.
But I've never worked for anyone who wears his crown as well as the man who built the company I work for today.
I've worked in and around real estate and development for many years, but here I learn something every day. Watching him ask questions on a project is like a lightening round of Jeopardy. Don't be lulled if the first couple questions in the category are easy, he's just establishing the parameters before the discourse kicks into high gear. He's brilliant, but not arrogant.
He's grounded in genuine values, a passionate family commitment and an intense intellectual curiosity. He takes in every detail, but never gets bogged down in minutiae.
He gives back more to his community and employees than any individual I've known, but always wants to play his contributions down.
His eyes sparkle the same when he talks about a substantial donation giving him the right to name a college campus building for a dear family friend as they do on a deal done right.
He accepts the honors that come with his accomplishments with grace and humility.
I'm one of 100 employees. The number of tenants and subcontractors associated with the company go into the thousands. The number of people touched by his civic, charitable and community commitments likely include the majority of Western New York.
I worked for companies which have made more money, but none more successful. It's the perfect place for a worker bee to be.
Copyright 2007 Judi Griggs