Today, after a nice canoe trip through Ft. DeSoto’s mangrove trails and the ensuing hour playing on the beach, I told Shawn that I would pack up half of our stuff and make the first trip back to the car.
After loading various fishing rods and beach chairs into the trunk, and at about the point that the lock clicked securely shut closed, I realized that I had just locked the keys in the car.
It is hard to describe the feeling that one gets when this happens—I think it is one of those things that if you’ve done it, you know—but at once my body filled with adrenaline, my instinctual bad mouth said “SHIT!”, and my philosophical side thought, The keys are in there. They are not in there.
Showing posts with label OCD. Show all posts
Showing posts with label OCD. Show all posts
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Friday, October 26, 2007
No limp fish here!
When Shawn was away earlier this week, I decided to teach Reilly a proper handshake. For some reason, I have an aversion to a poor handshake, or should I say, I have a true appreciation for a properly executed handshake. Since it is never too early to plant your neuroses in your own child, I taught my baby how to shake my hand.
As Reilly is prone to do, she not only understood what I was trying to teach her, but also shook my big hand with her little one like she’d been doing it her entire life.
I enjoyed our little lesson, then, as I am prone to do, forgot all about it.
Flash forward to yesterday. The phone rings at work.
“Hi, Bri.”
“Hi, Shawn.”
“So, I asked Reilly to give me a high five today, then she told me to shake her hand. Did you teach her that? Because it was really cute.”
“How was her handshake?”
“Good.”
“That’s my girl.”
As Reilly is prone to do, she not only understood what I was trying to teach her, but also shook my big hand with her little one like she’d been doing it her entire life.
I enjoyed our little lesson, then, as I am prone to do, forgot all about it.
Flash forward to yesterday. The phone rings at work.
“Hi, Bri.”
“Hi, Shawn.”
“So, I asked Reilly to give me a high five today, then she told me to shake her hand. Did you teach her that? Because it was really cute.”
“How was her handshake?”
“Good.”
“That’s my girl.”
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Old Home Place
Over the weekend, Shawn and I traveled back to our old home turf. The real purpose of the trip was for Shawn to attend a baby shower for our friend Sara, who is due at the end of October. Unfortunately, we ended up visiting her in the hospital, and it appears that she will now be due today! Welcome to the world, baby Brian Seth Wilson!
I’m not sure how to put this, but with each visit to The City, I feel like I always have a second, underlying purpose: to figure out what my relationship is to New York. The City became a part of my fabric in the five years I was there, and grew to be like a friend to me. And an enemy. And like those complex relationships you often have with certain friends, I am always trying to figure out if I love The City or if I hate it.
Poor Shawn. As we walked through the city streets, I would start nearly every sentence with, “Well, now that is something I love about The City,” or, conversely, “God. I hate that about The City.” This constant back and forth probably made her crazy, since she loves the city wholeheartedly; like a bosom buddy.
I am always trying to make sense of things, and New York City puts this personality trait into overdrive because everything in The City is out in the open, is raw and present. The problem here is that one cannot make sense of The City, there are too many variables. To try is to flirt with insanity. Yet still I try.
In the end, I had fun last weekend, but I mostly had fun because of the people I had around me, old, good friends. We ate sushi, we drank wine, we walked to favorite pubs and old streets, and as good friends are prone to do, we picked up right where we left off.
As Shawn and I rode the A Train back to JFK airport on Sunday, sitting across from us was a stinking bum chugging from a quart of malt liquor. At one stop, the door opened and he stood up to throw his empty bottle into some bushes by the platform. Through the open door came the soft sunlight and cool fall air of the north. At that moment, I was able to distill my conflicting relationship with the city down to one sentence:
At the same time, The City represents everything I can’t take with me, and everything that I am willing to leave behind.
I’m not sure how to put this, but with each visit to The City, I feel like I always have a second, underlying purpose: to figure out what my relationship is to New York. The City became a part of my fabric in the five years I was there, and grew to be like a friend to me. And an enemy. And like those complex relationships you often have with certain friends, I am always trying to figure out if I love The City or if I hate it.
Poor Shawn. As we walked through the city streets, I would start nearly every sentence with, “Well, now that is something I love about The City,” or, conversely, “God. I hate that about The City.” This constant back and forth probably made her crazy, since she loves the city wholeheartedly; like a bosom buddy.
I am always trying to make sense of things, and New York City puts this personality trait into overdrive because everything in The City is out in the open, is raw and present. The problem here is that one cannot make sense of The City, there are too many variables. To try is to flirt with insanity. Yet still I try.
In the end, I had fun last weekend, but I mostly had fun because of the people I had around me, old, good friends. We ate sushi, we drank wine, we walked to favorite pubs and old streets, and as good friends are prone to do, we picked up right where we left off.
As Shawn and I rode the A Train back to JFK airport on Sunday, sitting across from us was a stinking bum chugging from a quart of malt liquor. At one stop, the door opened and he stood up to throw his empty bottle into some bushes by the platform. Through the open door came the soft sunlight and cool fall air of the north. At that moment, I was able to distill my conflicting relationship with the city down to one sentence:
At the same time, The City represents everything I can’t take with me, and everything that I am willing to leave behind.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Like Father, Like Daughter, Part II
(Note: I wrote this entry on Monday, but am just now getting the opportunity to get it online. Stay tuned for my next entry on this topic, which I am tentatively naming: "Three things I hate about Reilly's new daycare.")
A first day at a new job can be tough. There are new names to learn, hands to shake, directions to follow. Since I like to be on time to the nth degree, I am now sitting in the parking lot in front of my office at 7:45am, 45 minutes before my first meeting.
I was feeling a little nervous on the drive to work, and feeling a little envious of Reilly. Today is her first day too--first day at her new childcare facility. And even though we told her she was going to "school" this morning, she doesn't know enough about what we're saying to be nervous. She just blinked her eyes at us in the early morning light and whined for her bottle. For Reilly, it was just another morning. She doesn't have to have nerves at the prospect of her new day, though it pains me to think she might be afraid when Shawn leaves her behind at the daycare this morning. I calm myself with the knowledge of how independent she is, and how much she loves other kids.
Well then, off I go to Human Resources for orientation. I can only hope that Reilly understands that though first days can be tough, and there is much to learn, there is also much happiness to be found, and new friendships to be made.
A first day at a new job can be tough. There are new names to learn, hands to shake, directions to follow. Since I like to be on time to the nth degree, I am now sitting in the parking lot in front of my office at 7:45am, 45 minutes before my first meeting.
I was feeling a little nervous on the drive to work, and feeling a little envious of Reilly. Today is her first day too--first day at her new childcare facility. And even though we told her she was going to "school" this morning, she doesn't know enough about what we're saying to be nervous. She just blinked her eyes at us in the early morning light and whined for her bottle. For Reilly, it was just another morning. She doesn't have to have nerves at the prospect of her new day, though it pains me to think she might be afraid when Shawn leaves her behind at the daycare this morning. I calm myself with the knowledge of how independent she is, and how much she loves other kids.
Well then, off I go to Human Resources for orientation. I can only hope that Reilly understands that though first days can be tough, and there is much to learn, there is also much happiness to be found, and new friendships to be made.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The "Perfect Commute," defined
I realized after I posted yesterday’s entry that many of you didn’t read my previous blog, “Two to Three,” and that my excessively long and detailed entry about my perfect commute might be lost on you.
So, in case it wasn’t clear, a perfect commute is when I go from work to home, or home to work, without having to stop. This includes crossing every intersection on the fly and catching the subway train without having to wait (otherwise known as catching the train on “Brian Time”).
Part of the appeal of the perfect commute is the tiny probability of it ever happening. (The last recorded perfect commute I had was June 24, 2004.) In the suburbs, it would be the equivalent of catching every green light on the way to work.
The other part of the appeal is that in the City, I am so often just a single person in a mass of millions, so to have a perfect commute makes me feel that for just a moment the City is mine; that I am in rhythm with it, and it with me.
So, in case it wasn’t clear, a perfect commute is when I go from work to home, or home to work, without having to stop. This includes crossing every intersection on the fly and catching the subway train without having to wait (otherwise known as catching the train on “Brian Time”).
Part of the appeal of the perfect commute is the tiny probability of it ever happening. (The last recorded perfect commute I had was June 24, 2004.) In the suburbs, it would be the equivalent of catching every green light on the way to work.
The other part of the appeal is that in the City, I am so often just a single person in a mass of millions, so to have a perfect commute makes me feel that for just a moment the City is mine; that I am in rhythm with it, and it with me.
Monday, April 24, 2006
The double perfect commute
Warning: 99% of readers will find this entry really, really boring, but I posted it anyway, because I am too proud not to.
When I get to work every morning, the first thing I do is email Shawn to let her know how the drop off went at daycare. Today was no different. I let her know that the drop off went well and that Reilly was happily playing with her friends by the time I left. Shawn replied with an email that said, “I think we left the iron on.”
Now, you have to understand that we have a history with the whole leaving the iron on psychosis. Shawn and I have a little OCD relationship going on with the iron, and we’ve put in place two steps to make sure that neither of us has that “oh shit” moment while riding the subway train to work.
Step 1: Brian checks to make sure the iron is off before going to work.
Step 2: Shawn checks to make sure the iron is off before going to work.
Until today, this process worked brilliantly, since even if one of us forgot to check, the other served as backup. But this morning we were running late, and were rushing out the door, so when Shawn emailed me to see if I remembered to check the iron, I felt that sudden sinking feeling. I hadn’t.
Of course, there was only one thing to do. I walked into my boss’ office, told him that I thought I left the iron on in my apartment, and depending on the commute, I’d be back in forty minutes to an hour. He laughed. How could he not? We were only working on one of only three serious deadlines we have all year.
I caught the elevator down, hit the pavement at a good clip, and crossed Water Street on the walk sign. I crossed Broad Street at Pearl Street on a flashing don’t walk sign, then shot over to Whitehall street via Bridge Street. I jaywalked at Whitehall right in front of a police van, grabbed a free newspaper, and then ran down the steps at the Bowling Green subway station. As I hit the floor I felt a strong wind in my face which could only mean that a train was coming into the station, so I broke into a sprint, swiped my card at the turnstile, then hopped on 4 Express going uptown. I took a moment to read the paper and cool off. A few stops later, the doors bing-bonged open and I negotiated the winding hallways of the 14th Street Station. I surfaced at the southwest corner and crossed Union Square West at 15th Street on a walk sign, which I stayed on to cross 5th Avenue on another walk sign. By then I knew that it was possible to have my first perfect commute in over a year, with one street left to cross. I waved at my coffee cart guy at the corner of 5th and 16th and then crossed onto 16th Street with a walk signal and a big grin on my face.
The grin quickly evaporated as my mission returned to my mind. I walked at maximum speed down the block to my apartment, turned the key, kicked open the door, jogged up one flight of stairs, which caused me to huff and puff up the next two, turned the key and shoved open our front door, rounded the corner and HEY! the iron was unplugged.
I grabbed a water from the fridge and reversed my path, catching a walk sign at 16th Street and crossing against the don’t walk at Union Square West in front of a turning cabbie. I don’t normally cross in front of a cabbie, but a perfect double commute was on the line, and since there was no baby strapped to my chest, I could take a few chances. The hardest part of the perfect commute was next, catching the notoriously fickle express train back downtown. As I meandered through the hallway of Union Square Station, I saw that my train was pulling into the station. So, I sprinted down the hallway, dodging support columns and slow movers, shot down the stairway and hopped through the door. Bing-bong! Oh yeah. I didn’t have a paper to read on the way back down, so I thought through which route to take. As the train pulled into my station, I disembarked, mounted the stairs, and chose to take the route along Battery Park, which would mean I only had two lights to make. The first one was no problem—crossed Whitehall Street on a never-ending walk sign. Broad Street was blinking as I crossed Whitehall, which meant that it would be a full-on walk sign by the time I made Broad, and sure enough, it was. I ran up the steps to my building, swiped through security, and an elevator door opened up before me. Forty minutes round trip.
The DOUBLE PERFECT COMMUTE. Ain’t life grand?
When I get to work every morning, the first thing I do is email Shawn to let her know how the drop off went at daycare. Today was no different. I let her know that the drop off went well and that Reilly was happily playing with her friends by the time I left. Shawn replied with an email that said, “I think we left the iron on.”
Now, you have to understand that we have a history with the whole leaving the iron on psychosis. Shawn and I have a little OCD relationship going on with the iron, and we’ve put in place two steps to make sure that neither of us has that “oh shit” moment while riding the subway train to work.
Step 1: Brian checks to make sure the iron is off before going to work.
Step 2: Shawn checks to make sure the iron is off before going to work.
Until today, this process worked brilliantly, since even if one of us forgot to check, the other served as backup. But this morning we were running late, and were rushing out the door, so when Shawn emailed me to see if I remembered to check the iron, I felt that sudden sinking feeling. I hadn’t.
Of course, there was only one thing to do. I walked into my boss’ office, told him that I thought I left the iron on in my apartment, and depending on the commute, I’d be back in forty minutes to an hour. He laughed. How could he not? We were only working on one of only three serious deadlines we have all year.
I caught the elevator down, hit the pavement at a good clip, and crossed Water Street on the walk sign. I crossed Broad Street at Pearl Street on a flashing don’t walk sign, then shot over to Whitehall street via Bridge Street. I jaywalked at Whitehall right in front of a police van, grabbed a free newspaper, and then ran down the steps at the Bowling Green subway station. As I hit the floor I felt a strong wind in my face which could only mean that a train was coming into the station, so I broke into a sprint, swiped my card at the turnstile, then hopped on 4 Express going uptown. I took a moment to read the paper and cool off. A few stops later, the doors bing-bonged open and I negotiated the winding hallways of the 14th Street Station. I surfaced at the southwest corner and crossed Union Square West at 15th Street on a walk sign, which I stayed on to cross 5th Avenue on another walk sign. By then I knew that it was possible to have my first perfect commute in over a year, with one street left to cross. I waved at my coffee cart guy at the corner of 5th and 16th and then crossed onto 16th Street with a walk signal and a big grin on my face.
The grin quickly evaporated as my mission returned to my mind. I walked at maximum speed down the block to my apartment, turned the key, kicked open the door, jogged up one flight of stairs, which caused me to huff and puff up the next two, turned the key and shoved open our front door, rounded the corner and HEY! the iron was unplugged.
I grabbed a water from the fridge and reversed my path, catching a walk sign at 16th Street and crossing against the don’t walk at Union Square West in front of a turning cabbie. I don’t normally cross in front of a cabbie, but a perfect double commute was on the line, and since there was no baby strapped to my chest, I could take a few chances. The hardest part of the perfect commute was next, catching the notoriously fickle express train back downtown. As I meandered through the hallway of Union Square Station, I saw that my train was pulling into the station. So, I sprinted down the hallway, dodging support columns and slow movers, shot down the stairway and hopped through the door. Bing-bong! Oh yeah. I didn’t have a paper to read on the way back down, so I thought through which route to take. As the train pulled into my station, I disembarked, mounted the stairs, and chose to take the route along Battery Park, which would mean I only had two lights to make. The first one was no problem—crossed Whitehall Street on a never-ending walk sign. Broad Street was blinking as I crossed Whitehall, which meant that it would be a full-on walk sign by the time I made Broad, and sure enough, it was. I ran up the steps to my building, swiped through security, and an elevator door opened up before me. Forty minutes round trip.
The DOUBLE PERFECT COMMUTE. Ain’t life grand?
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Photos anyone?
Hello all-
Due to the fact that someone (yours truly) recently paid for and had printed 180 pictures that he had previously printed a few weeks prior, the Overcast household finds itself in a glut of Reilly photographs.
Rather than let them continue to collect dust on our coffee table, I figured I'd ask my readers out there if you'd like a dozen or so Reilly photos.
Please post a comment to me below if you'd like a random selection of Reilly G. goodness sent directly to your doorstep.
To post a comment, please:
Click on the comment link in the white box below to get started.
When prompted for your identity, click in the "Other" circle.
Type your comment, enter your name in the "Name" box, and click the "Publish" button.
Wait patiently by your mailbox.
Due to the fact that someone (yours truly) recently paid for and had printed 180 pictures that he had previously printed a few weeks prior, the Overcast household finds itself in a glut of Reilly photographs.
Rather than let them continue to collect dust on our coffee table, I figured I'd ask my readers out there if you'd like a dozen or so Reilly photos.
Please post a comment to me below if you'd like a random selection of Reilly G. goodness sent directly to your doorstep.
To post a comment, please:
Click on the comment link in the white box below to get started.
When prompted for your identity, click in the "Other" circle.
Type your comment, enter your name in the "Name" box, and click the "Publish" button.
Wait patiently by your mailbox.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Another case of the baby playing with the box the gift came in
This is Reilly’s Den:
In it, you can find everything an eight-month-old girl could ever need, including stuffed animals, plastic cups, boxes, a chair, mirror, teether, ball, and other assorted playthings.
But where is Reilly?
Reilly has scooted and wormed her way over to the coffee table, because who needs a den when there are books to pull off the shelves?
Astute readers might note that baby is wearing a winter hat while playing inside. Why is that? one might wonder.
Look no further than Reilly’s anxious dad, unhappy that his daughter had chosen as her playspace the only object in the entire apartment that has dangerously sharp edges. The hat, of course, is a form of helmet, to protect baby from smashing her head against the table and causing a panicked rush to the emergency room, followed by a four-hour wait to see a doctor, and eventually a look of deep condemnation from the baby’s mother.
See? The hat seems reasonable now.
Right?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)