Waiting for a call

This morning, shortly after 5am a phone starts ringing in our house. It's not the usual ring of the kitchen phone or the chirping warble of the cordless phones strategically scattered from room to room. Rather, it's an alarming tone that my wife has inexplicably set to indicate when her sister is calling her cellular phone.

No matter how long that we've been up, and regardless of the fact that the phone hasn't jangled us out of our sleep, a ringing telephone before daylight always evokes alarm in our household.
"Who could be calling us at this time of morning?" Trepidation tinges the unspoken question.
Not once to date has someone called our house prior to daybreak to announce that we've won the lottery or that they saw our name on the state comptroller's list of people that Texas owed money. Good news always waits until after coffee.

No ... when the phone rings at our house - after we kill the lights and prior to dawn - someone in the family is dead, dying or basking in the glow of ambulance strobes.

With a worried glance at me, my wife grabbed her cell phone and immediately proceded past the obligatory greetings to the point of the call ... which I as yet don't know.

The obvious relaxation of her shoulders and halt to her pacing indicated that nobody was bleeding their last, but the conspiratorial tones that followed only deepened the mystery. Expectant glances and my attempts to meet her eyes failed to produce an answer to relieve my curiosity. One thing I do know, when women talk in those tones, some man somewhere has screwed up. The fact that the call couldn't wait for daylight means whoever he is, he has somehow offended the great Sisterhood of Women - and as a man myself, I'd better lay low lest I get caught in his undertow by association and swept out into the sea of outrage.

I was already late for the door to get to work, so with a hurried peck on the cheek that wasn't occupied with the phone, I left- echoes of a promise to call me swirling behind as I stepped into the pensive predawn air.

Warning!

Stay away from Webboggle!

Your brain will overheat, you'll smack yourself for lack of vocabulary, and later - the willpower to leave.

Don't say I didn't warn you...

Validation

All this time I thought nobody noticed my little corner of the blogosphere.

If I were to base my readership on comments alone, I would probably be able to count on perhaps four people who have actually spent more than three minutes reading through my various ramblings. The vast majority of people who have at least registered a hit on my counter at the bottom probably fall in the "how-did-I-wind-up-here?" category and are back off in search of some smutty pictures to show to all their coworkers and hide from their boss. Perhaps a few of the transients who stumble across my site pause for a moment, caught by the dark tone of the page and vaguely disturbing image of the top half of my bald head staring back at them like some fevered version of Kilroy. Alas, these visitors also quickly depart, having found no rants or witty gems to forward to all the hapless members of their mailing list.

It does get more than a little lonely, ostensibly talking to myself - and frankly, since I've already heard all my own thoughts, I feel less and less like tossing them up on the website to see what sticks to the digital wall. Of course, the hit counter at the bottom registers the raw number of browsers that pause here, however briefly, and I can see the easily gleaned details of their visit. I've had viewers representing nearly every time zone on the planet (no kidding). What I don't get, for the most part, is feedback - any feedback.

This past weekend, someone I respect approached me and actually admitted to reading my blog. He even went so far as to state that he gets disappointed when there's nothing new posted during his daily check of my site.

Somebody checks my site daily and expects new content? While it puts a certain pressure on me to perform, I'll admit that I like that. It tells me that I must be doing something that has value to someone else. I like to know that someone is not only receiving a signal, but chooses to tune it in for whatever reason they may have. I guess it boils down to the fact that I enjoy the idea that I have an audience, albeit one that requires very few chairs to accommodate.

Let me know if I should set out a chair for you, too.

Triskadekaphobia

Today is Friday The 13th.
[Cue spooky music, evocative of slasher films]

Did you trip over the cat while sleepily stumbling your way to the shower this morning? Did you run out of hot water before you could rinse the stinging lather out of your eyes? Afterwards, did the toaster mysteriously set itself on "cremate" rather than "light," setting off the smoke detector in the hallway that made the dog wet the carpet with fear? Did you get a late start for work because you spent most of the time you usually dedicate to personal hygiene looking for your car keys - only to discover them on the seat of your car, behind locked doors? Did you arrive late to work, your boss pacing the floor anxiously wondering where you are because the current "emergency" has your name all over it?

Me, neither...

My life is interesting enough, with all its little plot twists and turns, without adding in any irrational fears based on calendar dates. Being a Friday, I tend to arrive at work in a lighter mood, knowing that the weekend is only a few hours away.

You've got to pay to play ...

... and boy am I paying for playing last night! An excellent time was had by all, thanks to our hosts, friends and staff at Abacus Restaurant. (See "No Good Deed...")

However, despite our best intentions and promises to the contrary, my wife and I didn't leave the restaurant until nearly 11:30 last night. By the time we'd made some damage-control phone calls, raced to pick up the boys from my In-Laws', deposited sleeping children and fell into bed ourselves, it was approaching 1:00am.

Our alarm clock goes off at 4:00am.

Lack of sleep and far more wine than I am accustomed to drinking has recast the world into an image not unlike one from a funhouse mirror. With an impossibly large and heavy head and bandy little legs sprouting from a distended torso, I'm staggering around as though the contorted glass has cast a new reality for me, as well. It's going to be a long day, I think ...

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Have you ever tried to do something nice for someone or perhaps help them out in some way, only to have it thrown back in your face?

In my line of work, people will frequently bring me rough sketches or ideas for me to add my artistic interpretation and bring to life for them. Many times, even when a client doesn't specifically ask for a tweak, I'll make little adjustments I feel improve on the design or idea, based on my experience.

I call it my artist's conceit.

There is an actual modicum of conceit involved. I'm a professional graphic designer with well over a decade of daily, high-pressure, high-dollar design work for customers with whom you are probably familiar. You may very well have seen some of it. From credit-card companies to motorcycle manufacturers, cigar factories to Christian publications, I have a modest list of satisfied clients who like my work and my interpretation of what they want (else I don't get paid). These people have used expensive ad agencies and flatter me with their patronage and high expectations. So it's in this mindset that I evaluated a new project, freshly-plucked from a newer client's desktop inkjet printer and placed before me for what I mistakenly assume is a rework into a high-end ad for a high-end real-estate publication.

I was wrong, but not about the publication part. Long ago, my mentor and friend, Don Lokke' told me that:

"the bane of a good graphic designer is the client with strong will and bad taste."

He has been proven correct many times over the years and once again in this particular case. I had taken the original concept: black, unreadable script over a snapshot followed by black unreadable script at the bottom and produced an ad I would be proud to have in my portfolio. Concensus in the shop was equally positive. "The client would be blown away."

She wasn't. In fact, I think the client was offended that I felt her ad needed any work at all. I didn't even charge for the "upgrade." Stung, I uttered a much-used phrase around here: "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished."

My wife and I got to be on the receiving-end of that phrase just yesterday. Blubrik and The Brain offered to treat my wife and I out to eat at Abacus to celebrate my bride's upcoming birthday. This is quite a treat, considering that my wife and I rarely get to eat at a "sit-down" restaurant anymore, let alone one without a playground and a "value menu." Abacus is decidedly outside our means, and under ordinary circumstances, we'd have to take out a loan just to make an appropriate gratuity for our server.

It went something like this:
Blubrik: "What are you doing tonight?"
Me: "I don't have anything specific planned, why?"
Blubrik: "The Brain and I are having a conflict with attending Mrs.Cheese's party Saturday, and we want to take her out for her birthday. You can come too, I suppose."*
8 p.m. was the appointed hour, and I made a quick call to the Mrs., who made an impassioned call to her mother to secure babysitting for the evening. Short-notice rarely yields good results, but good fortune and a tone of desperation got the deal done.

Later, while sitting in the theatre with my 5-year-old watching Spiderman 2, my phone silently buzzes me back to reality and almost out of my skin with surprise. It's Blubrick leaving a message. During a critical scene (of course), my son's little bladder could hold no more and we raced to the bathroom to depressurize. A quick check of my voicemail yielded the following message:

"Wednesday. Let's do this on Wednesday. Sempai-san is graduating with his Master's on Saturday and we want to treat him and his wife, Saint Eunice of Constant Patience, too. Sensei [has been invited, and] wants to come as well."

I made a quick call to the Mrs. to let her know of the sudden turn of events and the need to renegotiate for babysitting. She assumed the same time as the previous invitation, and mindful that it took place on a schoolnight for our freshly-minted kindergartner, promised to pick up the boys between 10:00 and 10:30 pm.

I rolled my eyes when she told me about the pickup time. "Sweetie, we'll probably only just be starting dessert at 10:00 or 10:30," I chided. Still, eye teeth had already been pulled and deals made, so we steeled ourselves for an opulent, but very late night. Blubrik popped up on my instant messenger later that afternoon.

Blubrik: "Do you know two people who would like to come tonight? Sempai-san and Saint Eunice have had to back out because it's too late for them and we have reservations for eight at 8:30."
Me: "No one comes to mind, but you should know that the Mrs. is having some anxieties about the lateness of the reservations, herself."

There was a pause here - the sort that is as rich with meaning as it is poor on words.

Blubrik: "I ... could try moving the reservations up a bit, but I don't expect much luck."
Me: "Every little bit helps."
Without any pause this time:
Blubrik: "Reservations are now for 6:00p.m."
By this time, my wife had come into the computer room to see what was going on. Her jaw fell open an onto my shoulder when she saw the last message.
She (aghast): "My mother ... I ... don't get HOME until 6:00!"
Not knowing the reactions on our end of the computer, Blubrik continued:
Blubrik: "Calling Sempai-san"
Me: "Might be too early now." (this was followed by one of those blushing-with-embarassment emoticons.) "Should have asked, really."
Blubrik was doubtless stunned by the sudden stonewalling. This was evidenced by the long pause that followed. Finally:
Blubrik: "As Sensei would now intone, 'No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.'"
Another pause, followed by, "Reservations are NOW for 6:30."
Me:"We will do everything we can to make it for that time."
And we are, truly. Thanks Blu!

I'm sure Blubrik will have something to say on this very topic, himself. It'll probably have something to do with the futility of trying to herd cats, or the way that some people just HAVE to make everything difficult.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get dressed for dinner.

*These "quotes" are approximate, based on memory or completely fabricated from my tortured persecution complex. If caught, I will deny, deny, deny ...