[Dating Papers]

What a great weekend. Perfect in its imperfections. Even though I’m still nursing a mild, but annoying head cold, I’m a in a good mood. Low-energy, tired, but still happy. It was good because I had good company–that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? No romantic moments, but I didn’t miss them in the least. I even spent a long afternoon with a newlywed couple and all I felt was extremely happy for them.



It’s not quite like me, the way I’m feeling. I have things to do–movies to see, rowing (someday), ballgames (for watching and playing), New Yorkers to read, DVDs to watch. I’m happy (sometimes happier) to do most of these things alone or with friends. I have a work friend who wants to join a kickball team. Swell. Another friend who has recruited me to her softball team. Fantastic. A new buddy who invites me to a happy hour every week or so. Perfect. I’m getting a good amount of social interaction. At least for now, it’s satisfying. I know, I don’t get it either.



So, how did I spend my weekend? I’m glad you asked! I went to dinner with some work friends to celebrate Diego’s birthday on Friday. I was still feeling a little under the weather so I went home early and did some guest-prep cleaning (that went on all week, but the final touches happened on Friday night and Saturday morning). Saturday, I got up early, did more cleaning, then went to the bank and the ATM (separate places! annoying!) and the Farmer’s Market near my house. I bought some apples from Elise, who clearly did not recognize me when I said, “Oh, it’s you! Elise!” And why should she, since we’ve met exactly one time before? It would have been helpful if I’d added, “It’s me, Jamy!” But I was too shy to blurt out my blog name. So, Elise, if you read this, I’m the woman who said that. Sorry!



After an unnecessary, but fun, trip to Silver Spring to participate in the Marimekko “make your own bag” event, I metro-ed/bussed back to DC to meet Diane, one of my first (?) blogger friends. She, Max (her new husband) and I had a great conversation over a tasty lunch. It was so much better than the first time we met (though that was fun too), because this time we could actually hear each other. I’m very happy for her and it was a kick to see her again in person.



After Diane and Max dropped me near home, I rested briefly, then took the flexcar to pick up Piet at National.  It amazes me how little he’s changed over the years–he looks and acts almost the same as when I first met him. We ate dinner nearby at a decent Italian place with some of the slowest service I’ve gotten in years (and we’re talking DC!). However, Piet didn’t mind at all, since service tends to be slower in Holland. I think he would have preferred to have a knife to eat his fish with, though, but he made do with a fork.



On Sunday, I made a little “Dutch breakfast.” When I visited Piet in the past, I’m most fascinated by the many cultural differences. Americans are quite similar to the Dutch, given our upright Protestant ways, but the little differences are amusing. One difference is what you eat for breakfast. Not cereal or eggs, rather, several slices of bread, sometimes lightly toasted, eaten like an open sandwich with toppings– cheese, margarine, peanut butter and chocolate sprinkles. The first thing I did was put the sprinkles with peanut butter, which they thought was odd. The chocolate sprinkles go with the margarine! Well, of course, what was I thinking? (To Piet’s credit, he tried the peanut butter and chocolate and agreed that it was good.)



I’d bought some good bread on Saturday morning. On Sunday, I sliced a few pieces and put out cashew butter, yogurt (I strained it, so it was extra thick), honey and strawberries. It’s quite a nice breakfast, actually. I told Piet there were no chocolate sprinkles to be had and he laughed. I also told him the yogurt and honey were a good combination. He was skeptical, but gave it a try. He agreed it was good. In fact, on Monday morning, given the same choices, he had two slices of bread, each topped with honey and yogurt. He eschewed the cashew butter entirely.



We also took a walk in the morning, went to the best vegetarian Indian buffet with Pele and canoed (also with Pele) in the afternoon. Along with all that, I gave Piet some work to do. I own an ancient clock radio. It was a gift from my grandfather to my mother from when she went away to college. It was my clock radio as a child. When I moved away, I took it with me. However, about nine years ago, it stopped telling time. The radio and back light still worked, but the dials no longer turned.



The radio:








I couldn’t bear to part with the nearly 45-year-old radio and it’s lived in a box in my closet ever since. The last time Piet was here, he took apart part of my stereo system and it occurred to me, he might be able to fix the radio. He’s an electrical engineer–and has a specialty in analog devices–so he might even think it was fun.



He was not deterred by the warning printed on the bottom of the radio, which I read out loud:

CAUTION: TO PREVENT ELECTRIC SHOCK, DO NOT REMOVE COVER. NO USER-SERVICEABLE PARTS INSIDE AND PILOT LAMPS SOLDERED IN PLACE. REFER SERVICING TO QUALIFIED SERVICE PERSONNEL.

Piet said, “That’s me!” He took the whole thing apart while I watched. I sometimes made suggestions, which may or may not have been helpful. It was very cool to see the inside of the ancient clock radio. When he had it open, I asked Piet, “Does it mean anything to you?”



He said, “Yes…” and proceeded to explain what each of the different parts were. I found it very interesting. When he got the cover off and was trying to figure out how to take apart the insides, he said, “There has to be a way. Just think, how did they put it together…” See, that’s how engineers think!



He finally figured out what was wrong. One part had a little cog on its side that turned the gears attached to the clock dials. That part was receiving power, but was broken. Unfortunately, it was a completely sealed part, so there was no way to open it. What did Piet do? He banged it on the table a few times…and it worked! But it didn’t sound good. He thought a bearing was probably shot. He put the radio back together and it worked for a while, but without replacing that part, it’s doomed (in fact, it stopped working again today. Sad.).



After that excitement, we ate and watched a DVD. While I feel some obligation to show my guests the sights, it’s great to spend mellow time with old friends. (Fixing clock radios and eating leftovers is about as mellow as it gets.)



Piet and I walked to Union Station together on Monday morning and that’s where we said goodbye. I’m not sure when I’ll see him again but I’m very happy we had this time together.



I went to work and had the morning to myself before the new officemate showed up. He’d gone to “dis” orientation in the morning. When he arrived around 12:30, he was hungry and I’d delayed going to lunch, as usual, so we went together to the food court. We even sat down to eat together. It’s nice that the new roomie and I have started things on a friendly footing. Oddly, he seemed to really like the food at the food court, but I won’t hold that against him. There’s no accounting for taste.



Grateful for: old friends and new roommates.

Given that this is a gratitude journal (sort of), I shouldn’t spend time airing petty grievances. Oh well.

Annoyance #1
I think I’ve mentioned that my niece is getting married in Israel in July. I started searching today, in earnest, for a plane ticket. Lowest price I found? $1,450. I love my niece, but this is ridiculous. It’s high season so that’s why the prices is so exorbitant. I will still go, and since I’ll have almost no expenses while I’m there (Dad is paying room and board–I assume, that’s what happened last time) I can still afford it. But, $1,450?? Ouch.

Annoyance #2
We have a new guy starting on Monday and he’s going to be my officemate (not annoying–minor inconvenience in that I can’t use the office as a changing room anymore). He came in for lunch today at TR’s behest so we could meet and “pre” orient him. He’s a sweet guy and will probably be a good officemate. Four of us went to lunch: new guy, TR, Shelly and me. We were explaining a little to new guy about how the health insurance works. TR said, “Jamy has Kaiser, it’s an HMO.” I nodded. Before I could say anything else, Shelly jumped in and said, “I have Blue Cross/Blue Shield. I want the best care and I’ll pay for it. But it’s not that much more expensive.” When she said this, I wanted to slap her. So rude, so condescending. Implying that the rest of us are cheap because we won’t shell out for a PPO. TR also belongs to an HMO, though it’s not Kaiser. I joined an HMO on principle, something that I wouldn’t even try to explain to Shelly. It’s also cheaper and geographically convenient. I generally get good care from them and I’m satisfied. Shelly has a smugness that annoys the hell out of me. It’s why we don’t socialize much. It’s also why (I assume) she never invites me to the regular happy hours she organizes in the office. She’s quite picky about who she invites. Ironically, the other invitees are equally good friends of mine and some of them aren’t big Shelly fans either. But, I know, don’t be annoyed at not getting invited to something you don’t want to attend anyway. Except it’s so fantastically rude to have an exclusive group thing in the office that’s not even a secret. I almost admire the gall it takes to pull that off.

Whew–that’s the end of the annoyances. I have one amusement to share.

Amusement #1
I told this guy I wouldn’t write about him, but I can’t resist sharing this story. He’s anonymous so I think it’s ok. I IM occasionally with a couple of guys who I met on the free (dating) site (none of whom I’ve met in person). Yesterday, one of those fellows buzzed me–one who I hadn’t chatted with in months. In the course of our chat, I tell him a little story where I mention a friend’s blog. I’ve never told him about my blog. He writes, “hold on.” Then he sends a link to Grateful Dating. Um, whoops. He says, “Is this your blog?” Eventually I cop to it. Lies of commission are not my style. Apparently, he’s been reading the blog on and off for over a year. He told me it was well written, which was nice to hear. In fact, it made me like him a little more than before. See, flattery will get you everywhere!

Good News
Last, I’m really looking forward to spending time with my Dutch friend, Piet this weekend. I have some good things planned. He’s only here for two days, but I’m going to keep him busy.

Grateful for: flattery.

I ran across a link to the Food Stamp challenge the other day and it made me remember the time I was on food stamps. Luckily, I’ve only ever experienced what my father calls “self-imposed” poverty. That’s the poverty of students, non-profit workers and federal employees (ha ha) who have significant family resources behind them. I don’t have a trust fund, but I’m definitely privileged–we’re solidly (upper) middle-class. I’ve always had the good fortune to know that if I ever fell into financial straights, my parents would bail me out. That’s still the case, but these days, I have the resources to bail them out too, if necessary.

My parents supported me financially during college and a little beyond. (I always had a part-time job, but they wanted me to save money, which I did. I didn’t have a credit card or a car during college, which went a long way towards not spending money.) After I graduated and had a steady job, my allowance stopped (I don’t remember having a conversation about it with my parents, but we must have). After graduating, I paid my own way, but the folks bailed me out to the tune of a few hundred dollars here and there over the years. (I paid for graduate school, but sometimes Dad gave me money for health insurance.) Before I moved for grad school, I got the perks of living in the same town as my mother: free laundry if I trucked it to her place, dinner and movies on her when we went out, home cooked meals, occasional care packages, sick visits, and new socks and underwear on demand. While I made enough money to pay for food, rent and the basics, Mom still helped me in small ways until I left Seattle–and a little after I left too.

A year and a half after I graduated, I got a job as a VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America). I stayed in Seattle and worked for the YWCA. I used to describe VISTA as a domestic Peace Corps, which I believe was the intention behind its founding. During the Clinton years (after my time), it was re-packaged as AmeriCorp. (Aside: I could write a whole post on the VISTA orientation, let alone the overall experience. A highlight was the bit in the orientation handbook about “a thousand points of light.” Ugh.)

VISTA volunteers earn a stipend, not a salary. The stipend is less than minimum wage. There’s a philosophical reason behind the low pay–VISTAs are supposed to be poor. VISTAs work with the poor (though direct service is prohibited) and should experience poverty. But, like Dad says, self-imposed poverty is not the same. It’s not really poverty when your parents buy you a car (only $1,300–but still) or cover the cost of your long distance calls to them.

On my very low VISTA pay, I barely qualified for food stamps. Amazing that you could make approximately $8,000/year and BARELY qualify. I thought it would be smart to apply. Not only because I could use the extra money, but because actually getting food stamps is not something most middle-income people ever do. I was supposed to be poor and this was part of the experience.

I made an appointment at the local welfare office. Ironically, it was in a location that would have been fantastically hard to get to if I didn’t own a car. I also had to take almost the whole day off work because the appointment was in the middle of the day. I had to bring my pay stubs, bank statements and tax forms to demonstrate that I wasn’t too rich and didn’t have too many assets. My only assets were the car and a few hundred dollars in my savings account. My caseworker barely spoke English so the interview was a bit challenging. I believe she came from Russia and I always wondered if they assigned me to her because I have a Russian last name (Barab is Russian, but so is my non-pseudonymous last name). I got through the interview and was told I’d receive $50/month in food stamps.

Using the food stamps was a little embarrassing at first, but the grocery store people never made a fuss and it was fine. These days, benefits come on a card, like an ATM card, but back then the food stamps were paper–like heavy-duty monopoly money. Cool, in a way, but a bit humiliating in practice. Also non-transferable. Food stamps can only be used for food, and only certain types of food (no prepared foods), so purchases had to be made in a combination of cash/check (for the toilet paper, soap, and toothpaste) and food stamps for the rest. It was awkward but manageable. I’d sometimes make food stamp-only runs to avoid the hassle.

Because I was on the margin of being eligible, I had to send in a form and copies of my pay stubs every month. After six months, I’d have to re-certify, which meant another visit to the office, another day off from work, and another assessment of my banking records. Just shy of the six-month mark, I had a month in which I received three checks. I sent in copies of all three pay stubs. Shortly thereafter, I got a letter telling me my income was too high and I would no longer receive food stamps. I was furious. I called and explained that I was earning a salary and just because my monthly pay was higher than usual, my annual income hadn’t changed. The response? “You were going to have to re-certify next month anyway, so why are you complaining?” Nice.

I was so discouraged. I thought, “This system encourages people to cheat.” Because I was honest and sent all three pay stubs, I was punished. If I’d only sent two, no one would have noticed. I seriously debated re-certifying. I didn’t want to go back and deal with all the paperwork and the dour caseworker. Eventually, I concluded that if I were involuntarily poor, I would have to go back. This was part of the deal–being poor means fewer choices. I went back and got another six months of food stamps. I was sincerely trying to live within my means, but supporting even one person (and a car) on $8,000 a year was not easy. I still had Mom if I needed her and thank goodness for that.

Interestingly, after VISTA ended, I had no steady job and even less money. It never occurred to me once during that time to reapply. Since then, I’ve either had too much income to quality or been a student–and in many places, full time students aren’t eligible (I understand why, but what about full-time students who are actually poor???)–so I’ve never gotten food stamps again. While I fully support the program, I’m glad I’ve never had to use it again. I know I’m not just lucky, but I am grateful.

Grateful for: plenty to eat.

The other day, I got a “friends” request on my facebook account. Yes, I have a facebook account. Why? I read about a blogger’s obsession with the site and I wanted to see what it was all about, so I signed up. I’ve never used it much, but it’s there and until this weekend I had about seven friends.



(Aside: in fact, I got two friends requests this weekend. The first was from one of my first cousins once removed (the son of a first cousin). He’s a senior in high school, a good kid and of course I added him. It was amusing and sweet that he even made the request.)



The other request was from Frank Ider. That stunned me. I will never forget Frank Ider but I didn’t expect him to remember me, or search me out on a website. Nor did it occur to me to search for him. I was shocked to realize that he’s grown older–and is now quite close to my age. When I was 19 and he was 16 (and a half!), our age difference seemed quite significant, now, not so much.



Oddly enough, I was thinking about Frank just a couple of weeks ago. He came to mind when those BYU students protested Cheney’s giving their commencement address. We had a protest at my commencement too, though our reason was more prosaic. Instead of inviting an outside speaker, the address was given by the president of the university, William Gerberding, a man who was mainly known for making himself unknown to students. To wit, there was a tiny daily column in our student newspaper called “Gerb Watch,” which would report Gerberding sightings around campus.



The day of commencement, some enterprising students handed out white paper armbands for us to wear as a protest. I happily fastened mine around my gown, but it fell off before I even made it into the main hall. Our walk was strewn with strips of white paper that had likewise failed to stay fastened on anyone’s arm. It was the little protest that couldn’t.



During the ceremony, while Gerb gave a long, boring speech, I was seated next to Frank Ider. We talked non-stop and I had a great time. When I saw Dad afterwards, I told him I hadn’t heard a word of the speech and I asked him what Gerb had said. Dad was furious and told me, “It was one of the worst speeches I’ve ever heard! It’s good you didn’t pay attention.” Heh.



Frank Ider and I had been on exactly one date about a year prior to commencement. In my mind, Frank remains that 16-year-old guy who ended our date with one of the most passionate kisses of my life–a kiss full of angst and hormones. He was acerbic, biting and witty. He was an asshole. But I sure loved joking around with him. Our date was hilarious. We’d been flirting for a while and then started calling each other. Eventually, I told him to ask me out and he did. I borrowed my mom’s car and I picked him up at his parents’ house in Bellevue. We had pizza and saw a bad Dan Acroyd movie (he liked it, I granted that it was “funny”). I took him home and tiptoed into his basement room where he played records for me from his Depeche Mode collection. When it was time to go, he walked me to the car and gave me that kiss….



I was disappointed that we didn’t go out again, but I got over it quickly. At least as quickly as I ever do.



When I got the friend request from Frank, I wrote him a note but didn’t write back. I was curious to see if he’s changed, if he’s the same grumpy, acerbic, funny guy he always was. But maybe it’s just as well. It might be better to keep my memory safe. If Frank has mellowed with time, I don’t want to know about it.



UPdate: Just got an email from Frank today. He seems awfully nice and friendly. Sigh.

Grateful for: college.

I meant to get ahead on work this weekend, but that didn’t happen. Well, it sort of happened. I wrote maybe half a page of notes on the document I was trying to finish reading and incorporated them into a final write-up this morning. That was something. I really don’t like to work on the weekends. Perhaps I don’t really like to work at all…however, when it’s my own laziness that’s causing me to miss deadlines, I will make a token effort to work on the weekend. And that’s exactly what I did.



The trip to Ann Arbor went well. I had my usual nostalgic flashes, which I would write about except that I covered all that in my previous post on the topic last year.



On my way home, I talked to my “date” (who shall from now on be known as “Kenny”) and made plans for Sunday. Yep, we were both too busy to do anything on Saturday. I had all that work to do–and the baseball game in the evening.



Once home on Friday, I received a series of texts from my buddy, PW. Drunk texting! I was flattered to be the object of such attention, non-romantic though
it was. He emailed in the morning and we ended up going to Ikea together so I could return the comforter (mission accomplished, no questions asked). The Ikea trip took up a good chunk of the day and I needed to rest (or knit) a little when I got home. So much for working.



I wrote a whole angsty post about the “date” with the “ex” but now my take on the whole thing is “eh.” We had a good time together. He wants to be friends. He doesn’t realize that the reason he wants to be friends is that he likes the attention he gets from me. He likes being around someone who “likes” him. I don’t want to be friends with him because we are never getting back together and spending time with him is seriously bittersweet. I got exactly what I wanted out of the evening, though: a pleasant time and the precise knowledge I needed to keep him out of my life. No more nostalgia on that end. Amusingly (?), Kenny called twice (to modify our Sunday plans) while I was out with the ex–once during the bike ride to the stadium and once during the bike ride home. I called him back after the second time.



On Sunday morning, I was in the mood for diner-fare and I got up early-ish and rode my bike to the neighborhood place. It was absolutely the worst food I’ve ever had there. I opted for the simple “two eggs and bacon” breakfast. Because the eggs are always slightly undercooked, I asked for them over medium. Not only were they not medium, the whites were still clear in places. The bacon was also underdone and the toast was buttered to within an inch of its life. Ugh. Besides all that, it is overpriced–$7+ for incorrectly cooked eggs and coffee. I’m never going there again. So sad. After, I went to another coffee shop and tried, again, to get my work reading done. I was mildly successful.



The last item on the agenda was to meet my friend, Katrin, who is visiting from Holland (she’s here for work). We planned to meet at her hotel, walk to the mall and have dinner later. Kenny was going to meet us at the museum. Our plans were a little stymied by the constant mild/heavy rain, though she was prepared with a slicker and an umbrella (she’s from Holland after all!). We had a pleasant time and it was cool that Kenny went out of his way to meet us. He only hung around for about an hour and a half before familial duty called. Makes me appreciate being rather far away from all of my immediate family.



The time with Katrin was nice but a little awkward. I’m friends with her because I’ve known her boyfriend since I was 21 and made a trip to Europe on my own after college. Piet and I met in a crowded room in a pensione in Barcelona. We were both there for about two weeks. After the first few days, where we got to know each other in a group context, we spent every day together. Every evening we’d go out for dinner, drinking or dancing. We became good friends and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. We used to write letters regularly, then email, and then nothing really. Even though we don’t stay in as close contact as we used to, there is an understanding that we’re still friends. Piet will always send me a post card from his summer travels or include me in group emails from the road (even when they were in Dutch!). When his daughter was born last year, I received a birth announcement. I’ve seen him a few times in the states–he came to visit me in Chapel Hill my first year there and stayed for a week (a looong time in CH). I’ve been to see him in Holland twice in the last ten years–and that’s when I met Katrin. They were living together and I stayed with them for a couple of days on each visit. (I also spent time in Amsterdam on both trips.) Katrin and Piet were here in DC for several days about five years ago and they stayed with me. The most remarkable thing about that visit was the way they unselfconsciously gallivanted around my tiny studio apartment in their underwear. (No, she wasn’t topless.) It was fun, though, and the three of us got along better than I expected. That is, I expected to get along with Piet, but I wasn’t so sure about Katrin. Luckily, it worked out well.



However, Katrin and I still don’t know each other very well. She’s in DC for business for a few days and sent me an email about getting together last week. Oddly, Piet is coming to visit me next weekend. I guess she’s going to New York after her business is done, meeting Piet, then going home. After she goes home, he’ll come here and stay with me. I’m glad Katrin’s not the jealous type! I admit, I’m looking forward to the alone-time with Piet. Not that we won’t spend time with my friends, too. But the opportunity to have a long one-on-one conversation with him is rare. I’m also looking forward to seeing the baby pictures of his daughter, which Katrin didn’t bring. Her words, “I’m a terrible mother!” I don’t agree but it’s funny not to carry a single picture of your kid. Piet is a big hobby photographer, though, so I figure she’s left the photo-taking and carrying responsibilities to him.



It was a long weekend, that’s for sure, full of emotional moments but a lot of calm ones too. I haven’t talked about this much but I feel like I’ve made a lot of progress dealing with the bad-news men in my life. I’m seeing things with a clarity that I lacked in the past. You could argue it was foolish, for example, to get involved with Kansas even a tiny bit (I won’t disagree), but the limits I put on my involvement with him and the way I got out–it was unusual for me. And with the ex this weekend–it felt like great progress. While I was with him, I was a little drawn in, but since waking up on Sunday morning I haven’t been tempted to call or email–not even to explain why I don’t want to be friends. I don’t have anything left to say to him. And while I don’t know what’s going to happen with Kenny, I like him and I like that I’m not feeling anxious or rushed.What ever happens, happens, and I’m just enjoying the ride.

Grateful for: old friends.

I’ve been sorting through some old photos (due to computer crankiness) and I found some cute kitty pics. Enjoy.

Grateful for: tabitha.