Finding the way home

This weekend I had cause to travel back to the city in which I used to live. To give a bit of background, I lived there for 32 years and the last six months of that was spent commuting between my new condo here and my old job there, five days a week. The distance between the two cities is just around 90 minutes.

In other words, I should know this area of central Illinois well.

So, tell me, why was I unable to remember how to get back to my former hometown on Saturday? I knew there was a way to get there through the back roads, those unbeaten paths between small country villages, but for the life of me, I could not remember how to do it. I sat at the intersection in one small town for as long as I dared, staring at the road ahead, knowing that was the beginning of that back road journey but I could not remember the way. I was scared to move forward because I could not picture what came next. I did not think I would remember which landmark to look for, which country road was the right one to turn on to lead me toward my destination.

So instead of going straight, I turned right, went the familiar path, the one that would take me by my mother’s house, and if followed long enough, would take me to my father’s. From that road, I could find my way to familiar main thoroughfares and find my way to the place I used to live. It cost me 30 minutes on my journey but I felt more secure doing it.

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Four hours later, I left my former hometown and started the journey back here, to the place I now live. I was traveling the way I had come when I saw the sign for an intersection ahead. Suddenly, I knew how to get here, using the formerly familiar back roads route. I turned right at the intersection, following the road through sleepy farming communities and dense wooded areas. The path unfolded in front of me as it did in my mind’s eye. I could see what lay ahead before I was upon it.

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I have never subscribed to the notion that home is a place. Home to me is a feeling, one of contentment, security, love and warmth. I have looked my entire life for my home and only recently have felt like I may have found it. I will be able to live anywhere and be comfortable but that feeling of home will be carried with me, in my heart and in the relationships I form.

The road to home is not always familiar but it is there. You just have to find that intersection and turn; give your heart to someone and love. Then, you will find your way home.

I feel a little dirty

I cannot believe I am even going to write this, let alone write it in a public forum, but in the interest of total honesty and wanting to get that silly cake picture moved down the page, I am going to. Are you ready?

I went to Wal-Mart today.

I know, I know. I have posted before about my loathing for Wal-Mart and how I would never grace its doors again but let me tell you what happened. I cannot justify it but at least I can give you the details.

Today started at 2:30am, as have most of the days in the past few weeks. To say my sleep schedule is off would be quite the understatement. Anyway, I was up at 2:30am and could not go to work until 6:30am. By 4am, I had cleaned the kitchen, gotten ready for work, and written in my journal. By 4:02am, I was climbing the walls.

Yes, it was 4:02am and I was already bored.

I thought about what else I could do to pass the time and considered more cleaning but I was already dressed in my work clothes and yeah, no. Then I considered more writing but I was not in the mood for that either. So I decided I would do my weekly grocery shopping, fill the gas tank, and run by the pharmacy before work. It should not be a problem to get all that done, especially since from the looks of things on the streets, I was the only one out and about.

I pulled up to my favorite supermarket, picked up my reusable tote bags, locked the vehicle and headed inside. Or, I should say, tried to head inside. The doors were locked. The lights were on, people were inside, but I was not allowed to enter. A very nice kid came and opened the door and said the store did not open until 6am. When did this happen? When did my 24/7 except for six hours overnight Sunday store begin closing at night?

I really need to get out more.

So there I was, getting close to 4:30am and no supermarket. I briefly thought about heading to East Peoria and picking up my pharmacy stuff and groceries all in one trip but when I tried to calculate the time it would take to drive there, and drive back, put everything away, and then drive back to Peoria for work… it just did not seem feasible or very eco-friendly. Since I was on the right side of town for the gas station, I decided to go ahead and stop there while I determined my next move. Driving to the gas station, I saw the Wal-Mart sign.

Of course. The evil giant never sleeps.

As I filled the tank with gasoline I fought with myself over whether or not I could actually go to Wal-Mart and purchase anything. It kind of made me feel sick. But sitting around for two hours waiting to go to work seemed pretty wasteful. I was torn. Finally, my need for effective time management overtook my personal mores and I went to Wal-Mart and did my food shopping.

I must say, if you ever want to experience Wal-Mart in its best light, going at 4:30am is probably as good as it gets. Or if you like scaring the bejeezus out of people, try wheeling a cart around the corner of an aisle where a stocker has been working alone for probably a good four hours and watch them jump out of their skins. And at 4:30am? You can do that on EVERY aisle. Good times.

The next time I do not know how to fill two hours in the morning, I will stick to writing. The only semi-proud moment from all of this was the fact that Wal-Mart did not even enter my mind until I saw the sign. But that is sort of like Winona saying she did not intend to shoplift until she saw the pretty clothes. WE ARE BOTH SICK.

Come back next week, when I will regale you with my experience of clubbing a baby seal and making it into a pot pie. I mean, honestly, who knows what I am capable of doing at this point?

Three

Today marks the third anniversary of Reflecting. I have to be honest, some days it feels like a lot longer, but usually that is because I can barely remember a time before the friendships I have made here.

Thank you for visiting, for reading, and commenting. Your support and encouragement and commiseration have been invaluable. WIthout you, Reflecting would not have become such an important part of me.

Please, have a piece of cake. You have earned it!

And this allows me to cross off #64 from my 100 Things list: “Keep the same blog for at least three years.”

I may talk about work in this one, or maybe not. I wasn’t really paying attention.

I heard an interesting story in a meeting this morning, which may or may not be true (the story, not the meeting), and if true, may or may not have happened at my company (again, the story, not the meeting). It is all very mysterious. In fact, picture wavy lines through this whole post, as if it were a dream sequence in a television program. Do it. I can’t afford special effects and you have perfectly good imaginations just rotting idling there. Thank you.

In the meeting (I know, this part is factual, but keep the wavy lines because they are kind of trippy, which is cool), we were discussing how to recognize and reward employees using non-financial means, because while we understand the importance of keeping people motivated and appreciating effort that goes above and beyond, it is hard to justify any cash expenditures these days. It sounds like a great idea, coming up with ways to recognize people without spending money, but there is always someone who can muck it up.

Cue the story (Which now that I think about it, is not about recognizing people with non-financial means at all so I don’t know why it was even told at the meeting. Don’t I feel stupid. Well, I have come too far to turn back now, so if you can imagine wavy lines, you can surely imagine this post has a coherent theme. Thank you again.)

And now, cue the story.

The story: An employee was soon to be celebrating a major service anniversary milestone (actual number of years withheld to protect the innocent, where innocent equals me.) (Stop laughing.) with the company. Even in our corporation, where people tend to stick around longer than body odor in a taxi cab, this was a very large number of years and a big deal. The manager of this employee did some background research into the employee’s work history and found that not only had this employee worked for the company for all those many years, this person had also always displayed a great work ethic and productivity level, and, the real kicker, had never missed a day of work due to illness.

Think of that. Decades (and decades) (See how I’m getting the point across without actually saying anything? ‘Tis a gift.) of work with only holidays and vacation days to look forward to. I don’t know about you but I don’t mind a nasty cold or minor flu bug now and then. It is a day or two off work and you lose five pounds. Win-win.

Anyway, the manager was very excited and wanted to have a very nice recognition ceremony (read: cake) (Great, now I want cake.) for this employee when the special day arrived. However, given that we understand human nature and that people do not have cookie-cutter personalities (Well, crap, now I want cookies. Way to go.), it is our practice to ask the employee what type of recognition, if any, they want. When the manager asked if the employee would like to have a special ceremony or party, this particular employee responded that it would be appreciated if no special fuss was made. This hardworking, dedicated employee would like to observe the anniversary of decades upon decades on the job as just another day.

Well, this was not good enough for the manager. All those years of unfailing devotion to the company deserved fanfare and hoopla and banners, oh my! When the employee unwittingly walked into the fanfare-hoopla-bannered ceremony, it was clearly visible that the whole spectacle was very uncomfortable (There may have been blanching or a nervous tic that developed, I’m not sure, that part of the story was fuzzy.) However, being a good corporate minion, the employee soldiered through the event, mustering a weak smile and lukewarm appreciation.

The next day, the employee called in sick.

Coincidence or silent revolt? Can it be called a coincidence when we all saw it coming? I think not.

You can dissolve the wavy lines now.

The moral of the story: Listen to people. When they tell you what they want, what they need, who they are, BELIEVE THEM. Someone else’s achievement or sorrow or special day is just that, someone else’s. It is never, not once, about you.

The sub-moral of the story: Gimme some cake. Or (read: and) cookies.

Step one

Back when I first started blogging, I read about a few bloggers who were participating in this strange contest of sorts that had them writing a novel in 30 days. I scoffed, I pondered, I wondered how in the world someone could write anything that could be called a novel in just 30 days. Aren’t those things supposed to take months, or even years, to complete? The good ones should anyway, right? Why would anyone spend 30 days producing something that is not worth reading in the end?

I did not think this was for me.

Then I realized, at least these people were writing. I was only thinking about writing. It was not as though I was producing anything to read at the end of November, either.

From the NaNoWriMo site, “Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.”

I can muster up enthusiasm about writing, no problem. I have been known to persevere a time or two. I have more than fleetingly thought about writing a novel. And, man, I have definitely been scared.

Sounded perfect for me after all.

Why am I telling you all this? From the NaNoWriMo welcome email I received, “Tell everyone you know that you’re writing a novel in November. This will pay big dividends in Week Two, when the only thing keeping you from quitting is the fear of looking pathetic in front of all the people who’ve had to hear about your novel for the past month. Seriously. … The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.” Although, I am not sure this will help me much because I obviously have no problem looking pathetic in front of you (see Archives), I will take encouragement and support wherever I can find it and you have always been there for me. (Thank you.)

So, for the month of November, I will be writing a novel. If, at the end, I have at least 50,000 words to my story, I win.

I like writing and I like winning. This should be fun.

You better believe I added this to my 100 Things list. Writing, crossing things off lists, multi-tasking… I am winning already.