Turn Up The Heat

When I opened my apartment door this morning, my spirits dropped quite a few percentage points. Not only was it cold, as in, go-back-inside-and-get-a-warm-coat cold, it was also pouring. I sighed, ducked my head, and made a run for my car.

By the time I made it inside my office, I was slightly soggy, incredibly cold, and in a fairly bad mood. I turned the electric kettle on straight away, and tried to cheer myself by anticipating the hot tea that would soon be in my hand.

I drank a cup. Then another, but I couldn’t seem to shake the cold from myself. Finally I realized that the building itself is what was making me cold, as we have not yet turned the heat on this season. It is only the beginning of October after all, and in my family, it’s practically a sin to turn the heat on at a premature date, such as October 14^th. In Kentucky, this is the time of year when you embrace the chill in the air with a sweatshirt, or if you’re bold enough, flannel. But sometimes you have to take a stand, family morals be damned.

So I skulked over to the thermostat on the wall and made the adjustment, instantly gratified by the sound of the unit kicking in. My shame was thick in the air around me, until the smell of memory reached my nose.

You know that smell associated with central heat that comes strongly the first use of the year, then faintly all through the winter? I associate this smell with warmth and comfort, because it welcomes me home when coming in from the bitter coldness of winter. However, that’s not the only meaning it holds for me.

Beginning when we moved to Kentucky when I was 6-years-old, I cannot remember a cold day in my childhood when my brothers and I did not fight over whose turn it was to sit on the heat duct in the living room of the house we grew up in. It was big enough for two if you were willing to squish together, always attempting to subtly ease the other person off to one side. Pulling your shirt wide over the vent made you look like a tent sporting a head.

Our backs and bottoms would roast, but getting up was an automatic forfeit of your spot, so we’d bear it as long as possible. Sometimes Mom would make us take a break when the room itself got too cold due to the deprivation caused by we the heat thieves, but usually we’d rotate turns throughout the school day, working math problems and compositions until we were red faced and hot to the touch.

One by one, my older brothers finished their time in home school, leaving fewer bodies in the rotation, until finally Scotty and I were the last two kids in the house. We didn’t have to fight for our spots anymore, but since there is no fun without competition, we’d struggle to keep the entire vent to ourselves.

I love these vent sitting memories, and when the strong smell of heat hit me this morning, the first of the year, they turned my sour morning into nostalgic comfort.

I think I’ll go make another cup of tea…

Ode To Fall

Sitting on my deck as the rain pours down around me, I am a part of everything. The lightning is mine, visible when I'm not looking. Thunder, a predictable comfort, persists in being heard, even by those without ears to listen.

I watch the new drops as they violently displace the old, forming bodies on the asphalt.

The air around becomes a cloud, the world a blur of colorless vitality.

Dampness fills my nostrils. Sweet, musty dew clings within until I can longer distinguish my body from my surroundings.

My bare toes lightly pummeled by rogue droplets become part of the inconsistent patter. Not a rhythm, but a melody, the notes floating here and there as the rain beats fast. Then slow. Fast. Then faster...

A spicy aroma mixes with the damp as the tea in my hand loses its heat. Quiet tones from my melancholy stereo merge with the full orchestra of the water falling from nowhere; a perfect harmony.

Looking up from the book in my lap with the dog eared pages and care worn cover, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, sighing over my encounter with perfection.

Fall is here.

I Smile Because I'm Happy

There are many things I am oblivious to, though it would be difficult to assess whether my obliviousness makes me the same or sets me apart from the average person. Mostly, I think nothing of minuscule details relating to how people say things, or the body language they use. I don't look for underlying meaning, because usually people are not like characters in books; they are not "clever." Because I don't look for a deeper meaning in the words and physical signals of others, I don't imagine that they are looking for those sorts of things in me either. Perhaps it is the homeschooler in me, but I assume every one's innocence unless I see proof of guilt.

Every once in a while I'll read this thing on Craigslist called "Missed Connections", and when I do, I am always thoroughly entertained, because it is chocked full of people who interprete small actions as being extremely meaningful and life changing. Here's the idea.

A person looks over and sees his/her soul mate. It's usually someone they've never seen before, just sitting in their car waiting for the light to change, or reading a book in a coffee shop. Because the person reading their book or waiting in traffic can feel someones eyes boring holes into them, they look up to see who is so interested in their ordinary goings on. Eye contact is established. Perhaps one or both of the parties smiles. Then the light changes and each person goes their separate way, or neither person has the guts to say "hello", and the reader goes back to their book while the starer walks on.

Instead of forgetting about this person you've never met and getting on with your day, you torture yourself, insisting to your brain that what your heart felt was real. Your soul mate has been found living in your very own city, and yet, you may never come across them again. You blew it.

"Missed Connections" is where these people post their pleas. They describe the situation in which they saw the person and knew they were meant to be together. Forever. "Please", they say, "if you read this, email me. I recognize you as my soul mate, and in the brief moment our eyes met, I could tell you felt it too."

I read an article a few months ago on people who had met their spouses by using this outlet, but let's be honest, for the most part, it just seems kind of creepy and sad. I don't doubt that some couples just see each other and "know," but more often than not, I'm willing to bet that one person sees their soul mate and the other person sees a potential stalker. Maybe they did smile uncomfortably at the person staring shamelessly at them as they went about their day, but that doesn't mean a reciprocated interest.

When I was young, I was taught to be friendly and polite to everyone. Kindness is contagious, so make eye contact, smile, and be attentive to what people are saying. This attitude has always worked well for me. It's true that you reap what you sow, so give a smile, get a smile. Give a kind word, get a kind word, and so on. I've been incorporating this mindset into my personality for so long, it has long since become a habit.

Now, at the age of 23, I'm beginning to discover that the habit of kindness can be just as much a curse as a blessing. I find it being taken the wrong way by single men everywhere, and I start to wonder if I am really the only kind, single girl in this city, or if the guys I encounter just don't get out much.

Guys, here's a tip: if I look you in the eye, I'm probably not hitting on you. If I smile in your general direction, I'm not necessarily looking for a date. If you start a conversation and I participate, this is not an automatic invitation for you to ask me for my number. It's called making human connections, and because I like to smile at and converse with EVERYONE, you cannot assume that my attention means I am your soul mate.

I realize that sometimes there is a fine line between human kindness and dating signals, but are most people so harsh that they won't even laugh when you tell a joke, causing you to assume that when someone does, they are in love with you?

At work, there's a temp that's been working in our shop for the past two weeks or so. He's a very nice, Nascar loving hillbilly type, with an accent so thick that even I, a girl who has lived in KY for more than 17 years, have trouble understanding what he's saying. Every few days, he'd walk up to my desk and talk to me briefly. He told me his troubles and I listened; not really uncommon in my administrative position, which some days is not so very different from being a bar tender.

Because he's difficult to understand, I try to pick out the subject of his sentence, then read his face to see if he is for or against the matter on which he is speaking, then sympathize with his plight. When it comes down to it, that's all most people need to make their day a little brighter.

Sometimes he'd come up to my desk and inform that he was going to "the store" on his break, and would ask me if I wanted anything. I would assure him I was fine, but thanked him for asking. He'd ask me if I was sure I didn't want "a pop or anything." I told him I was sure. I figured this guy was maybe a little off, but very nice just the same.

He came up to my desk the other morning, and we talked for a minute. Then he asked me out on a lunch date. I wasn't taken aback at first, because honestly, I didn't know he'd asked me. As I said before, I'm lucky if I can pick out the subject in his sentences and then nod or shake my head depending on what I think his meaning might be. I understood "lunch", and figured he was just excited about his approaching break. Then I noticed the way he was looking at me and listened as he mumbled a few more sentences, causing me to put all the pieces together. Unbeknownst to me, I was being courted. Gosh was I glad I hadn't accepted the "pop" offer.

What's a girl to do? How can you let the hopeful boys down without hurting their feelings and self-esteem? How do you explain that you recognize that they are interesting, good people, but you're not attracted to them. How do you say, "leave me alone, I think you're a little off" in a nice way? Well it's not rocket science. You lie. There's nothing handier than a fake boyfriend, let me tell you.

So, now you know. I'm a liar, and I believe my parents are to blame. Mom, Dad, I know you guys read these, and I just want to bluntly tell you both that this is your fault for raising me to be kind. I hope you're happy.

Hostile Heroes

It's possible that after this post you'll think less of me, but less is more, right? Okay, probably the person who came up with that saying didn't mean for it to be used in a case such as this, but as a modern American, I've decided to apply for my right to use words out of context in order to feel more a part of my generation. So here goes.

I enjoy the spectacle of passive aggressive hostility. In fact, not only do I enjoy it, I envy those that are able to successfully employ it.

Mind you, I'm not a huge fan of this kind of behavior when it's directed at me. I know what you're thinking: who could ever be angry with Kari? Hard to believe, I know, and yes, it's a rare occurrence, but every once in a while I manage to tick off someone in my close proximity. When this happens, I'm rarely confronted by the person who has taken issue, but I can feel their subtle anger. My coping mechanism? Avoidance. I simply wait it out. Maybe not the most mature course of action, especially when an apology is in order, but it's always worked for me.

However, on the flip side, I must say that I've never been able to hold a silent grudge efficiently enough to make any lasting impact on the offending party. The problem is I've never been mad enough at anyone to remember why I'm mad at them in the first place. Last year I dated this guy for a couple months, and he did some things that made me feel angry and hurt. I stopped talking to him for a week, and when I did tell him what was wrong, it was over the phone. I knew that if I talked to him in person, the concern in his eyes would make me forget why I was angry. You see, I wasn't even really that upset, I just knew that due to his behavior towards me I was supposed to be upset. So I wrote a list entitled "The Reasons I'm Mad At You" and brought them up one by one during our phone conversation. Lame, yes, but I honestly am incapable of holding offences against people for longer than a day, and often that includes even a clear memory of the offence.

That's why I stand in awe of people who are capable of becoming so intensely angry they loudly confront the object of their anger. Even more impressive are those that avoid direct confrontation in order to inflict their wrath subtly.

This morning there was an incident at work, and one of the guys in our shop feels he was unjustly yelled at for something that wasn't his fault. Rather than yell back, or attempt to explain that he is not responsible for the problem he is being blamed for, he remained completely silent throughout the verbal carnage. I'm positive that the accuser will be sorry for the things he said when he realizes the way in which the accused handles this type of thing. The payback has already begun. The wronged man will do everything within his power to make the confronter's job something to be dreaded. Already he has gone around undoing the courteous things he had done to benefit his coworker, from this day forth prepared to help him with only the bare minimum required. No one would want to have this man for an enemy. Considering what I know about him, I'm pretty sure he's never let go of a grudge in his life.

I guess I shouldn't be enjoying the gruesome updates on this matter, but I can't help it. I'm so impressed by both of them that my respect for each has grown. I applaud the confronter for his boldness. I cheer for the passive aggressive for his revengeful determination. To me they're not petty men, but heroes.

Horn Tooting

There's no way he's going to make it. The truck is too big. The driveway, too small.

Where I work, I see the phenomenon that is semi-truck driving several times a week. Situated in a narrow streeted business district, the Hotwork building houses not only offices, but a large work shop as well. You might be surprised to learn that in our own Lexington, KY, tools and machinery used to maintain factories and refineries all over the United States, Canada, and Mexico are tested and repaired, a constant stream of comings and goings as one job finishes and another begins.

Surprisingly, it doesn't take much manpower to unload and reload the humongous trucks that
carry equipment from one location to another. The men employed in these positions are strong and fairly young, not yet to the age of worrying about the potential negative long term repercussions associated with constant intensive labor. They work quickly and efficiently, barely giving the transport driver a chance to use the restroom and stretch his legs sufficiently before he reluctantly assumes his position behind the large wheel awaiting his instruction.

Sometimes the shop guys complain that the truck driver's are annoying, because they talk too much. Often after their departure, everyone talks about how odd they are, laughing about the queer things they say. It's true. They are usually annoying and say weird things, but come on, you've got to cut them some slack. They are alone in a tiny cab all day, every day, driving, driving, driving. When I drive long distances, it's my excited anticipation of the place I'm journeying toward that keeps me sane. In 4 hours I'll get to see Kelly. Just 10 more hours to Green Bay. Without a great payoff to look forward to , I don't know that I'd be able to force my body to sit still and solitary for hours and hours, knowing I'd be doing the same thing the next day. It's true that there are many mundane things we must do to live life. We have to work, if we want food and shelter. I don't know of anyone who's job is so stimulating, they are always eager for more. But it's one thing to be bored, daydreaming about the end of your shift, and quite another to be caged inside a small box day after day, never having anyone to talk to or make any kind of contact with.

There are days I get tired of spending time with my co-workers. Tired of the whining and complaining. Tired of sympathizing with their mundane problems. Tired of their weird habits and odors. Tired. But if I had to choose between working with them or working completely alone, I would most definitely choose the former. Any sane person would. That's why solitary confinement is a punishment, not a reward.

I don't know how truck driver's do what they do. Besides the solitude, they perform miracles. I've seen trucks that seem wider than roads maneuvered to into tiny driveways, then backed up to be unloaded and reloaded for a new task. When I use a mirror, it's for the sake of vanity. When they use one, it's a tool that saves property and lives.

In summation, truck drivers should be admired, even if they are weird conversationalists.

So next time you pass a giant semi on the highway, be sure to smile, wave, and make the universal arm motion for horn tooting; it might be the only contact with another human being they have all week.

Blame The Paper

I'm tired. I'm hungry. Nothing works. Someone's going to pay!

These were the words running through my head last night as I struggled to maintain sanity after working for 11 hours straight. On a normal week, I set aside one week night after my regular 8-5 job, and go to my second job, where I am in charge of mailing all kinds of marketing brochures. I work until I've finished the tasks set to me, which usually takes anywhere from 2 to 5 hours. Overall, this makes for a long day, but with all of the other activities and obligations I have going on, one night is all I can spare, and that just barely.

Last night was incredibly frustrating, because when I got to job #2 (not having had time to get dinner), I found that the printer I use to print my brochures on is gone, and a new one is sitting in its place. This would have been a good thing since I sometimes have problems with the old printer, except that my computer had not been set up to use the new printer. I tried several different computer functions to try and get my machine to recognize the new device, but as my computer knowledge is fairly limited, I ran out of ideas, having accomplished nothing.

After giving up on the idea of printing new brochures, I figured I could at least get down to business on the ones that had been pre-printed. I worked steadily for an hour or so, loading stacks of paper into the folding machine, combining the various flyer's, cramming them in envelopes and setting them aside. Everything was going okay until for seemingly no reason, when I put a stack of papers into the folding machine, the stupid thing tried to pull about six pieces of paper through at the same time, causing it to jam. Unscrewing this and pulling on that has always fixed paper jams in the past, but this time I was unsuccessful. I prodded and poked at this thing for a while before giving up in frustration, cuts, broken fingernails, and despair.

By this point, the combination of my hunger, tiredness, and anger were becoming an issue. I wanted to leave, but since I didn't know when I would have another free night to work, I figured I should barrel through and get as much done as I possibly could. So I put my head down and began trifolding everything by hand. If you've never folded paper in mass, you may not understand what I'm saying when I tell you it HURT! If someone tells you they got hurt at their office job, you probably assume they mean a paper cut, and you laugh. Paper cuts are a somewhat humorous job risk when you consider someone in the field of construction or some other hard labor profession who has to worry about smashing their thumb with a hammer, or having a brick fall on their head. It's true that I wasn't in danger, sitting in my cushy, hydraulic chair, but that doesn't mean my job wasn't causing me pain. Folding large stacks of paper cuts your fingers in 10 different places each time you make a crease. As you pull your fists along the thick stack of folded sheets to bend them into the proper shape, you get long, carpet type burns . It actually wears the skin off your hand after you do it enough times. This type of folding also requires quite a lot of pressure, so it doesn't take long for your entire hand and wrist to cramp up and become worn out and inflexible.

You're probably thinking that I'm being ridiculous in making such a big deal over something so minute, and probably your right. It's just paper after all. But when you add these afflictions on top of my previously mentioned bodily shortcomings and technological frustrations, maybe you can sympathize as least a little with my building anger. In my head, with every cut and burn I received, I assigned blame. This was my boss' fault for not maintaining the folding machine properly. That was the tech. guys fault for forgetting to hook up the new printer to my computer. The more I folded, the madder I got, and the more irrational I was in my placing of blame. This was my teacher's fault for giving me such a big assignment over the weekend and causing me to lose sleep. That was my friend's fault for talking me into going out to dinner a few nights ago, leaving me with no money to eat out when I'm hungry. This was my friend's boyfriend's mother's dog's fault for...

The thing about placing blame is that once you get started, it's almost impossible to stop.

This morning, after getting a good night's sleep and some Fruit Loops in my tummy, I sat down to read the news. I came across an article about a government subsidized Mexican daycare that burned down, killing over 40 young children. This tragedy has become a large scale political drama, the heartbroken parents and other members of the community claiming that this horrific event (sparked by faulty wiring in an old air conditioning unit) is the fault of ambivalent politicians. Obviously I don't know all the details surrounding this situation, but it seems to me that the deaths of these innocent children are not specifically anyone's fault. Perhaps there is an aspect of neglect in this case, but no one meant for such a terrible thing to happen.

When we consider the past and present, there are certainly instances in which we can place authentic blame on definite parties. However, more often than not, bad and hurtful things just happen, because we live in a flawed world. Attributing blame to one specific person or thing is not incredibly productive, but I suppose it's just human nature.

This is what I know: I am now truly grateful for my usually working folding machine, because I have felt the pain and frustration of folding by hand.

The Unforseen Treasure

Work dinners. Feared. Dreaded. Mandatory.

Shortly after I started working at my current job, I was required to attend a fancy dinner after hours, and I was petrified. Sure, I am with the same people at work, but still being new, I felt it would be awkward to interact on a strictly social level and undergo a communion with them and their spouses, the whole time wearing a face crippling smile. Not only was I new, I was also single, and the prospect of facing a large group of couples made my stomach turn over, so I did what any rational person would do in this situation: I refused to go alone. I asked my best, single guy friend to come along, and most likely hearing the panic in my voice, he took pity on me and graciously agreed to be my date. That's how I made it through the first dinner.

Now that I've been working for the company awhile, I feel much more comfortable and relaxed with my co-workers and do not hesitate to interact with them and their families after hours. After all, once you work with a group of people in tight quarters for 40 hours every week, in every season, you pretty much know their life stories, the horrible things right along with the interesting things. They've become family.

So as I walked alone into the Campbell House for a work dinner last night, I felt nothing resembling trepidation, only hunger and delight at the prospect of having someone wait on me in a fancy dining room, while devouring expensive food, and drinking the beer of my choice. The occasion for this particular dinner was an annual conference which is put on for our customers. This means, mingle, be on your best behaviour, and smile even more than usual. Totally do-able. The first hour was dedicated to drinking, standing around, and or course, talking (laughing was not mandatory but certainly appreciated). I was introduced to a few customers, but mostly I spent the time talking with a co-worker's wife who is from Columbia and is really interesting.

When it was time to sit down for dinner, I walked over to where I saw some of my familiars settling in. However, on approaching the table, my boss, who's in charge of the whole event, says I should mingle with customers aka strangers and give them a good impression of our company. What??? Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself, I'm told that I must leave my comfort zone!! It's true what they say, there really is no such thing as a free meal.

Reluctantly, I shuffled to the other side of the room, looking for a table where the occupants didn't look too intimidating. I must tell you that this was not an easy task. The room was filled predominately with men. Business men. Old, grouchy, bizarre, dull, awkward men, many of whom host strange, unpleasant odors. I headed to a table in the corner that was only half full and asked a man sitting there if the seat next to him was taken. It wasn't. I sat down, and providentially, within 30 seconds one of the few women in the room sat down next to me.

She was the wife of one of the men at the conference, and she was amazing. I talked to almost everyone at the large round table of course, but for the most part, I listened to the stories of the woman sitting next to me. Estimating ages has never been my strongest skill, but I'd guess she was in her mid to late 60's. She and her husband met in college, fell in love, and it was obvious to me that they are still deeply in love. They had children and went the "traditional" family route, but they also accomplished highly impressive feats. She started her own company and he a consulting firm, which they merged and now work at successfully together. She's written a series of children's books on teaching manners and respect. They travel constantly, nationally and internationally, and they both have a zest for life (and golf). She used to teach elementary school and she told me stories about her experiences; the exciting and the discouraging. She encouraged me with my future goals as a teacher and told me she could tell I would go far. I've never enjoyed talking with anyone more, and the night flew by. Hours passed and it was time to go home.

As I said goodbye and made my way to my car, I was overflowing with gratitude to no one in particular. How incredible to briefly interact with another person who you know you'll never see again, and to feel you've gained something. When I stop and think about it, I suppose everyone has a story to tell. Although I recognize how rare it is to uncover such a treasure with such ease as I did last night, you never know what stories you might miss out on if you just sit down at the table with the people you know. Dare to venture where you're uncomfortable going.