Pause

Grounded

I got off the plane on Thursday--finally back in San Francisco.  Someone I knew was sitting behind me and we got into a conversation as we deborded. It was late, I was tired and eager to get home. By the time I exited the terminal I discovered what I had done--left my carry-on in the overhead bin.

I tried to run back in but was stopped by security. I'd have to go back through. I took off my coat and shoes, put my laptop in the plastic bin in a panic. Of all the times I had to go through security this is the time I set off the alarm. And the second time too. Now I have to be patted down.

"Do you have any pins in your leg?" security asked.

Perhaps the X-ray could sense my stress.

I ran through the terminal, back to the plane. And the gate was locked.

I felt like a bit of an ass filing a report at the United baggage claim counter.

"I can't even blame this one on you," I told them, filling out a lost bag report.

The next day I woke up feeling like hell. I had been bragging the day before about how I've avoided being sick. Now it's payback time.

I make it to a few meetings and then fall asleep on my computer. I go to my Friday workout class and feel like I have weights on my legs. I look at myself in the mirror; I look mad.

H-band says, "Let's go to bed early tonight," and normally I protest and fight for our "weekend time."

"OK," I say.

Today I've spent the day on the couch. My body hurts. My nasal passages are an unlikely combination of snotty and dry as the Sahara. It hurts to talk.

I try to work on a presentation, but I can't seem to get my brain to work. Everything takes a long time. I feel unproductive and useless.

I've watched four episodes of America's Top Model. I may finish out the marathon.

Finally, I can get some rest.

Russell Shaw--geek turned friend--we'll miss you

Elisa Camahort Page called me this morning,

"Did you know Russell Shaw?" she said.

I know that line of questioning, when someone asks you about someone you haven't spoken to in a long time. Something's happened.

Elisa confirmed that she had just read reports that he had died in his sleep, potentially from a severe cold or flu, while he was on the road in San Jose. Of course, when he was working: Russ traveled a lot to catch up on panels, connect with other geeks like him. He'd called me before to say he was in town. we'd reconnected after four or five years.

"Didn't you know him before the Huffpo interview?" Elisa asked. Yes. Russ was a fan of BlogHer and wrote a piece about the org a couple of years ago, but prior to that he'd reached out because he had been reading my blog. When we re-connected I immediately remembered the jolly man who had come to the office of the Start-Up media company where I worked as an editor. I had hired him to cover the technology beat.

Back then I was as non-techy as someone working at a tech start-up could get away with; I hadn't yet caught the bug. But Russ, I could see, was 100 percent certified geek. He liked this stuff without having to be paid to write about it, was how I had described him to myself. And, years later when he had reached out, I was able to appreciate his work beyond the punctuation and ability to fill a niche need we had. His specialty had become a standard beat. And he was a highly respected representative of all things techy, namely VoIP and PDAs. I remember he had reached out to me after reading my rant about wiping out the data on my Handspring. He was kind to the Luddites.

I'm sad about Russ. Glad we reconnected again.

Life in the Weeds

I'm feeling very Annie Dilleresque today. In The Writing Life, Diller jots down her thoughts, little packets of creation that often have nothing to do with each other, but that come together to comprise a portrait of her life. I loved that book so much because that's how I think--in bite-size pieces--and frankly, it's a lot more expedient on a day of having to finish work and taxes. Here, a few of my ridiculous episodes from the week.
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Once a few months back, I asked one of the women on the BlogHer sales team, Megan, how she was doing.

She said that she was working frantically on a number of projects at once--a rush of opportunities that had come her way that she absolutely couldn't turn down, but that were overwhelming, considering they were all needing her attention at once.

"I'm in the weeds," she said, "in a good way."

I think this term defines the past few years for me--opportunity after opportunity, none that I want to let pass me by. They pull me down into a place where I' temporarily lose vision of the whole playing field, down to the blades of grass, where things really happen.

So what's the metaphor? To be like a grasshopper, living in the weeds but jumping over them from time to time to get a sense of place? Or to be like a bird, flying overhead and swooping down occasionally to eat and to rest? When you are in a start-up you often do both, depending on the week.
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Morning Yoga

I had a meeting on Thursday--not an unusual situation. H-band had left for work, and I was scrambling to get dressed and out the door in time to get stuck in traffic. Again, not an unusual situation.

In a typical morning I have to prioritize, and this hierarchy of tasks is dictated by Ginger, our Maine coon. Ginger is soft and lovely, and she makes anyone she sits on look like a Calico Bigfoot--she sheds a lot. The first few years with Ginger I didn't pay much attention and had to endure well-meaning people picking the hairs off of my outfit. Now I wait until the very last minute before getting dressed, avoiding the couch or any contact with Ginger in order to be as lint-free as possible.

I bought a new dress, one that zips in the back. It's plum and made of this plush felt material, the kind that Ginger loves to rub up against. I knew better than to give her that chance, so I waited until the last minute to get dressed, well after H-band had left for work.

It was a bad decision. I had forgotten something pretty critical--the zipper in back of my dress that spanned from my tailbone to the nape of my neck. I zipped myself about halfway up my back and couldn't go any further. Why didn't I take those yoga classes seriously, when I had to try to simultaneously snake one hand up my back and lock fingers with the other hand, which was craned over my shoulder? I never realized the practical application of that pose.

I needed to be at a client meeting in an hour. I took a few deep breaths and concentrated. I was able to inch the zipper with my lower hand about another half an inch, but it still wouldn't join with my upper hand. So I did what I always do when I'm in trouble and my husband is around, I called my neighbor, Britt. But she didn't pick up.

I looked outside my front window for nice, understanding people who might be kind enough to help me out. No one passed by. Would it be strange if I knocked on my other neighbor's door? Or if I kept my coat on when I arrived at my meeting, and then asked my colleague to kindly do me up?

This is absurd, I thought. Dresses that zip in the back have been made for years, and for years did women need to get dressed in the presence of someone else to get them on?

I contemplated a new outfit, or a sweater to cover the opening in back. I had to give it a last shot.

Perhaps it was a freakish, temporary flexibility that came with panic, but I tried once again to snake one arm up my back, and one down my spine. They connected!

I told H-band this story with the same excitement and relief that one has when describing a car wreck that she escaped. He suggested that in the future I use a piece of string to loop in and then pull.

Someone should patent that.
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The Sacrifice

I was boarding a flight I booked very last-minute, meaning I had to suck up sitting in a middle seat. I realize I should be grateful getting a seat, period, when I book the day before a trip, but when you travel a lot, middle seats are just, well, a drag.

I sit down and don't notice the cold right away, not until it begins to seep into my pants. I jump up and pat the seat beneath me; whomever had been sitting there before me had dropped something wet and with ice cubes.

Fortunately the man sitting next to me was sympathetic.

"That's unexcusable!" he said, hailing a flight attendant.

The flight attendant was equally sympathetic; she gave me two options: 1) wait for a seat cushion swap that would delay our flight by about an hour or 2) suck it up.

"I'll take two blankets." I said.