2. Here are some things Sprocket has been compared to:

A piece of licorice

See for yourself:

Hamster butt:

(photo CuteOverload.com)

Witness it!

An ottoman

Those first two comparisons are courtesy of Jen Flowers, by the way.

3. People always ask how long it takes to get over a deployment. That answer is highly individual. Because I am a wuss, I suspect it takes me longer than others. I like to Ponder Implications. I like to explore the things we did, and the way that those things might have affected me.

Today I finally feel some sense of normalcy. I no longer shy away from using tap water, and I don’t feel the urge to force myself to lie on the couch and Not Worry.

Perhaps most telling, I am starting on a new physical project that is very exciting, but I’m not going to tell you about it yet. You will have to be patient.

And the corollary to that, of course, is that I am finally ready to start work again on my thesis, which is being re-written in diary form.

So. It feels as if all gears, mental and physical, are turning. Here is a brief list of the things I do in the weeks after deployment. This is only after five deployments’ worth of experience, so I am curious to see how this list will change as I gain more experience.

• Mope
• Drift aimlessly from room to room
• Eat. Anything. Buckets of popcorn; bushels of fresh fruit and veg; massive luxurious sandwiches. Those are the primary culprits.
• Hide out. I almost never want to see anyone in the weeks after a deployment.
• Watch TV. Loads and loads of old movies, or episode after episode of something like Miss Marple, Poirot, Frost, Lewis…(This may be because we almost always deploy with a Brit on the team, since there are more of them than there are of us. I’m probably just missing the accent.)
• Lie on the couch.
• Make a mess of the house, which inevitably is a clean slate for my mess, since Jim is nice enough to clean it just before I get home.
• Stare at art. This goes back to the whole “hide out” thing. If you’re staring at art, people don’t usually approach you.

I think two weeks is about right. Weirdly, I never write about the deployment, and I don’t usually talk about it. And I usually get back on a weekend, so this one was weird in that I got back on a weekday and had to dive headlong into the workweek. I cancelled a trip to Philadelphia almost at the last minute cos I was feeling sick, but I really did think I was going to be Just Fine. What a dweeb.

Anyway. The day beckons. Hope it’s a good Monday for everyone!

You’d think two weeks in a foreign country would be a recipe for diet disaster. No more! I recently found myself in Peru, land of lomo, rich ceviche, and papas fritas morning, noon, and night, and I lost five pounds. Here are my seven steps to coming back from abroad a lean mean machine.

1. Lose your voice.

You heard me! [Or maybe you didn't.] Losing your voice is a fantastic way to use up all those pesky calories you consumed in french fries. You see, when you lose your voice, you’re forced to communicate How to Set Up a Tent by waving around your arms. When you fall over trying to pull out an erroneously-pegged tent stake and you cannot get up again and you still cannot remove the stake, you have to resort to clicking, clapping, and whistling to get help. All of these things burn calories!

If you can manage it, try to lose your voice twice over two weeks. This will ensure maximum calorie burn.

Related:

1a. Cough.

Coughing will kick-start your way back to the six-pack you had in college. Coughing uncontrollably three times a night over ten days should do it. Be smart: maintain good posture while coughing. Otherwise, you may pull your diaphragm muscle, which will sideline your weight loss.

2. Translate!

Your brain burns calories, too. [Why do you think we all fell asleep in algebra class? Exercise is exhausting, that's why.] So when you are forced to translate everything you say from your native language to your second language and then into the third language that you are inadvertently picking up, guess what? You’re a calorie-burning furnace! Woohoo!

Hiring the right translator (you know, for the fourth language) can help with this. Having to repeat everything five times is a fantastic extension for advanced weight loss. Don’t do this more than once every two-week period. Insanity is not good for weight loss.

Related:

2b. If you’ve followed step 1, above, whispering is a great way to firm up your vocal cords and sneak in a few extra calories.

3. Throw things.

Forget kettlebells. Big green boxes the weight of your best friend are the new lifting regime. Fling them until your arms go rubbery. Repeat.

Treat with care, though. They might be weights to you, but they’re lifelines for someone else.

Height and repetition are important here: When swinging the boxes, aim for the truckbed, at chest height. And for God’s sake, get a spotter. Seriously.

4. Let ‘em chase you.

When you look around and realize that you’re being followed by a group of schoolchildren, employ this handy workout:

a. Pretend you don’t see them.

b. Gradually lengthen your walking stride.

c. Ignore giggling; any Quechan comparisons to the [Peruvian?] Ministry of Silly Walks.

d. Break into full-on sprint. Cease ignoring giggling. Giggle yourself. [Mustn't forget abs, obliques.]

e. Return to big stride, so as to let them catch your backpack straps.

f. Drag them a bit.

g. Remember suddenly that you are a swamp-level dwelling city person, while they apparently breathe pure oxygen, since they live at 3200 meters.

COOLDOWN: Never let ‘em see you sweat. Grin. Wheeze. [Related to 1b, above.] Giggle some more.

5. What’s a trip to a foreign country without local cuisine? Sample it con gusto. Here’s a brief guide.

a. Sopa a la criolla, or sopa a la minuta

These lovely soups are rich in vitamins. They also all come in soup tureens the size of your head. You will feel full just looking at them! If visual stimulation is not enough, don’t worry: each of these soups comes with a clump of noodles the size of your entire stomach. One meal a day of Sopa might just do it for you.

b. Papas fritas

They show up at every meal, these french fries. Soon you won’t even see them anymore. Therefore you will not eat them.

c. Guinea pig

Two tiny drumsticks will satisfy even the biggest appetite.

d. local cheese

This stuff has the potential to be your downfall. Restrict self.

e. Ceviche

Lovely, fresh seafood in citrus juices. Potentially damaging to diet. Never fear: Travel with someone who hates sushi. That’ll do it.

6. Worry.

Ceaseless worrying will whittle your waistline in no time flat! Normally nothing will come of the worry, and you will have done it for no reason but to slim down. Perfect.

If something does go wrong, though, feel free to dash about like a madwoman to fix it. Bonus calorie burn!

7. Debrief.

By which I mean, talk it up. Every night. With your teammates, dissect the day. When you get home, dissect the weeks. You’ll find yourself sleeping like a baby. When you’re not coughing, anyway.

Hey, a good diet never rests.

Ma Bell phones

from digitallydo.com

I so love these big clunkers. I love the heft of them, the way the base stayed put no matter how far you stretched the cord. I love the effort you had to put into dialing–really, really mean it–and the way you could dab the little twin buttons on the cradle to hang up. (Incidentally, this reminds me of one of my favorite writers, Lee Child, and the way he describes certain actions: car tires “patter” when they’re crossing train tracks; his hero “butts” papers into a neat stack; he “dabs” at the cradle to dial again. Verb choices. Critical.)

I also love the lack of caller ID, and here’s why. Every time the phone rang, you never knew who was calling. Picking up the phone was like opening a present, only you couldn’t even shake the box first to find out what might be in it. And so, the greeting: “Hello?” Tentatively, curiously: “Hellooo?” Or even better: “Hello!” “HI!” “HELLO!” I don’t know who you are yet, but “HELLO!!! HOW NICE TO HEAR FROM YOU!” No, it doesn’t matter who you are.

A close second for the reason I miss this phone: The angry hang up. Slam! Bang! Down goes the receiver, with an authoritative crash. You can’t do that anymore, with the cordless phones. You can push the END button, that angry little red crossed-out phone icon, as hard as you want to, jab at it, press it until your nailbed goes white…but no one will know you’re angry, and, worse, you won’t get the satisfaction of letting the other person know just how angry you were when you hocked that receiver into the cradle.

Train Boards

from @Triborough's Flickr Stream

When I first moved to New York in 1996, Grand Central still had its ticker board up. As the trains left the station, the numbers and letters on the board would turn: ticketyticketyticketyticketyflip! and then all would be quiet for a few minutes.

The tickers were mesmerizing. They were like magic. I never understood how they worked. I still don’t, and I don’t really want to know. They were part of the background noise that makes up a train station for me. Without them (Grand Central Terminal moved to digital ticker boards in ’98, I think), the station seems eerily quiet to me, somehow too efficient.

Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station still has a proper ticker board. Some European airports have them, too. I miss them like crazy, and when I pull into Philly I always take a minute to stare at them and wait for a train to pull in, if I have time, so I can watch the board move.

The board is linear, but those moving numbers and letters–they turn something hard-edged and linear into something fluid, sinuous. Gorgeous.

Answering Machines

This is very like the last answering machine I ever owned. I kept it through my move into  Manhattan, and I can’t actually remember if Jim and I had one in Croton Falls, but I pine for it every time I look at my sleek cordless handset.

Why? Because I love coming home and seeing the blinking red light. Someone’s left a message for you! Not only are you home–home!–but you have something extra! Quick, put down the groceries, press the big blue button, find out who it was!

Now it’s like, oh, hunh! Looks like I missed a call. Gotta dial into voicemail. Gotta listen to that annoying digital lady tell me how many messages I have. Gotta press three to delete–that person called my mobile line right after she tried my landline.

What a hassle. Voicemail. I hate it.

Road maps

Maps tell me everything has gone right. Maps tell me that some things are as they should be. Maps are backstops and works of human diligence and art. And orienteering, a sport that uses map-and-compass skills, is one of the reasons I trust myself as much as I do today. If you can read a map, you’re never really lost. And you have constant reminders that you are on the right track. And you have backstops: “If you cross this river, you’ve gone too far.”

I wish more people understood how great maps are.

Analog Clocks

When I was growing up I had one of these. I think my parents have it now. More important, it is still wearing the little orange cap my dad made for it that said something like:

“Good morning Yi Shun! I am your clock. Please do not forget to wind me up every night before you go to bed.”

Big Ben, Baby Ben. I can’t remember what model it was. I do remember the ringing it made. I do remember the ticking. And I remember my dad’s handwriting. I wish I had that clock now, only Mr. Gooddirt hates ticking clocks. Oh well.

Agendas

This is my agenda from the year 2000. I wrote everything down in this book. Even today it’s fun to look back over it and see who was in my life back then. As you can see, I not only wrote down what I had to do, but reference notes and telephone numbers. Elsewhere in the book, I’ve clipped membership cards, notes on the backs of business cards, things like that. What a trip.

I still keep an agenda of sorts. But it’s only if I don’t want to screw up the nice lighting in a bar with my mobile phone while I plug in an appointment, or if I can’t be arsed to do so.

I’d much rather write things down, anyway. Now I carry a blank notebook and my mobile phone. And sometimes a third notebook that is specifically pertinent to whatever meeting I’m going to. Obviously, I’ve become far less efficient that I used to be. Might be time to regress.

On another note, Christ, I looked like I was busy back then, didn’t I?

What are some favorite “obsolete” items of yours?

Feed me,  Seymour! It’a my first-ever avocado sprout! Cross your fingers for it!
I hope it comes out of its husk soon…I’d like to plant it in a proper pot.

Here is a brief list of the things I thought about during my longer-than-I-wanted-it-to-be run. You can follow along on the map below.

1. Holy crap, I’m hungry.

2. I really like this campus. I wish it were bigger, so I could spent all of my time looping it, instead of taking Route 22.

3. Oh, look, we are starting to go downhill.

4. Can I cross now? The light says no, but there are no cars…do I stop my watch while I wait for the light? Oh well, I’ll just go.

5. Would I enjoy this more or less if there were masses of people around me? Less, I think, although I did always love race day.

6. Hm. I have always wondered if this deli would make as good a prosciutto sandwich as they make at the Iron Tomato.

7. That can’t be my turnaround already, can it? It is! Boy, that’s a slow first half.

8. Boy, am I snotty today. I can’t stop my nose from dripping.

9. I always liked these apartments. They are called Juniper Walk. Isn’t that sweet? I do like juniper.

10. Maybe I will even mix myself a gin and tonic before we go out tonight. No, I can’t. We don’t have limes.

11. Even if I had just eaten that Cadbury egg for LUNCH instead of for BREAKFAST, I wouldn’t be starving like this now. Stupid, stupid!

12. What should this week’s stew be? I have chicken, chickpeas…I think that’s about it. Uh-oh.

13. What is that curious twinging pain in my hamstring?

14. That can’t be the road to home, can it? It is! Goodness!

15. I have just under a minute to make it if I want to pull negative splits.

16. That there is an old woman with a cane and some really wide shopping bags. I do not think I can squeeze between her and the telephone pole.

17. Home! God, I’m slow. Reverse splits, my ass.

…Sometimes, marketing goes terribly awry. Still, the nail colors sported by those peeps in the Capitol sure were sparkly.

From me and Sprocket’s morning walk.
Magnolias never last long enough for me, so I take pictures of them almost every morning.wonder what the light is like on them in the afternoons?

Well, that’s Sprocket and me, anyway.

Sprocket likes to run and play, like any other dog. And, like any other dog owner, I will say that he is probably the best behaved dog I know. His recall is pretty much 100%. He waits when we get to a street, until I tell him it is okay to cross. If we see someone coming with another dog, or children, we pull off the sidewalk and he sits until I tell him it is okay to say hello, or he waits until they go by. If we see another dog in the park, I make him sit and wait until I have walked up and greeted the dog and asked the dog owner if it is okay for Sprocket to say hello. If not, then I return to Sprocket and release him from his sit. If it is okay, I call him to come play.

We made sure he learned all of these things because Sprocket is primarily an off-leash dog. And I should say that in every city we’ve lived in, the local law enforcement seems to have become used to seeing him off leash. They largely turn the other way.

White Plains has been a challenge. It is by far the most dog-unfriendly city I’ve ever seen. Everywhere there are signs like this:

I am not proud of the fact that law enforcement has to look the other way. I do not ordinarily flaunt the fact that Sprocket can be walked off-leash when most other dogs can’t be. But I am saying this now because I have been made genuinely curious by something that happened on Saturday morning.

It was beautiful out, and Sprocket and I walked down to the local schoolyard to play. There is a track there, one I’ve written about before, and there were kids riding their bikes on the track and people walking around it. Normally, people are having lunch and playing soccer or volleyball and lots of kids are rollerblading around the track or riding their bicycles. Today, though, it was mostly just walkers and one or two bicycles. Sprocket and I were in the middle of the field in the track oval, playing fetch.

I was on my knee, saying something to Sprocket, when I noticed a man coming over. He was not smiling, but he was walking doggedly towards us. Usually people want to say hi. But this man’s face was not friendly. So I stayed where I was.

He got to within a few feet of me and pointed. “There are two signs, one there and one there, that say ‘No dogs allowed,’” he said. He’s right. They look like this:

“I know,” I said. “We’re not bothering anyone.”

“The signs are right there,” he said.

“Uh huh,” I said. “When you see people riding their bikes, or rollerblading, or drinking booze in here or playing soccer or volleyball here, do you go up to them and tell them they’re breaking the law?”

“So you’re saying that their wrong makes you right.”

“No. I’m just asking if you treat them the same way you’re treating me.” Here I point. “That little girl has been here on her bike for awhile. Are you now going to tell her she can’t be here?” [Here I was erroneous. I thought the sign included bicycling too, but it doesn't, for some weird reason. Bikes on a track are much more dangerous than skates.]

“I’m going to call the cops,” he says. “You can argue with them.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” I say. “I’m just curious.”

After that the situation disintegrated. Sprocket and I left the field with me yelling something about ruining everyone’s Saturday and then I believe I said very loudly that the man was a terrible citizen and that he should be ashamed of himself and that it’s always dog owners who pick up after the riff raff of White Plains.

And it’s true, too. The first sign I posted above, the brown one, is in the park across the street from us. When we first moved here Sprocket and I would go very early in the mornings and play ball or frisbee when there were fewer people. Now, no matter when we go, there are dogs in there. They run here and there while we owners keep a sharp eye out for glass 40s or food containers with leftover fried chicken in them, where people who are stoned or drunk will leave them after they’ve eaten off their binge drinking or whatever.

We pick up after ourselves every time. Sometimes I will pick up after errant dog owners…maybe they didn’t have a plastic bag with them.

Despite our poaching the park, I still feel like a good citizen. But after I’d told the guy out loud that he was being a bad citizen, I had to take a really hard look at myself: Am I being a good citizen?

What do you think?

Last Thursday I went to Connecticut for the annual Go Red luncheon, in support of awareness of women’s heart disease.

Later that night, I picked up my good friend Nicola from the bus station.

From Thursday night until the following Tuesday, we had a packed schedule that involved me getting up early in the morning to work so Nic and I could mess around town and see art and go for walks in the woods; things we like to do together. It was nuts. We went to MOMA and hung with friends and saw a reading and hosted a visitor and had dinner with 10 of my nearest and dearest, and then we hosted dinner for 10 at my place on Saturday night.

Tuesday Nic left for Boston, part of an East Coast tour she’s doing, and although I moped a bit on Tuesday afternoon, feeling like the house was awfully empty, there was–and is–plenty of work to be done.

Then this morning happened. At 8:10 or so I was walking the hound in the park, getting ready for my dentist appointment, and checking my e-mails. One from ShelterBox HQ was in the queue, asking after my availability for an as-immediate-as-possible-departure to Peru to respond to flooding.

I replied that I could go, returned the hound to home, went to my dental appointment, and on return to my desk, one side of face drooping from Novocaine, called in to confirm readiness.

I got confirmation from the team lead a scant hour later and started making arrangements. I was excited–I’ve never been first team in before, and never been on a recon trip, and the team lead is a good friend.

And then I got asked to stand down.

All of that is fine. The SRT member who is replacing me speaks Spanish and has responded to a Peruvian disaster for us previously. He is absolutely the right choice.

But do you know what? In the midst of all my preparation and dashing about last week, I realized that with the call to stand down came a small bubble of breathing space. Into that bubble came rushing in all the phone calls to friends I’ve been putting off because I’ve been too busy; all the small things I like to do that have gone undone because I have been too tired; all the meaningful correspondence I’ve been wanting to reply to.

“Stand down.” The order is more meaningful than I thought. Sometimes, a girl just needs to stand down. What a disguised blessing.

First, let me call your attention to this spot, which ran during the Super Bowl. (You didn’t see if you live in the U.S.) It’s well worth its two minutes.

All right? Get your Kleenex? C’mon, blow your nose. I’ll wait.

This is a far cry from the beer commercials we’ve been subjected to in the past. There are no swiping remarks about how women age; there aren’t any animals being voiced over; there’s no bizarre new bottle or can design. (None of these has anything to do with beer, and none of these can improve on the taste of some of this beer.)

So what makes this spot work?

It’s the emotional core. The best commercials or advertisements tell a good story, but even most of those ignore the need for consumers to connect with the brand on an emotional level. The spot works because it tells a story everyone loves–an underdog story–and it gives viewers what they want: a happy ending.

Perhaps more important, it reminds us of a time when we, too, were underdogs, and when we, too, wanted to be cheered on. (What is that, like, every day?)

Most important, it locks the viewer into a time and place: a scruffy amateur hockey game isn’t the place for a high-falutin’ microbrew; it’s the place for communal cheer; for beer that everyone can afford and enjoy; for idiotic, non-cerebral joy. Budweiser has tapped into the whole point of a cheap beer: feel-good times, with your friends. This is what their brand is, and I wish they’d do more with it.

So that’s one half of narrative–getting to your emotional core. What’s the other half?

Let me tell you another story: Recently, Mr. Gooddirt and I went out to eat at a really amazing restaurant.

We’d never been there before, so why were we so sure this restaurant would be “amazing”? Well, we’re kind of sustainability nuts, so we liked that the restaurant uses only produce from one of its two farms in the northeast. We’ve also eaten at other dining establishments that use the tasting-menu concept, just like this one does, so we had high expectations that went along with the higher price points at this type of restaurant. (Once you add in the wine pairings, which we almost always do, you’re looking at a cool $300 per person.)

So in that way, the restaurant had its narrative lined up straight and true. We knew enough about it to already expect good things. We got there early, for drinks at the front of the house, and were pleased to meet a bartender whose knowledge  was absolutely in line with our expectations. He could tell us about the distilling and aging process of his whiskey, for instance.

photo: Gothamist

I anticipated an exceptional meal, and got one. Every single one of our eight courses was above and beyond what I expected; the flavors were complementary, if, in some places, totally unexpected; the quality of the food was unparalleled, without resorting to gimmick.

So what was missing? Service, service, service. We had one head waiter who depended on four or five rotating sub-waiters (?) to serve and explain the food. That’s appropriate for so many courses; but it quickly becomes an annoyance when none of the sub-waiters understands what they’re serving and has to defer to the head-waiter (who, in turn, looked harried and annoyed) for any questions.

There’s where the narrative broke down: This restaurant prides itself on the quality of its produce and its goods. They should expect that their customers will want to know more about their food and how it’s prepared (at one point, they brought out a wheat ale made from an ancient strain of wheat; and we wanted to know more). Towards that end, they should make sure that every staff person is well educated and cares as much about the stuff they’re selling as the head waiter or proprietor does.

Two final straws broke this camel’s back: First, our bill was wrong, in our favor, and we had to ask them to correct it. Second, when we got outside to our car, we found it there waiting, warm and toasty, with the seat heaters turned on. “Hunh! What a nice touch!” we said. And then we thought to check and see just how long they’d had the car idling for.

People. It’d been idling for AN HOUR AND TEN MINUTES. Complete and total breakdown of sustainability narrative. We lost it. I phoned the restaurant immediately and got an appropriately contrite young lady, and the following day I got a phone call from the operations director  and the outsourced valet service. So that was nice. But who’s going to pay for my $20 worth of gas?

I digress.

Here’s the thing, okay? Story is one thing. Have a good story, and you’re winning half the battle already. But honestly, if you–and I mean you as marketer, brand executive, novelist, copy-writer, restauranteur–don’t have your emotional core built into your narrative, you’re almost bound to build something forgettable.

Likewise, consistency is key. Make sure that everyone in your organization understands your emotional core and the point of your narrative. Make them buy into it. After our experience at the bar, we were sold on the bar–we were making lists of friends who needed to see the place and experience it. It was like that until about a quarter of the way through the dinner, when we realized that only the head waiter knew what he was talking about. And by the time we got to the problem with the valet, we were seriously questioning what we’d previously believed was a real need to get our friends to this restaurant ASAP.

Our restaurant? Great narrative and emotional core; total breakdown of consistency. Budweiser? Great narrative in this instance; game-changing recognition of emotional core that I wish would happen more frequently with them.

The lesson? Find your story. Be true to it. Be consistent. You can’t go wrong that way.