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Who's Tumbling?
At 6 p.m. on Valentine's Day, I was leaning into the wind, getting pummeled from all sides by fat angry raindrops, trying to keep my umbrella right-side-in.
The weather's been downright nasty lately. "Gale-force winds," the weather bunnies chirp, their vapid smiles completely failing to convey the power of the 50 m.p.h. gusts whipping over the islands. Downed trees, power outages, cars blown off course, doors slamming everywhere... Last night as I tried to make my way to class, broken branches and unusually large piles of trash swirled and skidded down the street like a flotsam stampede. As I dodged from side to side, I felt like Frogger. Fortunately the teacher let us out early, and the small bunch of roses I picked up in the morning survived the blustery day to put a smile on Jen's face. We spent the few hours we had together on the grand day of romance cuddling and watching late-night TV.
So the latest flashpoint in the Ehime Maru tragedy is the fact that civilian guests on the nuclear submarine were at two of three main controls when it launched out of the water and through the hull of the Japanese fishing boat. It's a significant piece of the puzzle, I'm sure, but I also think it's being played up a little too much. If the civilians were handed complete control, that's one thing, but I'm certain they were under the complete (and sadly, still flawed) supervision of the sub crew. The way the media is chasing them down, asking almost accusatory questions, bothers me. I mean, when professional demolition experts wire up a building with explosives and the mayor gets to stand on the fancy stage and push the button, do we blame him if the high-rise falls wrong and crushes a church? No. It makes a case for the crew being distracted, but that's the crew's problem, not the guests. Though I feel most deeply for the families of those lost, I personally also feel for the people who were at those controls, who went out there to be educated and awed and will end up feeling guilty for the rest of their lives.
As we were putting Katie to bed, Jen caught a promo for a Fox special: "Conspiracy Theory: Did We Really Land on the Moon?" We laughed. She could've believe people actually believed the moon landing was faked. I explained that they might be a little nutty, but they're dead serious. I told her, "You better not watch, or you might end up believing them too." She scowled. "Do you think I'm that gullible?" We ended up watching the show. I couldn't stop giggling, trying to read my book for class but catching Jen's serious face. As the show ended, the narrator mentioned something about a Japanese moon mission scheduled for 2003. "So we'll know for sure then," Jen said. "Yeah, the Japanese will go up and take pictures, because that's what they do," I joked. Then I paused. "Wait a minute. So you're saying now that you think..." "It's possible!" We switched quickly over to the "Barenaked Ladies" edition of "Behind the Music" on VH-1. It was good to see a show explain the band had a life well before "One Week" — that one of my favorite albums, the "Rock Spectacle" live album, came out in 1995, recapping a full career's worth of great music. Geez, that was five years ago? I'm getting old.
A rotten day at work. Hopefully it'll be the low point of the year. (Too bad it's still early.) A small but significant goof in a major project I was responsible for was discovered earlier this week, and today the inevitable: I got a stern, closed-door "talking to." I was stunned, embarrassed, and a little angry. Not that I showed it (other than winging a key across my office afterward, but no one saw me do it). Especially because I deserved it. As I said the words "careless" and "sorry" I realized I meant it. There was no good explanation, other than I had gotten complacent and missed something an intern would have caught. My body worked the rest of the day, of course, but my mind was churning. I knew it wasn't the first time I was called for slipping up. It was a shock then, too, because I was quietly puttering away on the assumption that I was doing a bang-up job. I was once again reminded of the sorry fact that this was still my first "real job," and that in all honesty I know squat about being a good employee. That I'm still a student, and despite what my business card says, there's a world of difference between me and my esteemed coworkers. I remembered how I'd sometimes get frustrated about being asked to do too little, that my skills weren't being put to the best use. But this screw up proved that I'm not exactly infallible when I am handed the reigns of something significant. Where were those underutilized journalism skills two weeks ago, before 3,000 copies arrived in the office? This job has given me a lot. Invaluable experience, on many levels. They took me on as an intern and made me a paid employee less than three months later. I got a small raise then, and a bigger one a year later. I've traveled all over the place. Though I neglected to mention it, late last month, I at long last got my own office — an office I designed once upon a time — in the corner, with a view of South King Street and a patch of `Iolani Palace lawn. And all the while, they've let me take off in the middle of the day twice a week to go to school. Have I given enough back? Maybe not, after all. Maybe I let what compliments I get go to my head. (I knew they were just being nice.) I feel too comfortable. I feel, undeservedly, qualified for the title and responsibilities I have. So. More bowing and scraping, more supervision, or want ads and Monster.Com? Shape up, or face facts and get a job more my size? Pfft. Like the latter is even an option, given my ten outstanding credits and mounting bills. I just can't forget days like this. I better pay attention during the "organizational skills workshop" our boss has scheduled for everyone. And Tokyo or not, I better be prepared for the worst.
Katie accomplishment of the week? She can tumble. Jen calls them somersaults, but I'm convinced that's a flying, bounding activity that's considerably outside the capabilities of Katie's three-year-old body. She can bend all the way down, plant her head on the ground, and tip-toe herself right over, falling with a thump (and an intoxicating laugh) on her back. It just so happened that we ran into my cousin Leilani at the Mililani Long's last week, where we learned her 33-month-old daughter Kayla had tried ballet but "liked gymnastics better." So tonight, Jen asked: "Can we enroll Katie now?" Oh boy.
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· Created: 13 November 1997
· Last Modified: 14 January 2008