Blanket Fort

Of all the bad habits I should be giving up, sleep is the one that seems to have been successfully kicked. Couple that with the fact that today is Friday, the golden child of the week, and all I can think about is going home. Since I got to work at 8 this morning, I've been signing off my calls by telling the customers to have a good night. No one has challenged me on it, mostly because I hang up immediately after saying it, and I keep thinking that the day is going to be over in just a little bit. I look at the clock to see it's merely 10:15 am.

Then I answer questions as I hear them, not as they are asked, confusing these poor people more than they already are. Today I'm more interested in playing Draw Something rather than focusing on the caller at hand. I've been tempted to use my blanket as a pillow and fall asleep at my cube. Then a fulltime staff member asks me what I'll do if I ever get a "real" job.

Hopefully my mind will be engaged in my "real" job. So maybe I should engage my mind here? Well, I have. This is what I've come up with:

I'm going to build the coolest blanket fort ever known to the cubicle world. I'm going to bring in piles of blankets from home and build a canopy over my desk. I'm going to bring in strings of lights and lava lamps, because no blanket fort should be without a lava lamp. I'm going to bring in a bean bag and I'm going to put my computer on the floor. I'm going to bring in popcorn and a GameBoy Color, even though I hate popcorn and I've never owned a GameBoy, color or otherwise.

I'm going to answer phone calls as if I am an airport claims agent from London. " 'Ello, love, Benedict here from British Air. We've got a claim here for a lost bag which I'm quite sure I told you personally to toss in the hatch before we left Heathrow." You'll have to imagine the accent on that one. It's quite convincing in my head.

Or as if I am an astronaut. "Houston? Are you there? I can't hear you very well from Mars." Click.

Or maybe like an angry father. "Who are you looking for? Janice isn't home right now. Besides, she doesn't want to speak to the likes of you! Good day, sir! Oh, it's ma'am? Pardon me. Janice will be right with you." Then I'll hang up anyway. It's their own fault for interrupting my game of Zelda.

I had a friend working here until midway through the summer. His goal for the last week of work was to get fired. It didn't work for him. I'm going to show him how it's done.

Tear Down This Wall

Who coined the term "Hit a wall"?

"Dude. I just hit a wall. I have to go to bed."

Really? Punching walls does that to you, eh?

Well folks, I've hit a wall. It's the end of summer and my tiredness is borderline consumptive. I have less than three weeks to work at the bank, then I start school again. Change will be good, but I'm really just trading one form of busyness for another. Does life slow down, or do I just look for new and exciting ways to be busy?

"I'd love to hang out, but I don't have time! Maybe I will when I'm retired. See you in 40 years!"

I don't think it's worth it. Hitting one wall after another. Two week vacation here, three day weekend there. To what end? Big house, big truck, big yard, big fence, big headache.

I don't think there is anything wrong with these things. I think it would be wrong for me to strive for them, because it would be inconsistent with what I want to do with my life. I want to live with poor, broken people who need someone to love them. If that means owning a giant house, ok! Let the people come live with me. If that means a big vehicle, fine. I'll tote people around who don't have a car.

This type of life is what makes me come alive. While I'm trying to pay bills by sitting in a cubicle, direction can get muddled; purpose goes down the toilet; I start hitting a wall.

Then I remember that life is full of seasons. I won't always hit a wall. I may just have to break a few more down before I can be done.

City of Mirrors

I spent some time working at a hostel in Berat, Albania. Berat Backpackers is a fantastic little hostel, which I recommend you visit. If not the hostel, at least the website. There are some beautiful photos of the city and surrounding areas which will enhance this story for your imaginative pleasure.

I was volunteering at the hostel. I did some landscaping, cleaning, registering guests and a little shopping for the kitchen.

It was the end of the season, so the hostel was closing up. We helped board up doors and harvest some veggies from the garden and deplete the left overs from the kitchen.

The locals would come hang out with us in the evenings. We found some speakers and had dance parties every night. The bar was full at the beginning of the week. We did well at "depleting the leftovers."

When the week started wrapping up, we went out to celebrate a successful season, though my friends and I had just arrived. We went to a local bar and had dinner. Then we stayed until 5 am drinking delicious wine that stained our teeth purple and dancing to whatever pop music the make-shift DJ put on.

The next afternoon, my travel companions and I decided to go for a walk through the city. As you can see from the pictures, it's a gorgeous city with a lot of things to see: castles, mosques, orthodox churches, white washed houses with a wall of windows, cobblestone streets that only people and donkeys can pass.

As we strolled through the city, it was completely silent. It was during the afternoon call to prayer. I could hear it being sung from the speakers on top of the mosque. Our shoes clacked on the cobblestones, reminiscent of an old movie; the ominous clapping of shoes in a large corridor. Suspense.

But this was not suspenseful. It was peaceful. The birds welcomed us and sang to us. The white walls seemed to warm to us as we approached. The flowers sitting in their pots turned their faces towards us to say, "Hello! So glad you came to visit!"

It was warm and sunny. The singing from the mosque came to a close, and people started appearing, smiling to us, asking us questions that we couldn't understand. We visited the orthodox church. The doors were open and the sanctuary was empty. The carpet and pews were bright red. There were golden ropes to guide people where to sit and worship. Dried flowers were sprinkled on every ledge giving off the faintest hint of a garden aroma. The ceilings were high and intricately adorned. Mostly in gold.

We stopped at a cafe for lunch. We had sandwiches and coffee. People came to talk to us. Some left because we couldn't speak Albanian. Others wanted to practice their English with us. Most were friendly. Some were creepy.

Later that day, I was sitting on the patio at the hostel reading Dostoevsky's The Idiot and smoking a pipe. I was enjoying the scenery that spilled out in front of me. We were on the side of a hill facing a small valley. There was another hill opposing us. The houses crawled up the side of that hill. Every wall was made of large windows. The sun was setting behind me and the windows were singing her beauty. I was getting a little hungry. I leaned back in my chair and picked a pomegranate the size of my head. I cracked it open and thought, "I will never leave Albania." I truly believed, as I still do today, that I had found a magical world not of this planet.

Week Stomach

I woke up this morning with a song stuck in my head.

I stumbled out of bed singing "I believe I am fixin' to die." I was singing in the shower. Singing as I drank my coffee. Singing as I put on my shoes and gathered my lunch.

Then Dana told me that I was not going to die, it's just Monday.

Fine. I'll go to work then.

I used to think people who complained about Monday were just whiny. They were stuck in a job they didn't like. If they just tried to find some enjoyment in their job and the people they worked with, Monday would actually be a good day! "Hey! I get to go to work this morning!" I was sure they would sing as they crawled out of bed.

I don't know if I completely agree with that anymore. I do not hate my job. I actually rather enjoy it. It's painfully boring, but I get to do things while I sit in my cube. I write, read, listen to music. Things that I would be doing at home, but here I get paid for it.

I'd rather be home, though. I'd rather be sitting on my couch, in my unders, with a bowl of chips. Not every day of the week, but I do on Monday mornings when the thought of getting out of bed makes me sick to my stomach. Like someone who walks past wearing far too much cologne. And not good cologne, either. Something like Bod. That's what it's like Monday morning. Bod cologne.

Tuesday, though, seems like a completely different story. The days aren't nearly as busy; getting out of bed isn't nearly as difficult, though my wife may disagree with that statement; and I feel as though the weekend is just around the corner. My co-workers don't seem to appreciate it when I say, "The week's almost over!" on a Tuesday. I don't know why...

I'm not convinced Wednesdays exist. I never remember anything that happens on a Wednesday. My supervisor told me I shouldn't put so much Bailey's in my coffee on those days, either, but I don't think the two statements are related.

Thursdays are slow. Not painful like a Monday, but it's the day before the day before the weekend. It's the armpit of the week. If Monday through Friday were a set of bathrooms, Thursday would be the dingy outhouse that no one wants to go to because a spider might crawl up his or her nether parts. There's not a lot one can do to spruce up a Thursday. It should probably just be burned.

Then the glorious Friday. The day that gets far too much credit. The day that is grossly overestimated. The day that holds her power over the other days of the week like an older sister with her first set of car keys. With her first un-shared bedroom. With her cute little sundress that mommy and daddy bought her. Everyone adores her and she knows it. She's a diva. She would be the bathroom with a clawfoot tub in the middle of the room. Just because she can.

I feed right into Fridays. I love Fridays. I try not to, but I can't help it. I get to go home and veg out for the next two days. Or go out of town. Or whatever I want. How is this a bad thing? And sometimes I get paid on a Friday. Those are the Fridays worth working for.

But, for every Friday comes a Monday. And these are the mornings that I wake up to face death. Or phone calls. Whichever comes first. I couldn't tell you which would be worse.

Nectar of the Gods

Dana and I went to visit a friend in San Diego a couple years ago. It's a 40 hour drive from Minneapolis to San Diego, so we stopped in Iowa to pick up our friend's dad. Val is a great traveling companion.

We took the drive in two days. We slept for a couple hours in Texas, and drove another 20 hours the next day. It was awful. I will never look at another Nutrigrain bar without feeling a bit nauseous.

We stayed almost a week with Laura in her SoCal house with her SoCal friends and her SoCal beach. It was pretty great. The last full day we spent with Laura, we went to Balboa Park.

Lets start at the beginning of that day, though. Laura worked early that morning, so Dana had to prepare the picnic. I probably should have helped, but I didn't wake up early enough to go to the store with her. Then, when I got out of the shower, Val and I started talking about the trip. Dana was making sandwiches and salads.

I went into the kitchen and said good morning. I gave her a kiss and asked if the coffee was ready.

Bad idea.

No, actually, the coffee is not ready because there is no coffee to get ready. And then I saw a side of Dana that I had not yet met. The side of her that probably instigated the nickname Dana-saur. The side that shouldn't be asked if the coffee is ready when there is no more coffee left.

We walked to the tram silently. Val is a morning person. He loves to chat and tease and enjoy the morning. I was trying to keep up with his chatter, but I also was feeling the effects of driving coffee-less. Dana was scowling. I shouldn't have left her to get us ready like little boys needing to be sent off to school, but I didn't want to chop the peppers! I wanted to hang out with Val!

We met Laura at Balboa Park. We were a little late, despite Dana's efforts to get us out the door on time. Laura had just finished her shift at the coffee shop and was feeling just as chipper as her dad.

Dana and I tried to enjoy the park. It was built when the World Fair was hosted by San Diego, so there were a lot of interesting nooks to it. People were allowed to set up little shops inside to sell food, artwork or whatever other craft they set their hands to. It was pretty cool.

Yet Dana couldn't smile. She was interested, but she didn't join in the conversation or pictures. She just looked royally pissed.

Val asked, "Dana, can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Oh, it's ok. I don't need coffee, I'll be fine. I can buy my own, too, you don't need to..."

"Here. And one for you, too, Benj," as he handed us our paper cups.

It was still too hot for Dana to take a sip, but she took the lid off and smelled the brew.

Something sparked. I was watching her very closely, because I thought I saw something flash in her eyes. Yes! There it goes again! Something was definitely taking place. Her brow was less furrowed. Her chin seemed a bit more relaxed. And wait... Dear Lord! I think it is!

She smiled! She laughed! She started bantering with Val and talking with Laura! She held my hand! It truly looked like she had come out of Lazarus' tomb to join the land of the living once again.

The rest of the day was amazing. Arguably the best day we spent with Laura that week. Never underestimate the power of a cuppa.

Seven Minutes of Rushing

Every night I leave my cube and go to the basement garage where my bicycle is parked. There are special doors I have to go through to get to the garage. Only one person can enter or exit at a time.

Every night, a little after 5pm, I see the same girl running from her car to the door. There are windows. One of us ends up waiting for the other to go through the door first. It has become such a routine, that we've taken to saying hello to each other. She is a cleaning lady coming in for her evening shift. I am a cube rat trying to get home to my wife. We smile and pass each other. Every night.

Her accent tells me that she's from Africa. I'm not sure where in Africa, of course, but that's not all I've noticed. Every night she is running - literally running - from her car to the doors. And it's never before 5 that I see her. Always six or seven minutes after 5.

These few details of my new friend have gotten me very curious as to what her story is. I don't believe I will ever hear it, so I decided to write one for her. Meet Adimu (ah-DEE-moo):

Adimu, which means unique in Swahili, is 22 years old. She comes from a country in east Africa, I think Ethiopia. She grew up going to school at a Catholic mission where she learned English and got a high school education. Her parents didn't have much money, but the priest was very helpful in finding resources for them and their community.

Adimu has two older brothers, an older sister and a younger sister. They have always been very close. Literally and figuratively. They grew up in a two room hut. Mom and Dad got the second room. They all went to school together. They did everything together. Not only the siblings, but the entire community.

There was so much love among the neighbors. When one family was hurting, the people came together to mourn with them. When another family was rejoicing, the community was there to party. A little different than the lifestyle we attain to in America. Not better or worse, just different.

When high school was over, the mission got a grant to send some kids to America for a college education. A few colleges across America were giving scholarships to help these kids get through school and have a little extra for living expenses while here. There was a raffle to see who would be able to go. There was only enough money to send five kids from the village, so all of the eligible students put their names in the drawing.

As Adimu brought herself to the table to submit her name, her mind was fluttering with fears and excitement. She wanted to go to make a way for herself and perhaps bring her family if she worked hard enough after school. She wanted to stay because the thought of leaving her siblings and community was too much to bear. In the end, she submitted her name because it was the only hope of building a better life for her family.

Her older brothers were too old to put their names in. Her older sister had already put in her slip of paper. Her younger sister was still in high school.

And then came the dreaded wait. Adimu joined her family in the audience and waited until the priest came out to address the crowd. He made a speech about how blessed the community was to have this opportunity to send a few of their kids to college. Adimu didn't hear a word of it. Her stomach was in knots. She didn't know what she hoped for. Any outcome would be treacherous. Any outcome would be exactly what she wanted. She just had to wait and let the fates decide.

Adimu was the second name called. Everyone started cheering. Her family was hugging her. Every eye was damp with tears. She felt ecstatic. She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. She couldn't talk. She just cried and hugged her mom. "What's going to happen to me?" she thought.

She prayed that her sister would be called, too, so that she wouldn't be alone, but that didn't happen. After the last person was called, people stuck around to congratulate her and tell her how much they would miss her. She just smiled and nodded. No words came to her mind. Pictures were taken and slowly people filtered out.

A month later, Adimu and four others from her village were boarding the plane for America. Some were going to New York, one to California and one to Kansas. Adimu was placed in Minnesota. The little she had read about Minnesota was that there was something called snow, which was supposed to be very cold, and that everyone was Lutheran.

She had the toughest time with the cold part. The Lutherans didn't seem to make themselves known. School was difficult. She had to work to keep herself fed and send some money back home for her family. Everything was so expensive that she had to pick up another job while studying full time.

She quit sleeping so she could keep eating. The grant money covered most of rent, but not all of it. Transportation and groceries were extra. She worked at the university library, where she could study, and an overnight job cleaning big buildings downtown. There are three sections to a day: school for 8 hours, work for 8 hours and sleep for 8 hours. Adimu had to fudge the numbers a little bit to make ends meet. School kept its 8 hours, but work demanded at least 12. That left about 4 for sleep. Amidu has kept plugging along and this May it will all pay off with a shiny new degree from the University of Minnesota.

She hasn't seen her family in almost 4 years, but they talk constantly. They are saving some money so her mom can come for the graduation ceremony.

Adimu is planning on staying in the States for now to pay off the little bit of debt that has accumulated and get some experience in her field. She's thinking about grad school, but wants to spend some time with her family before pursuing another degree.

For now she will continue to rush into work immediately after finishing at the library. Her manager is very forgiving, even though she shows up 7 minutes late every day.

Reinstate Playtime!

What happened to play time?

Children have the life, don't they? They wake up and play with their toys and mom makes them breakfast. They go to school and play with their friends. They run around like yahoos reeking havoc on the playground; screaming to their little hearts content. And what do they have by form of responsibility? Sometimes they have to clean their rooms. Maybe feed the dog. That's about it!

They chase each other. They tickle each other. They play board games together. They make up games together. They tell stories together, which usually make no sense, but are funnier than anything I could produce. They've got it made!

Then they get old. Some will hold summer jobs in high school. Many go off to college and get real jobs afterwards. Whatever a "real job" is. And somewhere along the way, playtime stops.

"Don't tickle me. That's childish."

So?! Children understand, so says my philosophy, how to accept people different than themselves; how to love their friends (because they don't know what an enemy is); how to be decent human beings to one another. We adults have so much to learn from them!

Politics don't rile children. Economics don't keep them up at night. Religion is truth to them, and questioning it doesn't seem to cross their beautiful minds.

I'm not saying that responsibility is a terrible thing, though there is a delightful chant my friend Lalei and I say to each other when it seems too heavy a burden to bear. Without going into specifics, we say "Hang it all!"

With responsibility being a necessary evil, such as money and politics and oil changes, we've allowed it too much power over our leisure time. Responsibility requires a mature brain. It does not require a stiff attitude, though. Be mature, but let a childlike spirit be your outlook. Don't talk to strangers. Rather, talk to friends you've not yet gotten to know. Talk to people as though they were neighbors. Treat them with respect, but allow the conversation to be playful. Make someone laugh when they are frustrated. And not in a malicious way.

I believe we can find a happy medium between playtime and responsibility. I don't believe they have to be distinct from one another. I think if everyone adopted my philosophies, the world would be a better place. But, maybe that's my inner child talking. He still thinks the world revolves around him.