Home Ownership - NOT!

As of this afternoon, I am no longer a home owner. It was a long and, at times, ridiculous path to sell the condo with more and more hoop jumping requested by the bank.

I've talked about my problems with the bank - classic one hand not knowing what the other hand is doing. And that continued until the very bitter end. 

When I had a viable offer and the bank had finished processing their paperwork (which only took from August to November!!), their lawyers notified me that the bank had ended the foreclosure proceedings and, if the pending sale did fall through, I would be able to do deed-in-lieu-of-foreclosure. Deed-in-lieu is basically just giving them the keys.

Speaking of keys and one hand not knowing blah, blah, blah ... <outstanding transition, eh?>, I got quite the surprise earlier this month. The buyers were going to do a final walk-through with their contractor on November 11th. Brian (my agent) called to ask me if I knew what happened to the lock-box with the keys. It wasn't hanging on the garage door. Ironically, I had discovered it was missing just the day before, but assumed that he had taken the lock-box down because of the sale approval.

I told him not to worry, that I was going to St. Paul the very next day to do a final cleaning of the place (lots of odds and ends left in the condo as well as more than a few condiments in the fridge). I would get a new lock-box, put a set of my keys in it, and would leave it hanging on the garage.

The next day I looked around the complex to see if someone just put the lock-box on someone else's garage by mistake. Nope. So I headed into the building and up the stairs to my condo.

Just looking at the condo door, I immediately knew something was different. The dead bolt and door knob looked far too shiny. Well, my bank and/or their legal minions had cut off the lock-box and changed the locks on the condo door. They would later explain that they were worried about the place since no one was living there.

When I returned to Rochester, I gathered all the remaining keys - building key, garage door key and mail box keys - and sent them to Brian and he contacted the bank to get the new keys. It only took the bank two weeks to figure out which minion had the keys. Brian received them just this morning - the morning of the closing!

I know that I'll miss some parts of being a home owner - going to Home Depot to pick out paint and hanging pictures using whatever method I want - but I'm not going to miss the stress of mortgage payments and condo association dues and having financial decisions that impact me decided by a vote of association members. I'm not going to miss the neighbor who had memorized the association rules and would tattle if you broke any.

I'm done with being a home owner for awhile. Anyone need a room painted?

Misunderstood

I am a member of the most misunderstood, despised, and maligned groups in the world.

I am a figure skating judge.

And while the vitriol about the evil figure skating judges only really comes on strong every four years, it is not an easy life.

Figure skating judges live their lives of quiet desperation in cold, dark places known as ice rinks. We travel as vagabonds from one location to another, following a trail of multi-colored sequins that lead us to the next competition.

We sequester ourselves away from the rest of humanity at the rink since we have accepted the fact that we scare small skaters and, quite often, their parents. We hear their hushed voices, whispering, "That's one of the judges..." as they turn their heads away.

We spend endless hours in ice rinks, sitting rink-side and freezing our patooties off. (I'm certain that there are parts of my anatomy that have perma-frost and may never completely thaw out.)

When our friends discover a wool winter coat in our car on a hot and humid July afternoon, they assume that we're lazy and just never got around to bringing it into the house. The reality is, if you flip open the trunk of most judges' vehicles during any month of the year, you will find boots, wool socks, mittens, gloves, a warm coat and an assortment of fleece blankets with figure skating club logos. We must be ready for service at a moment's notice.

We are volunteers. While we don't get paid, we often receive gift cards (or fleece blankets). At anytime, you can find in our wallets 3 Barnes & Nobles, 2 Caribous, 2 Paneras and a partially used Starbucks.

There are many misconceptions about us. We are not, as a majority, French. Most of us don't own mink coats and the closest we will get to judging the Olympics is yelling at the 53" flat panel TV in the family room.

So please, as I begin my crazy time of year, when I have a competition nearly every weekend from now through spring, be kind to me. And if some Monday morning, you find me wandering around the office with a clip board looking for the judges stand, just tell me the event got canceled and I can go back to the hospitality room. I'll snap out of it eventually.

Bad blogger feeling good about what I did

I'm very much feeling like a neglectful blogger. I haven't posted since September 26th. And there are plenty of reasons excuses for the absence.

My number one excuse is <wait for it now ...> I was distracted. I had a huge skating project that I can honestly say I was ill-prepared for and was basically flying by the seat of my pants. My own stubbornness put me in this position and I had a lot to do that I couldn't delegate to anyone else because I hadn't even figured it out for myself.

When I have something hanging over my head, my focus <at least the very little that I have> goes right out the window. Add to that I was stressing about it, so just as I would get into bed, my brain would fire up and start problem solving while my body wanted and needed sleep. It was bad.

Excuse number two is see excuse number one.

The project was the Minnesota Basic Skills Competition Series. It is for our beginning skaters (you know, those cute little ones with the cute little outfits that make you go, "Aww...") and I took it on because "the powers that be" wanted to make it exclusive instead of inclusive.  I'm not about excluding any club or any skater. I recognize that I wasn't fabulously organized at the start, but eventually things started moving forward. Then, this summer, I got word that the rug was being pulled out from underneath me and I would have to shutter the series after one year.

The final part of the series is the on-ice award ceremony for the skaters in each level who accumulated the most points. Honestly, I think it is the most important part because it's about the kids and only the kids. They get to skate out to the podium just like they see on the Olympics. I placed a medal around their necks and told them what a great job they did and then I would step out of the way so the parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles in the stands could take photos. And boy did they!

But the event is over now with some minor clean-up to do, but most importantly, I felt great at the end because I helped to make some young skaters feel very special and I had parents thank me for doing it. Having a parent thank me? That was huge.

I've heard that the new Basic Skills series (the one replacing the Minnesota Basic Skills series) isn't planning on doing the on-ice awards. They planned to just mail the awards out to the skaters or something. After seeing what it meant to these skaters this past Saturday, I am happy to hear that they are reconsidering it.

Ya gotta take those little victories.

Dear Wayward Facebook Friend

I will be the first to admit that I'm a techie geek and that I absorb everything I possibly can about social media. On the negative side of this "personality trait," I can be a techie snob who will roll my eyes when I read a Facebook status update that's really just a rumor or something lame - Facebook is going to start charging, etc.

To help me get my frustrations out without releasing my evil twin upon the world, I started writing letters that I'll never send.  Here are two examples of past letters that I thought I would share with you, now that sufficient time as passed.

Dear Wayward Facebook Friend,

I realize that you're not a Facebook genius and that it is really just one step above a regular website for you, but there are some Facebook functions that I would like to bring to your attention. I'll go slowly as I know that sometimes your dial-up connection loads the pages slowly on your Commodore 64.

There's this handy, time-saving function called "Facebook Notifications" that I love. I have my preferences (which are my way of telling Facebook how I want it to behave) set to send me an email anytime someone posts something on my wall. So as soon as you write something on my wall and hit enter, Facebook sends me an email with your entire message contained within it.

Now I tell you this because, for some reason, you deleted your recent comment from my Facebook wall. Since it was a rather innocuous comment, the fact that you deleted it baffled the heck out of me.

And thus leads me to my next point, deleting comments. I'm okay with people changing their minds and deleting something they've written on a friend's wall, particularly if said comment was written on a Friday night after consuming an adult beverage or two.  I would especially recommend hitting delete if the aforementioned comment causes mutual friends (of which we share many), to message me with the subject line, "WTF?"

Please take the time to learn about these lovely Facebook features.

Sincerely,

me

The second letter was written a couple of years ago when I was employed at a place that is NOT my current employer.

Dear Wayward Facebook Friend whom I am currently blocking,

I am writing to explain how social media works since you have so obviously not bothered to understand how this new communication system works.

I believe that you're aware that social media marketing is one part of my job description and that, unlike other staffers, I may be on Facebook for several hours each day. It's called "listening." I need to know what is being said out there. You should also know that I do my work utilizing my own personal account. (something I will be changing very soon.)

I know that you know about PTO - also known as vacation. I know that you know about it as it seems that you take a lot of it. Well, don't be shocked, but PTO is also offered to other staff members. There are times between 8 and 5 Monday through Friday that I may be on Facebook, but not at work. That's okay. Utilizing Facebook during vacation is normal.

During these non-work hours, I might talk about non-work related hobbies like figure skating - a hobby that eats up much of my free time and, to be honest, much of my vacation time.

I'm telling you all this because you felt it was important to inform my supervisor that I'm spending way too much time on Facebook and that I'm talking about topics that are not work related. While my supervisor may have acted shocked and told you that "it" would be discussed, please understand that my supervisor has a clue and the information only caused me to roll my eyes and shake my head.

I have only one thing I would love to say to you: in order for you to "tattle" on my abundant Facebook frequency, you would also have to be on Facebook for several hours. See the correlation? 

So, I have taken it upon myself to un-friend you (Google it) and block you from ever seeing my activity.

Enjoying my obvious superiority,

me

Remembering the day that changed the world

In the past ten years, I have watched countless documentaries on September 11, 2001 hoping to understand why and how something like that could happen. I even read the 9/11 Commission Report. But in the end, I've concluded that my brain may understand the facts, but my humanity cannot and will not comprehend it.

I was running late to work because I was watching the Today Show talking about a plane hitting the World Trade Center. Suddenly another plane hit the second tower. It was the moment of realization that it wasn't an accident.

As I arrived to my office at Hamline University, our secretary was listening to the reports on her radio. We tried to focus on our work, but every 15 to 20 minutes, the situation changed. Another plane had crashed into the Pentagon. One of the tower collapsed. The second tower collapsed. There might be more planes.

I couldn't stay at work. I went home before noon and sat on my couch and watched the news. And I cried. I cried a lot.

I started emailing friends on the East Coast to be sure they were okay. I finally reached my best friend that afternoon. She was in St. Louis and trying to get home, but with all the planes grounded, she didn't know when that would happen. Mary and I had a long history of talking on the phone while watching history unfold on TV - first time was when Baby Jessica was pulled out of the well.  Talking with her provided a small piece of normal to an extremely un-normal day.

In 2001, I was a member of the Basilica of St Mary Cathedral Choir. We were asked to sing at the prayer service at the Basilica that evening. It was the perfect place for me to be since the choir was my family. I found a lot of peace being with them, singing together and from the words and the emotions shared at the service.

The Basilica was packed that night as everyone was needing the same thing. I remember walking to the back of the church during the recessional and seeing everyone was crying. And whenever I see someone cry, I cry. Crying came so easy that day.

In the days that followed 9/11, it were the news reports from New York City that impacted me the most.  Pictures of the missing were posted all over New York, asking anyone who may have seen their loved one to let them know. The TV reporters would let the people searching to talk about their loved ones and you could hear the pain and desperation in their voices. And I would cry.

I had a small obsession in the days following the WTC attack. I would look at all the photos of Ground Zero and search for office furniture in the rubble and debris. There were thousands of chairs in the tower, how could there not be a single photo with office chairs or desks among the debris? It was just dust and beams and paper.

In the weeks that followed 9/11, the New York Times started running short stories about the 2,600+ people who died at the World Trade Center and I would read them every day. And I would cry.

I didn't know anyone who died in attacks, yet I cried and it took months before I would stop. 

In the past week or so, I've been watching the special coverage of 10th Anniversary of 9/11 and I still cry, but not like before.

As I said, my brain understands the facts of 9/11, but my humanity never will. If I do, I think I'll be lost.

I was nearly wrong

Sometimes, milestone birthdays freak people out.

And no matter how many times you tell them that having a birthday beats the alternative of not having birthdays, some will still feel uncomfortable with the aging process.

I remember back to July 2001, telling my best friend that turning forty is no big deal. After all, I had done it 18 months prior, so she should be able to handle it. I reminded her of everything she had accomplished in her life and her two beautiful daughters.

This conversation happened when she was home visiting Minnesota. As we went our separate ways - she was flying back to Atlanta while I was heading home to Saint Paul to start a new job August 1st - I joked with her one last time and told her, "The world won't end if you turn 40, so enjoy your day."

Mary's 40th birthday was September 12, 2001. I was nearly wrong.