That’s what a presenter in the meetings I was in this week said helped us get through the financial crisis:  we were all working with a common purpose. It brings people together, changes beliefs, and makes the world a different place.  That’s how I feel about the success that the Royals had this year.  Now everyone who knows me knows I could give a monkey’s rump about baseball.  Hockey and football are my sports (Go Packers!) but ever since we moved to Kansas City, there has been this simmering excitement about the Royals – apparently the first incarnation of the club to have that effect in nearly 30 years.

They had a relatively good season and apparently toward the end of the summer, it started to look like things could go somewhere.  We even got to go to a game (where they beat the SF Giants believe it or not) and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  Then just over a month ago, they let first place slip away and had to battle to make the post season.  That led to an amazing wild card game.  Then another round of playoff games.  Then the division championship.  And all of a sudden, they were in the world series.

Now I it is true that I am new to this town and it is true that I haven’t always paid attention to general sports attitudes but I don’t recall ever seeing a reaction to a sports team quite like this.  It was October and Kansas City was still playing baseball – unheard of.  People started getting crazy and the more the Royals won, the crazier they got. This city of fountains was running with blue water everywhere. There was a different feel to things.  Casual conversations inevitably led to baseball.  Is there anything Lorenzo Cain couldn’t catch?  Is there a deeper bullpen in the league?  Could we break the “Giants dynasty”?  Even general greetings tended to include the phrase “Go Royals”.  The Fed Ex delivery woman dropped off a package, wished me a blessed day and closed with “Go Royals”.  It was on the front of buses, lit up on the side of buildings, and worn on bright blue clothing all over town.

And we watched baseball.  I have now seen more baseball in two months than I did in the 49 years before that.  We watched in agony when they lost, we were jubilant when they won.  Yoga classes were cancelled on game nights.  Night school classes were cancelled on game nights.  The night they made it to the world series, church bells rang. (Not a metaphor – I was in class at Rockhurst University, a local Catholic college, and they rang the cathedral bells when the last game of the ALCS was done.)

The local paper ran colorful headlines (most of which were hanging in the window of my colleague’s office – a long time Royals fan) Feel free to make jokes about small town press as you will. But the town was jubilant.  Even my work joined in:  we had a fund raiser for United Way – $10 bought you the right to wear jeans and Royals gear last Friday during the series We raised over $6000 which meant more than half the place participated – including our president and first vice president.  We held executive briefings in Royals t-shirts and lounged in the cafeteria in tennis shoes.  And everywhere the call “Go Royals” could be heard.

The games were up and down but then it was game 7.  The scrappy team from that “Flyover State” had taken the mighty Giants to the final game.  And they battled and they fought.

And they lost.  When the dust settled, the magic run was over and they were not the champs.  And still the fans applauded.  And still the odd fireworks were shot off. And although there was no mistaking the disappointment and pain, instead of rioting or setting things on fire, the fans thanked the players for the magical season and started speculating on who would be back for next year’s roster. And the front page of the local paper was properly respectful:  just because we didn’t #TakeTheCrown, it doesn’t mean we lost.

I have never seen such common bonding and general geniality over sports like I have here and it is one more thing I love about my new home town.  I still can’t say that I’m a baseball fan.  I can say that I’m a Kansas City and Royals fan.

I start this post sitting in a restaurant as a solo female diner. I have done this dozens of times before yet each time provides a new source of entertainment. In fact, had I not been a solo diner at a restaurant we really liked in DC, we would never have noticed that it was quite the same-sex date spot.  As the Seinfeld episode repeated: “Not that there is anything wrong with that” but only when you are a solo female diner who is not staring into your beloved’s eyes, you notice that there are few other female diners and they are not accompanied by male diners.  The male diners are busy holding hands with other male diners.  Endless people watching opportunities!

I remember that in high school I had a near crippling fear of being alone. I can’t remember when or why that changed but I do have distinct memories of going to lunch at the Magic Pan in the Burlington Mall ALONE (loved the split pea soup – it had sherry in it!) before going to the movies ALONE. That was the ultimate embarrassment – going to the movies by yourself. On one hand, it shouldn’t have mattered: it’s dark and after about 10 minutes no one remembers or cares that you came in by yourself. But the awkward teenager merely recalls that they couldn’t even get someone to sit in the dark near them. (Movies would have a breathy voice saying “loser” at this juncture.)

Since then I have been on  countless business trips which have required that I either ate alone or starved.  Admittedly there have been times when carry out in my hotel room was the best option but those evenings have been in the minority. Most have been similar to tonight’s adventure.

Walk into a respectable restaurant that won’t break the per diem but has been thoroughly vetted on Yelp and Urbanspoon before entry.  Ask for a table for one.  Smile inwardly at the teenage hostess’s unconcealed horror that you have to eat alone (insert variation of “poor thing” comment here).  Be seated at the least embarrassing place they have to offer – usually near the kitchen or a door where no one will see that you couldn’t get a date. Explain to the waiter that, no, you are not waiting for someone and, yes, he can take the other place setting.  Order a glass of wine (tonight it was Hess Chardonnay, very nice). Wave off the bread (first sign that you are a trouble maker – it’s the Bay area and it’s sourdough… what is up with you lady?) Watch people get seated around you.  Note who seems to pity the poor middle aged woman sitting by herself.  (Not many BTW, most folks are completely self absorbed.) Order a nice dinner (mesquite grilled sole, roasted veggies and fingerling potatoes).  Watch the entertainment around you.

Not having a dinner companion in whom you have a great deal of interest, solo diners can observe the humanity around them. (Note to self:  there’s got to be NSF research money in this.  Look into it upon return to KC.)  I watched the “Particular Four” – a group of 3 men and a woman who sat at no fewer than 4 tables before they decided the last table was the right one for them.  (These were all within one dining room and no more than 10 feet from each other. I couldn’t see what one had to offer over the other but then I was the loser without a date.) I overheard the conversation that the two female friends at the table next to me were carrying on – until they weren’t.  Apparently one was hispanic, or native enough in Spanish that when the Spanish-speaking waiter appeared, she felt the need to converse extensively with him in Spanish.  Her dinner companion obviously did NOT speak Spanish and was left staring into space and trying not to suck down her martini-type drink while the conversation swirled around her.  I don’t claim to speak Spanish in any way that would be useful but I do understand enough to know that she was being a PITA (pain in the ass).

I watched groups greet each other enthusiastically and couples sit quietly, some in the comfortable silence that comes with deep understanding and some with that uncomfortable “holy shit now what do we talk about” that signals deeper problems.  I watched attendees at an apparent business dinner get “friendlier” as the waitstaff brought out more alcohol.  If I had stayed longer I would have started taking bets as to who would not make it to work on time tomorrow.

But alas my sociology experiment, I mean dinner, had come to an end so it’s back to the hotel to do some work and get ready for tomorrow’s meetings where I won’t be alone and I hope that I won’t wish that I was.

Am I my resume?  That paints a picture of a person I don’t know*

Tomorrow is the KC marathon – I’m supposed to run the half marathon but that won’t be happening.  My old lady feet have decreed that 3 miles are painful so 13.1 miles are out of the question.  It may be that my days as a distance runner (slow but still a runner) are numbered.  That has been such an important part of my view of myself that it’s taking some time for me to truly fathom the implications.  It’s possible that things will improve and I’ll realize my goal of winning my age group because I’m the only one in it but I fear it will not come to pass.

So if I’m not a runner, am I a different person?  As I sat and cheered for the local baseball team while polishing  R code to do some parallel processing of 3 different structured learning models, it occurred to me that these are different activities than had occupied my time in the past.  People change and grow and that’s natural. However, most often such transformations have tended to be the evolutionary type:  change is slow and incremental.  And yes, eventually you wind up somewhere that you don’t recognize because the sum of those small differences changes your path and you wind up heading in a different direction.

Sometimes this can be painful.  I’m not sure Frank realized how far he has traveled from just being “the car guy”.  He is really enjoying his job refurbishing used cars – it’s actually pretty close to what he did with his students as a teacher – but he is noticing the differences he has with his coworkers.  Funny enough, most of them haven’t seen “La Boheme” at the Met.  That’s not to say a large number of high school teachers have either, but they understood and appreciated what that meant and some even liked opera.  Not many of his current compatriots have that same disposition.  It’s not bad, but it’s different and makes him wonder about his view of himself as well. (But yes, he can still fix anything, loves getting his hands dirty, and dreams of all the cars he will own someday.  So maybe not so different. 🙂 )

And I find myself having come full circle:  when I was on the job market nearly 20 years ago, I was accused of data mining – a terrible thing in the economics world.  Now I’m studying it at local business school.  I knew I was never a “real” economist but I didn’t know that I’ve been a pseudo data scientist this whole time but with an economics focus. Yes, I am still the data queen, metadata maven, empress of the universe – choose your favorite exalted title! – but now I’m one who doesn’t run at 5am but enjoys drinking coffee and reading the paper before leaving for work.  I may turn out to be the kind who manages to hit the gym after work, understands bullpen strategies, and does machine learning research. Who knows?

You’ll have to come to KC to see who meets you at the airport. I can promise good food and wine.  The rest we’ll have to make up as we go!

* Bonus points for anyone who recognized the song lyric without clicking on the link.

Because 25 years deserves more than just a Facebook status update.

Hard to believe it’s been a quarter of a century.  I’ve been married to Frank longer than I wasn’t.  We were just kids:  I was 24 and he was 26, babies by today’s standards.  Most people didn’t know we were already married – a quick courthouse ceremony to satisfy immigration requirements.  This was the big church do:  white dress, tuxedo, flowers, cake, friends and family.

And they came from everywhere.  His parents had never been on a plane before.  In flying across an ocean to be with us, they missed the birth of their first grandchild.  (My niece Lisa has the dubious distinction of being the only relative whose birthday I will never forget!) Her parents came nearly as far both in distance and in mindset:  her mother had finally come around to the master’s degree marrying the mechanic.  It would be just a few short months before she gave the bride the motherly advice of “you’ve got a good guy there – don’t blow it”.

Because there were so many out-of-town attendees, the rehearsal dinner was more like tailgating before the big game.  In a small room at the famous Brickskeller restaurant, they gathered for drinks and camaraderie.  By the time we arrived at the church the next morning, they would be fast friends.  She got up extra early for the big wedding hair and make up appointment.  It would be days before she got all the hairspray out of her hair.  He had to deal with some slightly hungover groomsmen.  They arrived at the church to be greeted by a march against homelessness through the tony streets of Georgetown led by the famous activist Mitch Snyder.  The church was the one that Kennedy had attended.  It held ten times as many people as would be in attendance that day.

They would be wed by a professor of economics at Georgetown University who was also a Jesuit priest.  The conservative priest in the church near their apartment wouldn’t marry them because they were living together.  The fact that immigration rules required it wouldn’t sway his judgement that we were building our house on sand and not stone.  So we opted to be the fifth couple the economist had married and since 3 of the 4 couples were still together, he thought he was doing pretty well.  They had a full Catholic mass, not because it was something they wanted but because that’s how it worked out.  Readings went off with out a hitch, everyone behaved.  No fodder for reality TV here.

And then the celebrating continued.  Even though it was a morning wedding, the party lasted all afternoon and well into the evening.  They survived the DJ botching the bride’s name (as if Frank would marry someone named Sharon!) and they did the traditional dances. And some not so traditional ones – I haven’t yet been to a wedding where there was such a response to “Take the Skinheads Bowling” on the dance floor. Her mother was having so much fun that she didn’t want things to end and ran around writing checks to people to stay “just one more hour”.

Then it was done.  The months of planning, hours of consultations, gallons of wine, and gardens of flowers had contributed to a wonderful celebration.  And those two youngsters are still together – not so young in age but in spirit.  They have built a fabulous life together, raised two wonderful and amazing children, and have another half century or so to look forward to together.

To our family and friends who were there to celebrate with us that day: thank you for helping us this life off to a great start.  To those who have enriched our lives since then, thank you for helping us continue what they started.  It’s been an amazing ride and we can’t wait for the next round.

And to my beloved husband and best friend, there would be no life without you.

I know that travel horror stories are legion but I have usually been lucky enough to not be caught in them.  However, it was apparently our turn. We had been looking forward to our trip to Vermont to visit Jesse for some time – me especially so since I hadn’t seen my daughter since July.  We paid stoopid money for the plane tickets because it is the beginning of leaf peeping season even though that isn’t why we were going.  We had plans for hanging out in town, eating well, watching Jesse play rugby, and just generally enjoying some family time.  Then some idiot has to set something on fire in Chicago and that starts the dominos.  Our flights were on United which seemed to be particularly hard hit by the air traffic control mess in Chicago and the first domino fell when they cancelled our flight to Chicago on Thursday night.

Fine.  That wasn’t so bad since it was going to get us into Burlington after midnight and really put us in a bind to get ready (since I had just come back from a business trip on Tuesday) so we looked on the bright side:  we got to watch the Packers crush the Vikings and catch some of the Royals win – both of which we would have missed in the air.  So we thought maybe the 8am flight out on Friday morning wasn’t such a bad thing.  It would get us into Burlington around 2:30 – right when Jesse got out of class.  Okay, we’ll manage.

Except when we woke up Friday morning, our 8am flight was delayed until 9:20 because of a delayed flight crew.  Apparently they had gotten in late the night before and they couldn’t take off again until after the mandated FAA rest period.  Okay, we had been scheduled for a long layover in Chicago and now we would just get off one plane and straight on the next.  We had about 35 minutes and were landing and taking off from the same terminal so it didn’t seem too bad.  We had a nice breakfast and got to the airport and got all checked in plenty early for the 9:24 scheduled departure time.

Domino two:  no departure.  Plane was there, passengers were there, flight attendant there.  No cockpit crew.  At about 9am, the gate agent announced that the crew was somewhere in the airport and they were trying to locate them and as long as we could get wheels up by 9:30, we’d still land in Chicago in time for people to make connections.  Really?  Lost in the Kansas City airport?  Have you been there?  It’s not that big!  Now I begin to worry about boarding a plane with an idiot in the cockpit.

Which I shouldn’t have worried about.  When we hit 9:30, the plane was officially delayed until 10am while they looked for an alternative crew (WTF?  Where did the first crew go?) and we were now going to miss our connection.  The next flight to Burlington was on Saturday so we’d be stuck in Chicago for the day then fly to VT to land 24 hours before departing again.  Nope, not worth the kind of money I paid for the tickets.  By now,  I couldn’t find any other way to get to Burlington before Saturday at any cost so there was no other option:  cancel the whole trip.  The gate agent started the process of refunding our money – no arguments at least.  This one couldn’t be blamed on weather, air traffic control or any other outside force:  the airline HAD LOST THE FLIGHT CREW.  So United, you now have also lost a fairly frequent flyer.  We headed home.

Domino three: in the rain.  The weather hadn’t improved and a cold, stinging rain started as we pulled out of the parking lot.  We headed home, shed a few tears of disappointment along the way, finished the refund request on-line and both headed to work.  Where we had to explain 100 times why we were there.  We could have stayed home since we had taken the day off but Frank wouldn’t have gotten paid and I would have been left alone in a house with no food – because we thought we were going to be gone for three days! So off to work and while I like my new job, I wasn’t supposed to be there so it wasn’t any fun.

[Skipping over the Friday evening frustration of trying to finish a research project at home only to have my password expire in the middle of all my work and then being locked out, having to email the boss begging to be unlocked only to have all my stuff crash. We’ll focus on the Royals win instead.]

So now we are home when we aren’t supposed to be.  Got to run some errands that would have been over due and tried to find a bright spot in prowling around the West Bottoms antinque-ing for First Friday weekend – if you haven’t been here for that, you really should come! But our quest for some stained glass for the front window was for naught and after two hours of prowling through old warehouses, it was time to give up.  We did score some great vinyl (nearly new copy of “Born to Run” for example) but it didn’t feel like a victory.  We still had to go food shopping and had planned on more comfort food for the evening meal:  corned beef and cabbage!  Domino four: Three grocery stores later, and still no corned beef.  We finally find it at McGonigle’s butcher shop but when you start cooking your corned beef at 6:30pm, you are bound to be disappointed or eating at midnight.  And we were pretty much both.

So now I sit on a sunny Sunday morning, still fighting with my research project, waiting to wake Frank it’s past time to get up. (I can’t sleep past 7am no matter how hard I try).  No run for me because my old lady feet are still protesting. No church today because we still don’t have warm fuzzies for the local chapel.  But I do get to look forward to scrubbing the bathrooms. Oh joy. Pinch me – I must be dreaming. I’ll look forward to cooking more comfort food (stew and home made bread – made with plenty of time to spare today) and hope that the Royals win tonight so that maybe I can be cheered up by the joy around me.