If I had a dollar for every time I've left coins, or bills, or tissues in my pants pockets and washed my pants, well, I'd have the money I've since found in the dryer after drying it, too. Along with all the annoying tissues that have disentigrated in the dryer.

Of course, my pants aren't the only place I manage to leave cash. I keep finding little stashes of money in coat pockets. And in my backpack. That was great finding $200 in a small pocket in my backpack: meant I didn't have to go to the bank for an two extra weeks. Fun!

However, there are times when I really have to wonder about this trend of mine. Like today when Kristi was cleaning out a box of receipts for me. She was scanning them so that I can shred them and pitch them. This particular box was full of receipts; enough that she had to spend a good half hour sorting them.

About twenty minutes into her sorting, she turned to me, and commented, "Hey, I found a twenty wrapped in a receipt."

"Oh?"

"The receipt is from... hold on... 2003."

*blink*

*blink* *blink*

"Uh... Yeah, I can spend that money now."

"Thought so."

This morning, while sitting at a Master Gardeners class taking notes, I connected to the internet via my MiFi. I have a love-hate relationship with this little thing, my fondness emotions in direction proportion to the MiFi's working status. That is to say, when it works, I love it; when it doesn't, I f'ing hate it; and when it doesn't work for no reason, I want to stomp on the fucker until it's in itty bitty tiny pieces.

Like now.

It was working, then dropped my connection. I cannot connect to the MiFi, much less check if the MiFi connects to some 3G network. I've tried rebooting the MiFi. I've removed the battery and put it back in. I've turned on and off my wireless connection on my laptop. I've plugged in the MiFi. Everything someone at tech support will ask you to do, everything that will reset each part of the connection.

The fucker won't connect.

And the whole process reminds why being frustration produces so anger.

When there is a way to solve a problem (follow these steps and the problem goes away) or a way to find a way to solve a problem (do these things, try these other things, one or more of which will produce a state from which you can figure out the rest of the problem ), then continuing working on the problem is bearable. I may not have a solution, but I know that I'll get to the solution, and that knowledge keeps me going.

When you're dealing with a black box (turn this on, and it will work), however, and there's no way to figure out why it's not working (turn this on, it will work, it doesn't work, well it should, well it doesn't), then the frustration begins.

And I hate being frustrated.

I hate the feeling of being unable to complete a task because I lack the knowledge. I hate not being able to figure out how to get the result I need. I hate that sinking feeling when I've tried everything I can and just. don't. get. it. I hate that I want to stomp around throwing things when I get frustrated when I know I really should just walk away and calm down, maybe sleep or go for a run to get a different perspective on the problem. All coping techniques I do to avoid the stomping and throwing don't really remove the frustration, only knowledge can really do that.

Learning is the best way out of the frustration.

And people wonder why I love knowledge so much.

Of course, if stupidity is defined as doing the same thing over and over and over again, expecting a different result; then frustration is defined as doing the same thing over and over and over again, expecting the same result and being relieved when you get a different one.

The mifi connected after the fourth battery removal and the second system reboot. *sigh*

My first job out of college was at a technology transfer company that these days we would call a startup, but then was just called a company. The founders had started a previous technology company and had invested their own money in transferring aerospace (and other) technology to the automotive industry, specifically for electric vehicles. Realizing that electric vehicles weren't going to happen without advances in technology, the company worked to introduce existing advanced technologies to the automotive industry by developing them enough that they were inexpensive enough and safe enough that car makers would be interested in them.

(Whew! A long introduction that, if I had an editor, would be cut as somewhat not relevant to the rest of the story, but still somewhat relevant as it says "technology" and "electric vehicles" several times, and those are relevant to the rest of this. Yay me! This is going to be a long winding post, I can tell already.)

While working in a building that no longer exists at Burbank airport's skunk works location (another detail that's fuzzy, doesn't seem to fit in my mental timeline correctly, but my mental picture has it correct), a guy walked into the facility and asked the receptionist if he can get a tour or introduction to the facility. He was interested in electric cars, had his resume with him, and was hoping to get a foot in the door. The receptionist (oh, f, I don't recall her name and I wish I did, because she was wicked funny), didn't really know what to do other than take his resume, but I was standing at the receptionist's desk when he came up (or maybe I was called up by the receptionist, this part is particularly fuzzy for some reason, but I recall being at the desk) and offered to give him a tour of our facility. I mean, hey, this guy was cute, why would I not?

Turns out, he was in town, looking for work, staying at a friend's place. They were going to a party in the evening, would I be interested in going? At the time, I had broken up with my boyfriend, and, hey, here's this cute guy my age asking me if I wanted to go to a party. This was so much better than being asked if I wanted to have oral sex with a coworker twice my age, or having another coworker, the head of HR even, come up and stroke my hair. So much way better, so I said yes. I'm sure that this guy's (yeah, yeah, Marc was his name) being cute had a lot to do with my saying yes, too.

I have a vague recollection of the party. I remember getting lost on my way to Marc's place. I remember thinking, wow, this was kinda dumb, safety-wise, when I was at Marc's place with him and a couple of his friends. Either Marc's or Marc's friend's girlfriend was there, too, so I felt a little safer and a lot more awkward, thinking she was really cute. I had driven down to hang out with this group of people, one of whom I had just randomly met, yeah, not so smart safety-wise.

I remember talking a lot with one of Marc's friends, thinking not much of it other than it was nice to be able to talk to someone without history getting in the way, and being surprised at the end of the evening as Marc and another one of his friends apologized most profusely at the first guy hitting on me all night. I had no idea that I was getting hit upon. Yes, clueless me.

All of this was before cellphones, at the dawn of the consumer internet. While I had email at college, at this job I was using the Thomas Register books to look up manufacturers and contacting them via landline phones. There wasn't really any easy way for me to leave a quick note to Marc, nor he to me, so, we wrote letters to each other, thanking each other for different things.

I kept Marc's last letter to me. I tucked it into a page protector and stuck it in a binder, and every three, four years would need something in the binder, or notice the binder and pull it out, and look through it. Sometimes I'd notice Marc's letter and wonder about him, what happened to him. He had a common enough name that I didn't search for him online. I didn't think I'd find him.

Well, I don't have a common name.

He found me.

Apparently, he had kept a letter I wrote to him. While his was all professional, mine was clearly not, and was clearly flirting.

I want to say, "I. Am. So. Embarrassed." and not post the letter he scanned and sent me, but really now, it's part of me, and who I was. I find it amusing, and yeah, somewhat embarrassing, but also cute. My handwriting hasn't changed much, I note.

What I find most amazing, though, is that He. Saved. The. Letter. Too.

Wow.

This world is smaller than it used to be. Facebook makes finding people easier, though I'm rather anti-facebook at the moment and have it blocked at the network level on my laptop (the blocking I turn off during web development of websites, said so that my clients know I'm not irresponsible when testing their sites) and my account set as private as I can (though Facebook makes that a non-stop moving target). Unfortunately, Facebook also makes it so that you never lose touch with the people you meet, never have that incredible moment when you open a note and have a rush of memories come back and smack you upside the head.

I wonder if he realized I'd post his note. I wonder if he realized Paul did the same thing, six years ago, and how awesome that turned out.

So, hi, Marc. Incredibly awesome to hear from you.

Everyone else lurking, email me already.

Seriously, Amazon, WTF?

Why the H is this in my suggestions list?

And why is my ENTIRE SUGGESTIONS LIST PINK?

If only I actually HAD looked at the pink bike. Then I might actually want to see all this pink. Instead I just want to scratch out my eyes.

Pink.

Blech.

OMG OMG. So, we're flying along, all nice and calm like, when all of a sudden, RUMBLE RUMBLE, YANK and we jerk hard to the left and drop. "Flight attendants, take your seats," we hear on the intercom, though I don't think he said "attendants." Seat belt light goes on, and rumble rumble more turbulence and we jerk to the eft again. My ipad nearly dumped on the floor, I'm getting nervous, women are crying out, everyone is fidgety. Calm.... calm... two minutes later, the seat belt light went off, captain comes on. "Sorry about the turbulence there, we needed to avoid hitting another plane. We should have smooth sailing the rest of the way to Chicago. We're going to turn off the seat belt light now."

Um...

Whee?