A Conspiracy of Paper - David Liss

I have just finished a fascinating historical mystery by David Liss.

I first read Mr. Liss' entertaining The Coffee Trader while unemployed. It was a financial thriller that I borrowed from my mother. While roaming through Barnes and Noble, I happened upon The Coffee Trader once again and, next to it, A Conspiracy of Paper.

I enjoyed The Coffee Trader, not just because it was entertainingly written, with eloquent descriptions and an intriguing setting - 17th century Netherlands (I think that's the right century, it's been a while) - but because it was so gosh darned informative.

Yes, gosh darned.

I've read a couple of finance books that sought to educate me about the markets, and I was always a little hazy on the subject of futures. The Coffee Trader cleared that all up, as the futures trade (again, I might be remembering fuzzily) originated in the Netherlands in the 17th century. As you might expect, The Coffee Trader deals with trading futures in, of all things, coffee.

So I snapped up A Conspiracy of Paper because 1) it dealt with the early days of the stock market in London (early 18th century), in particular the South Sea Company and the so-called South Sea Bubble; and 2) the main character sounded fascinating: a pugilist (boxer) turned bounty hunter in the days before London had a police force. Technically, he is described as a thief-taker, because he hunts down thieves and recovers stolen goods for a percentage of the booty's value, but he also occasionally beat people into a pulp for a fee.

It was interesting, reading the book and finding out more about the South Sea Company, on which Mr. Liss wrote a dissertation in graduate school. His main character, Benjamin Weaver aka Lienzo, was based on a real life character by the name of Daniel Mendoza, a Portuguese Jew who earned renown and society's respect in the boxing ring in a time when foreign-born Jews were forbidden from owning property in England.

The book deals not only with the stock markets at the time - a highly informal affair - but also with the religious prejudices of society towards Jews and Dissenters (non-Church-of-Englanders), the societal restrictions of women, and the corruption that pervaded the judiciary and government during that time.

The book is not exactly a light read, but it was fascinating. Occasionally, I had to set it down to digest what I had read before I could take another bite, but it was well worth it. Mr. Liss has another book, I believe featuring the same Benjamin Weaver character, and I'm dying to go buy it to see what else he can teach me about the financial market's history. That, and I have a weakness for half-dressed men beating the stuffing out of each other. Alas, other preoccupations must come first.

What's a girl to do? So many books, so little time...

Teardrop

I have lost a necklace. I have no idea where it is. The last time I remember seeing it - or wearing it - was when I was at my parents' house.

The necklace was incredibly special to me, not because someone gave it to me. Quite the contrary, it was special because it was the first piece of "real" jewelry I bought for myself: not silver plated, not costume jewelry, but a simple Elsa Peretti silver teardrop from Tiffany's. I had seen it and coveted it, and I wanted it terribly.

I managed to scrape up enough money, about 8 years ago, to buy it for myself, and I have worn it almost every day since then, save for those days when the pearls I received for my 16th birthday were more appropriate, or when I decided to be a bit more outlandish, and threw on the North African silver mail necklace I picked up in the flea market in Amsterdam.

Not having the necklace leaves me feeling uncertain, because I don't have my old standby to wear. I'm having to delve deeper into my jewelry box, past the tiny gold-leaf-encrusted ceramic heart my sister gave me, that hangs from a waxed cord - the only piece of heart jewelry I think I will ever wear - and into the jewelry box, to pluck out a necklace of heavy stones with a carved jade pendant, or the bronze necklace with the red coral beads, big around as your thumb, that dangle from the ends.

Perhaps the missing necklace will be good for me, and force me out of my comfort zone. I design for a living, and perhaps I should be riskier with the way I design my appearance.

But then, I have always had a penchant for the classics, and clung to the things that worked.

For years, I wore the gold locket I was given as a baby, until it fell out of the pocket of my purse while I hunted for a valet ticket. The restaurant washed their patio, that night, and no one had turned it into the lost and found. Gone forever, a gift from my great grandmother.

A pair of favorite jeans, ones I've owned for 10 years and that I fancied incredibly expensive when I bought them, recently ripped at the hem. Or, rather, they ripped a good 3 inches above the hem. I am left with yet another dilemma: do I patch them, as they are still holding up decently in other places, or do I toss them out? I wear them often in the summer, since the denim is now so thin that they are too chilly for winter wearing, but they do look tired. Particularly with the gash that cuts across them right above the arch of my foot.

For a while, I didn't buy clothes, because I had just bought a sofa, I was being more financially responsible and saving more money. Then, I didn't buy clothes because I had mountains of medical bills to pay and no energy to shop. The medical bills aren't flowing as quickly, these days, and I did buy myself a few things to wear, recently, but now I'm struggling with another question: I need new clothes, because the torn jeans, in addition to my first "expensive" pair of jeans that I bought 4 years ago, are verging on unwearable, so do I buy new clothes, or do I put that off and replace the necklace? Will the necklace have the same meaning it did before, now that I am able to replace it more easily (although that amount of money is one with which I will never gladly part)?

Or will it just be something pretty that hangs around my neck?

Jill of All Projects

I am not a Jack of all trades, per se, because 1) I am female and 2) I generally know what I'm doing. I am, however, something of a Jill of all projects, because I keep getting shuffled from one miscellaneous task on one project to another miscellaneous task on another project. I'm not really in the loop on either of the projects, but that doesn't stop the guys from assigning me things to do.

Like lay out tile patterns for hideous tile that our client picked out. Her interior designer doesn't seem to realize that part of her job is to help pick out things like counter tops and tile, and she just wants to select furniture. You know, the fun stuff: playing with fabric swatches and buying sofas. I can kind of sympathize, particularly as our client acts like she's bankrupt. She could buy and sell our whole firm and our extended families many times over, but oh my God, she cannot spend more than $5 per square foot on tile! That's outrageous! Yeah, honey. Sure it is.

In between tile patterns and calculating seating capacity for church sanctuaries and wandering around church property doing a half-a**ed job of a tree survey - isn't that civil's job, anyway? - I've been archiving drawings for the office.

It's a mess.

We have drawings in our "current projects" drawers around our desks that were completed in 1985. You can see what I'm up against, here. Not to mention, our archive room is a wreck, with file boxes of receipts from 2000, for computers we no longer own. Seven years of records are all that are required. Come on folks.

I'm blaming the pitiful state of our archives on Lola, as that was supposed to be one of her jobs. She was too busy Facebooking and emailing her friends to actually perform any of her tasks, though.

So now, I'm in charge of the archives, which is okay, because it's the sort of task my little OCD heart goes pitter patter over.

It's not easy, physically, as it involves rolling up drawings (which requires some upper body strength), putting those drawings into tubes, and carrying the tubes 30 feet down the hall, then lifting them into their appropriate cubby spaces. If there's already a tube started for the project, I sometimes have to move 10 tubes out of the way to be able to pull the required tube out of the pile so I can check to see if it's full, in which case I have to start a new tube.

It's also turned out to be emotionally difficult.

My boss has two daughters. He also, at one time, had a son. His son drowned in the Gulf of Mexico as a young man, in his late teens or early 20s, I think.

There are things that belonged to his son in the archive room: a box of buttons from peace rallies, a magazine article with his name scrawled across the top, and family snapshots of he and his younger sisters on the beach.

I found the items on accident when I knocked over a precariously perched box, and three smaller boxes from Sakowitz spilled out, dumping buttons and photos and dice everywhere. I picked them up, and read a few of the things in the boxes, and realized that they belonged to Oldsmobile's son.

I sat down on another box (the lid of which promptly caved in) and sorted through the articles, looking at the funny quirky collection of odds and ends. The boxes were, appropriately enough, labelled "Odds and Ends."

The emotions I felt are difficult to explain: a mixture of sadness and happiness and a sense of loss, although I never knew Oldsmobile's son. Also, I suppose, there was surprise: why were the things in our office storage closet, instead of at Oldsmobile's house?

It's a question I can never ask, but I can guess at a few answers.

Ahhhhh! That's Better!

I am almost feeling back to my old self, health-wise. It's amazing, the recovery I've made since changing my posture at the office (and, just now, in my beautiful but ergonomically deadly chrome and leather chair in my bedroom). Who would have known that a little thing like sitting up straight could completely alter your physical well-being?

Okay, so my parents did, as they've always encouraged me to sit up straight, but at the office, when I sit for 8 hours straight (unless I have the pleasure of standing around on the jobsite for several hours being ogled by construction workers), it's difficult to maintain that upright posture so prized by Victorian ladies. Difficult unless you have the proper chair, that is.

In my newly feeling better state, I have accomplished a bunch of things, as you might have noticed from the two previous blog posts. I was not, dear reader, finished just yet.

Oh, no. No, I was not finished. (Rubs hands together and looks shifty).

Last night, after returning from a bonding session with Major Tom (read: scratching his ears and feeding him), I decided to rearrange one of my bookshelves. It's adjacent to the console table that holds my TV, and was the destined destination for my brand spanking new DVD player.

A word about boring DVD players (as opposed to Blu-Ray players, etc., which are exciting beyond measure according to the salesman who doesn't seem to care that I watch a DVD maybe once in a blue moon): they're much cheaper and much much smaller than they were when I bought my first one (may it rest in peace).

I think I'm getting carried away with parentheses.

The John Derian boxes were actually purchased to provide a nice little plinth for my DVD player, in addition to more places to stash the odds and ends that don't really belong anywhere else. They sit in a place of pride, anchoring one end of the bookshelf.

I then did something I never thought I would do, after removing all the books from the shelf. Bear in mind that these were mostly large art and architecture monographs, so the exercise I got performing this task was considerable. And exhausting.

Back to the thing I never thought I would do: I organized the books by color.

I know! IknowIknowIknow! I've seen it done in magazines and it always struck me that those people must not access their books very often if they organized them by color. Really, if you're going to jumble all your nonfiction and fiction and anthologies and art books together, how can you ever find anything?

I was at least methodical about it. Only my architecture and art books are arranged by color, with the black books together, the cream and white and yellow books together, and the blue books together. I did not realize, until Sunday night, just how many of my architecture books had blue spines.

I also realized that adding the boxes and DVD player left less room for the books. Hmmmm... So they are stacked, and a few of the books that are less attractive and not art/architecture are stacked behind the few modern fiction works that inhabit a shelf, in exile from their counterparts across the room.

I managed to keep my cigar boxes (thanks, Dad!) on display, as they create nice level changes for the books (red cigar box with blue-green books on top = graphically pleasing), and my favorite photograph - my paternal grandmother with a Christmas bow on her head and a look that say "What? Do you have a problem with this?" on her face - is front and center: it speaks volumes about her understated sense of humor.

On another note, while attempting to email the images from this post to myself, I accidentally sent them to an email address one number away from mine. I wonder if I'll get a response?

Deranged Over Derian

I awoke this morning (okay, afternoon) and set about accomplishing even more fun things. I mailed a bunch of paperwork to my insurance company in order to get reimbursed a pittance for a provider who doesn't do insurance paperwork herself, and I mail that certified mail, so that required a trip to the post office.

But the post office is closed on Sundays! you cry.

Never fear, for I have discovered the joys of the Automated Postal Center, open 24 hours per day, 7 days per week. If you have a credit card, you too can send mail whenever you want. It's amazing.

Then I got an iced tea from Sonic, because I can't perform errands without iced tea. It's impossible. It's my anti-kryptonite. Or something like that. I don't go in for comic books.

Next was a trip to the office to print off the email I forgot to get yesterday. Ahem. We have a new printer in the office, and it isn't networked to our computers, yet. So I jotted down the info, and left. I was, so far as I could tell, the only person in the building, which left me with a decidedly unsettled feeling.

And off I flew to Target in Plano (a quick detour en route to visit Major Tom). I wanted to buy a cannister for my flax seed and some Dr. Pepper for my apartment and to see what they had left in the John Derian for Target line that went on sale today.

It was slim pickins, folks, and the products were scattered all over the store. I found some bowls and plates and things, but I don't need any more kitchen goods (except for cannisters. For flax seed). So I trotted over to the home office section to see if they had his papergoods over there. I was in luck! The boxes I'd seen online were there, in all their blue and brown faux marbled glory! Huzzah!

As I stood, leafing through the notebooks (soft back, so worthless for my needs) and opening every single box on the shelf, an elderly woman with a bandaid across her nose and a beautiful brooch on her pseudo-Chanel jacket approached and said, "Oh, these are lovely!" She saw the honeycomb patterned box - similar to the two blue/brown boxes I had in my cart - and exclaimed about how pretty it was! Oh, but it was marred by a spot of white!

"There's another one," I reassured her, crouching down and getting it for her from the back of the shelf. She was very grateful, as her mobility was limited. She was leaning heavily on her cart. That's when I noticed that her cart was FULL of John Derian for Target.

"You haven't seen the boxes like this with the lids, have you?" she asked (our boxes have a flap that ties shut).

"No! Are they sold out already?"

"I'm afraid so," she sighed. "I've been all over the store. I thought, surely, if I got here on the first day, they'd have some. But the website says they're sold out, and none of the store associates can find them."

I laughed and replied, "It's good to know I'm not the only one here on the first day."

"Oh, no!" she said. "There's tons of us crazy ladies running around! You're in excellent company."

I wanted to whisk her off for coffee, but instead we just stood and chatted for a little while longer before I headed to the checkout line. I decided not to tempt fate and my checkbook by going to the other areas of the store where there were more products to be found (she had, it seemed, hobbled around until she found all of them).

I might go get coffee by myself, though, and pretend there's a crazy old lady rabidly hunting John Derian with me. I know she'd be there in spirit, anyway.

Day of (No) Rest

I decided to put my long weekend to good use by accomplishing as much as possible in a short amount of time. So far, I have done almost everything I intended to do.

1) I went to Container Store - it was torture I tell you! - and bought a cannister for cereal (which gets soggy as soon as I open the box) and a cannister for epsom salts (in which I am supposed to soak every night). I then proceeded to buy a lovely plyboo shelf for my monster 11x17 printer, so I can keep my little 8.5x11 printer underneath it. They seem very happy in this arrangement. I also bought a binder for a later task...

2) I went to Fry's Electronics and bought a DVD player so I can get back to my pilates-lite and a new shredder, because all the medical crud I've shredded this past year did my old one in.

3) I went to Design Within Reach and pretended that I would buy an Aeron chair from the nice guy, David, who waited on me and helped me choose between multiple chairs. I will most likely buy a chair from someone else (gently used if she has the right size for me) after I get her contact info, which is on my computer at work, but not at home.

4) I took the electronic part of my old shredder to Best Buy. They recycle electronics - including small appliances - FOR FREE. Sweet. And I didn't have to drive through a sketchy neighborhood like I would have had to do if I went to the City of Dallas' e-cycling center that's open late on Saturdays.

5) I cleaned house. I sneezed a lot. This part is only about 1/3 finished. Okay, okay, 1/4 finished. I might need to find a housekeeper.

6) Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. Dear God, where does it all come from?

7) I began organizing medical invoices and paperwork from the past year. This took about two hours. It's why I bought the binder from Container Store. So all my bills are organized by date of service with their receipts - if I have them - stapled to the invoices, and the Explanations of Benefits right alongside the doctors' bills and receipts for MRIs and CT Scans and surgery.

8) I got a jump on my income taxes. Say what? Yes, because I have so far spent 1/7 of my projected income on medical expenses, and I didn't want to wait until January or February or something before I started making my yearly spreadsheet. In previous years, I haven't had enough expenses to warrant claiming them on my taxes - I was always just under the minimum you can claim for medical expenses. This year, however, I appear to be well on my way to outstripping that minimum, so I decided to go ahead and start the spreadsheet so it won't be quite so huge come February. I have a couple of receipts that are missing their explanation of benefits, but I'm thinking I can hunt those down on my insurance company's website.

Numbers 7 & 8 are essentially how I am spending my Saturday night. Woohoo! Party!

I am officially old. Heck, I take Centrum Silver (doctor's recommendation, because I need the extra oomph), so I'm practically a senior citizen, right? Right...

Time to Get Envious

In my efforts to increase my level of healthiness, I decided it would behoove me to get a massage.

Ahem.

My muscles are all knotted up in my back, at present, so I called one of the Massage Envy outlets near my house to set up an appointment.

No one answered the phone. I left a message. No one called back.

Apparently, that particular outlet does not need customers.

After Mrs. Robinson went to the Massage Envy at the West Village and raved about the experience, I decided to give it a shot. I called that one and they answered on the first ring, booked my appointment ASAP, and I had my first appointment on Wednesday.

Oh, Dear Reader, it was wonderful.

For 1/2 the price that the Gorg at Nordstrom charged, I had a one hour massage. And because it was 1/2 the price the Gorg charged, I was able to book another one for next week.

Hopefully, these things are tax deductible for medical expenses (maybe if my neurologist writes me a prescription...) but regardless, the first one helped my mental well-being. And I adored my therapist, with whom I formed a bond based on our mutual love of black labs and the 80s.

I thought she was going to hug me when she found out I had a black lab named Major Tom. Seriously.

And she used to do massage therapy at Children's Medical Center for kids who had cancer, so when she found out (from my medical history) that I'd had leukemia, she just about started crying and proclaimed I was a "miracle."

I'm not going to go that far, but I think I'm alright. Major Tom is currently dancing around at my side, and he seems to think I'm pretty spiffy, too.

I ended up joining their fancy membership thingy, because I did a quick calculation on how much money it costs without the membership vs. joining, and I think in the long run it will save me money, since ideally, I will be getting a massage every month.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand Major Tom Shadowmaker just figured out it's raining. If you'll excuse me, I have a neurotic World War I flying ace to console (I think it's shellshock that causes him to get this way when it thunders). Man, Snoopy never freaked out like this...