pay it forward

i'm being watched. just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not erasing your programs.

i've endeavored to follow all the rules to a t (what the hell does that mean, anyway?), and i was on schedule to return promptly after my lunch break, but there were two men standing next to a vintage pickup on the side of the road. the older man was in his late 60s, i'd say, and the middle-aged man with him was holding jumper cables.

last time i lived in this town and my battery died, i stood out in the street for thirty minutes, dressed in my office attire, jumper cables in hand, and watched as a dozen or so cars drove out of my neighborhood without even slowing. i finally had to call my future husband (reason #24,593 that i married well) who detoured to jump my car. i am not an imposing figure, much as i'd like to think i can be, and it blew me away that no one would stop for an office bitch -- i mean, damsel in distress.

so now i make it a point to stop unless i have obvious safety concerns, even if it's inconvenient or i'm running late or i have to turn around and drive the wrong way down the shoulder of a one-way street.

turns out the guy's battery was stolen while the truck was parked in front of his house, so he's running off a teeny-tiny little thing more fit for a commuter coupe than an elderly pick-up. it took him a few minutes and two sets of cables, but he got her fired up and thanked me profusely, apologizing that he didn't have anything to give me. give me? it didn't cost me a thing! and the pair of them were so sweet and appreciative that i expect the warm fuzzies will last the rest of the day. npr is broadcasting about year-end donations, and one of the commentators observed that it's not always about giving money; sometimes it's about giving of your time or your talent. although wealthy people have more to give, statistically (per the npr program), economically-challenged people often give a larger percentage of what they have, and young people volunteer more time. imma scope out that truck and see if i can buy a battery for it.

ETA: husband says they don't want me to buy them a battery, so i haven't.

letters to gma

Dec. 1, 2010

Dear Grandma & Grandpa ~

If I write you a story, will you write me one back? Not a make-believe story, but something from your real life that I haven't heard before? I just watched a video online that this woman put together of an interview with her grandmother AND I WANT TO DO ONE -- don't worry, I know you wouldn't like talking to a camera...but I so enjoyed reading [Great Aunt] M---'s autobiography.

[terrible sketch of a chick hatching from an egg] I only remember one Easter we didn't make it to your house to celebrate. It must have been 1987 or so, because we were still living in M---. You remember how M--- and I used to wake up in the early morning, and we were allowed to turn on the TV at low volume and watch cartoons. Well, that one Easter there must have been bad weather or I'm sure we'd have been in L---, and I woke up Easter morning all excited to go searching for eggs, but when I got out to the living room, M--- was just finishing up his own pre-dawn, solo egg-hunting expedition, and he'd already found all the eggs! Six-year-old me was ENRAGED that he'd started by himself, but four-year-old him was so proud of himself for all of his industrious gathering, and didn't understand that it was intended as a family activity for which the rest of us should also be awake. I'm sure I was on the verge of a tantrum over how had RUINED EASTER!!! but the parents calmly ascertained that he hadn't actually been eating the candy out of the eggs and redistributed them to their secret hiding places so the hunt could officially begin. They must have explained it to him, although I don't remember that. I do remember that I felt like I should have been mollified by the do-over, and that I mostly enjoyed the "re-hunt," but I still felt robbed that he'd gotten his own private egg hunt while I was cluelessly sleeping down the hall. OH, THE INJUSTICE OF IT ALL! Sure, they were all the same eggs, none the less candy-filled than if they'd just been unpacked by the Easter Bunny himself (and, by the way, what kind of self-respecting rabbit totes around eggs, anyway, candy-filled or not? Mammals don't lay eggs (well, except for that goofy-looking duck-billed platypus, but he looks like a mutant anyway so we really shouldn't be surprised)), but that basketful of booty was TAINTED by the fact that I wasn't the first to unearth it. I was SO CONFLICTED about the situation: he hadn't meant to spoil it and the parents had immediately repaired the mistake, so I had to proceed as though nothing were wrong, but the egg hunt was no longer genuine but merely a fabrication and it's not fair and EASTER IS RUINED!!! I think my sense of social injustice is permanently marred by this event.

The funniest part, I think, is that I'm pretty sure I didn't even believe in the Easter Bunny at the time. I at one point cornered my poor mother and interrogated her about the existence of such nocturnal visitors -- Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny -- and we had a battle of logic on the subject. I demanded that she tell me the truth, because I'm not a little girl and lying is wrong! Finally she conceded and gave me the real story, on the condition that I wouldn't spoil it for my little brother. (I immediately snuck him off behind the dining room curtains and divested myself of the news. Obviously, he had a right to know, too! The kid was so little at the time that he probably never remembered believing in Santa Claus.) But if I knew the Easter Bunny was a ruse, then I also must have known the egg hunt was part of it, that Mom & Dad re-hiding the eggs was no different from hiding them the night before. It was obviously an over-inflated sense of social injustice making Miss [Snatch] ornery. So...nothing much has changed.

I'm SO EXCITED to see you in a couple of weeks and have hugs...and indoctrinate my beloved husband on the trimmings and traditions of a H---/A--- family Christmas.

All my love,
[Snatch]

a veritable cornucopia of data

My job consists of collecting a bunch of data from a bunch of offices, checking to make sure it's complete and accurate, and then sending it up the line to the federal government. Since the data are confidential, it all has to be encrypted. We're in the beta phase of a new electronic databasing system, and lately most of my job has consisted of entering data, and of checking to see that it's been properly encoded. Well, it's not. So, the data developers then return to the data and re-encode it, and then someone needs to check it again to see if the errors have been fixed, and if any more errors have been created. Apparently, I'm really good at doing this, because whereas I used to have company in the monotony, it's all me now. I translate English into numbers and back into English again, so that later we can translate it back into numbers and send it on to be translated back into English. (Of course, in the interim it all gets translated into ones and zeros, but since I neither understand nor participate in that process, I will leave it out of this rant.) I've been directed to make it my top priority: whenever anyone send me test data, I translate back and forth and back and forth and summarize all the fuck-ups. It's a horrible, eye-glazing, mind-numbing job. I try to be conscientious and particular about my work, to ensure that it represents the best of my abilities, but I'm so discouraged by the dead-endedness that it's really difficult to give a shit.

So, I'm thankful that this is a long weekend, and that all the boring spreadsheets will have to keep themselves company until Monday. I'm thankful that I can be with family over Thanksgiving now, since I married into one that doesn't live too far away to visit.

And to whomever left their front bumper in our yard: fuck you. Come pick it up, because the garbage collectors won't take it and I don't want to have to deal with your trash.

in the spirit of the season

I just watched a video of a little boy -- seven or so? -- being strip-searched by TSA, down to the skin.  They made him take his shirt off in full view of all the passengers in line, and he was so shy about it that his dad had to step in a help/encourage him.  He had already passed through the metal detector and did not set it off.  It just seems really traumatizing to make folks strip half-naked because they dare to travel.  And I won't even go into the poor guy whose urostomy bag was compromised compliments of the TSA agents, except to say that I cannot imagine suffering that degree of public humiliation.

When I was little, my dad did tons of international travel, and my mom would often take me and my brother to the airport to pick him up upon his return.  We all walked right up to the arrival gate and watched enrapt as the various planes arrived.  I don't think that's appropriate anymore, but a balance must be struck between asking passengers at check-in whether or not they packed their own baggage, and the creation of images and procedures that cannot be broadcast on television.  (Of course, the FCC is a monster in its own right, but serves well for a comparison point here.)

I'm not flying for the Thanksgiving holiday, and I'm grateful not to have to contend with the screening procedures or the delays produced by those opting out, but I'm thankful the protest is occurring.  It's gotten out of hand and this seems like the best method for objecting.

Definitely watch the SNL skit.

something old (or at least reminiscent) and something new

Well, so much for NaBloPoMo.  I've been reprimanded for using the internet at work for non-work-related purposes, and sitting in front of my monitor is not a priority at home.  Oh, well.

I started playing volleyball again, after a hiatus of several years.  My old team captain welcomed me back, and the first game was two weeks ago.  Unbeknownst to me, during my absence, the team has been replaced with all new members, and they're playing on the A court now.  (Translation: a greater degree of natural athleticism and talent are now prerequisites.  Being several years out of practice is not helpful in staging a comeback.)  By the second game I was embarrassing myself far less often, which is encouraging.  However, I've noticed a disturbing phenomenon: my quads do not forgive me as quickly as they did ten years ago, after suffering overuse.  Hellweek used to represent a challenge in terms of retrieving objects dropped to the floor, or standing up from the toilet, but my 18 year-old self was much quicker to recover.  Note to self: do not allow this de-conditioning to occur again, because it presumably will worsen after 30.

In other news, I've been trying for several years distribute my lexicon, and the internet represents a viral spread of wittiness for many lucky ducks...so...you know how drinks often arrive with a remnant of the straw's wrapper still encasing its top?  Food preparers are apparently trained to leave it there so as to avoid contaminating the drinking-end of the straw.  So I termed it (the wrapper remnant) a strawphilactic.  Please feel free to distribute it widely.

5. from the (unpublished) archives

Today was a shitty day, so I'm pulling this out of the started-but-never-finished-entries and publishing it anyway.

I used to work in a research laboratory where we used pentobarbital as a pre-surgery anaesthetic.  It's a barbiturate that is used illegally for recreational purposes (as well as to mitigate the symptoms of heroin withdrawal, among other things), so we had to keep it locked up in the controlled substances safe.  Every dose was recorded in a log, which was also locked inside the safe, and the entire amount of the drug had to be accounted for in our records.  However, due to measurement error and imperfections in the syringes used to administer the drug, there was always a discrepancy at the end of the bottle.  The first time I finished a bottle, I approached one of the graduate students and asked how to account for the deficit in the log.  Basically, she brushed me off and told me to make the math work: everyone knew it worked out that way, but it was our responsibility to document usage for the entire contents.  Ehhhhh?  My naive sensibilities hadn't yet been completely tarnished, and I didn't want to overtly lie.  Lying is immoral, unethical, and weren't we supposed to be conducting research in a moral and ethical manner?  Well, yes, she said, but if we don't account for the drug used, we won't be able to acquire any more, and our research practices will be called into question, and our grant money could be in jeopardy.

I can't remember what I documented in the log.  I assume I followed her instructions, but it has rankled me ever since.  We were forced to falsify our records!  About a controlled substance!  And it was an unspoken part of the protocol.

My current employment is categorized as "non-exempt," which basically means I'm paid for the hours I report having worked, rather than being paid a salary for the work I've done.  There are limits to the hours I am allowed to work in a given day, as well as in a given week, and I am not allowed to work overtime.  However, one of my job duties involves travel, which (as we all know) can be a time-consuming endeavor.  I am supposed to be paid for hours spent traveling for work, but, generally speaking, a work day plus travel time exceeds the number of hours I am allowed to work.  So do I report the hours I actually worked, even if that results in overtime?  Or do I "fudge" the hours I report, thereby falsifying my timesheet and working for free, but giving the appearance that the rules have been followed?  (Aside: I feel fortunate in this troubled economy to be gainfully employed...but to be frank, the only reason I go to work is because I'm paid to do so.)  I'm fairly certain my "at will" employment will be terminated if I report my actual hours.  Granted that would solve this dilemma, but would also create a series of other problems.

It's taking me back to that philosophy class I took in the acquisition of my good-for-very-little liberal arts degree.  Now I have to go review the categorical imperative.  I think I might have it completely fucked up.

4. Book-It

Yesterday, my friend and coworker suggested a trip to Target over lunch, because she had some items to return. I'm not a shopper-kind-of-girl, but Target is the lamp to my moth. (I've felt a bit guilty about it lately, given the brouhaha over its support of an allegedly homophobic candidate in Minnesota, but I had an enlightening conversation with my LGBT colleague and have since resolved my misgivings.) Plus, I have some gift cards still to expend from my wedding...and Target has a Pizza Hut.

In the 1980s, "book it" meant one of two things:

1.  To quickly vacate the premises
2.  A Pizza Hut program supporting kids' reading 

I was an exceptionally nerdy kid, whose (few) friends had to cajole her out of her book to play outside.  My mother laments that on family road trips through devastatingly beautiful scenic vistas, neither of her children's attention could be torn from their books for longer than a murmured appreciation of the view.  But I was AWESOME at the Book-It program.  Each quota read entitled the student to a certificate for a free personal pan pizza at any participating Pizza Hut restaurant.  Also distributed at the restaurant were these fabulous star stickers, one for each of five spots on a button.  Plus, the star stickers got fancier every year!  (My internet research reveals the program is still active, but it doesn't appear to involve buttons anymore.  On the positive side, I apparently could make bank off them on e-bay.)

Book-It started a family tradition for us of lunch at Pizza Hut.  As more spawn were added to the clan, the Book-It lunches eventually grew to include, in addition to me, my brother, and my mom: my grandma, my aunt, and all four of her kids.  We're all grown now, but we still relish our Pizza Hut lunches, and will send cameraphone pictures of posed attendees to those who miss any particular event.  Traditionally, we'd each order our own personal pan pizza -- with toppings of our choice!  -- and share a couple of orders of breadsticks and a pitcher of Pepsi or root beer.

My coworker friend emailed me this morning to let me know she enjoyed her Target Pizza Hut personal pan pepperoni pie, despite misgivings about it.  (She's European, and thus has more sense about sensible eating than most of us Americans do, imho.)  I generally eschew fast food, but Pizza Hut is a soft spot for me.  We had milk with ours yesterday (again, Europeans are so sensible!), but it still made me miss my family.

3. star-fearing, not god-fearing

Last night after I cleaned the living room I was outside with Dog having a smoke and I saw a shooting star. Automatically, I smiled and wished for a good day tomorrow (today). Then I regretted it and nearly panicked because obviously it was foolhardy to waste a shooting star wish on something as trivial as having a good day. But I figured you don't get take-backs on star wishes, so I'd try to make the best of it.

So far, it's not going well. I hit the snooze until I was late, and since arriving at work have been embroiled in a holiday leave disagreement. The holiday in question is still two months away, people. Thus far I have tried to keep work out of this blog, but shit is getting crazy up in here, and I hate this job and I want to quit RIGHT NOW. I fantasize every day about dramatically giving notice...or giving no notice at all and departing on the spot. I can't do that, unfortunately; I've been here too long and I have to be a responsible grown-up and consider my future. I keep reminding myself that it's allegedly easier to get hired when one is employed, but so far I've had one. solitary. interview. I'm running out of patience. At the risk of alienating all the unemployed folks (who don't read my blog anyway), I wish I could get laid off and use my time on unemployment to job search full-time.

Maybe I dissed the shooting star by second-guessing my wish, and now it's making me pay. I must really try harder to avoid the wrath of celestial objects.

2. i'll be your distraction

First of all, rock your vote! I am not a morning person and therefore have plans to cast mine over the noon hour.

Secondly, my coworker likes to rock out at his desk. In theory, it's quite charming: he becomes increasingly enthusiastic, snaps his fingers, dances a little, and sings along, making up raunchy lyrics to jazz and motown classics. De facto, it rapidly becomes tedious. I don't begrudge him his enjoyment of the music, but I believe it's common courtesy to limit one's listening to headphones while in a shared office space. Oftentimes, I can't drown it out even by playing something through my headphones. And isn't everyone aggravated by competing songs?

To be fair, he has inquired on multiple occasions as to whether he's bothering us, but I'm too midwestern (read: passive-aggressive) to be honest about it. Instead, I post snarky comments on facebook about how inferior smooth jazz is. Since I have "friended" some of my coworkers, they often post sympathetic comments...and instead of feeling justified and taking arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them, I feel guilty about broadcasting my complaints and subsequently delete them from my feed. This is not productive.

We recently hired a new employee, and our supervisor advised the Music Man in a private email that headphones are to be used during her training period. I was surprised at how bitterly he reacted, and observed to him that the office rules state that headphones should always be used for personal listening -- similar to the headsets that are recommended for telephone calls in lieu of the speakerphone. He was unaware of the rule and has made no further protest, although I suspect this is an issue that will arise again in a few weeks. In the meantime, the office is blissfully quiet. I should take the opportunity to compose a request that it remain that way.

1. level crossing

I can hear train whistles from my house.  I enjoy them during the night, lonely and muted by the distance between my bedroom and the crossing, velvety-sounding in the darkness.  During the daytime I notice them less, presumably distracted by all of the ambient noise or whatever time-wasting strategy with which I am then occupied.

My office building is bordered on one side by tracks.  When our building first opened, it was a signalled crossing, i.e., passing trains blew their whistles to signal their approach, in addition to the gates, bells, and blinking lights.  The neighborhood on the other side of the tracks voted to silence the trains at that crossing, which seemed logical to me, given the other precautions.

A funny thing happened when the quiet zone was enacted, though: the whistles got obnoxious.  Instead of the reasonable toot-tooooot previously employed, the engineers leaned on the cords, sometimes sounding or thirty seconds to a minute nonstop.  It's like they were practicing trapeze tricks in there or something, swinging around and (I imagine) cackling wildly at the hullabaloo, their stripey engineer hats cocked at jaunty angles.  Take that, haughty residents and workers at adjacent office parks!  You don't like our whistles?  You find them disruptive?  Ha haaaa!  It got to the point that it was impossible to give them the benefit of the doubt, and on numerous occasions I had to ask callers to repeat themselves many times, because just when I thought it was safe to listen again, they'd psych me out. "Yes, doctor, I apologize, that was just a tra"--WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

I like to conclude it was a protest against abolishing a safety protocol -- and maybe it was -- but it was honestly unbearable.  Some of my coworkers requested permission to work from home.  One lady in particular had conniptions...but then, she had conniptions frequently, like when the guy in the neighboring cubicle was "typing with unnecessary volume."  Eventually the whistles decreased, and now I don't hear them very often outside our building, but they make known their approach from the nearest non-quiet-zone crossing.  This morning the whistle sounded every two seconds for one minute and change.  That crossing is in a more industrial zone, apparently one with less politically-involved neighbors.  Damn, that reminds me: I have to go home and study the ballots tonight so I can be a responsible citizen tomorrow.  For the record, I'd really appreciate it if the election and the World Series could both conclude tomorrow, so the barrage of endorsements can just stop already.

nablopomo, aka TMI

Apparently, November is the month when all of us with authorship aspirations but without actual publications resolve to write more.  I've recently discovered NaBloPoMo, which is designed to encourage prolificness.  In my case, I expect it will result in a stream of banality, but with my remaining optimism I have begun a list of potential blog topics.  I am somewhat comforted by the size of my audience, which is to say few will be hurt by this endeavor.  Plus, it's football season and the World Series, and I can always resort to ruminations about the weather...or a chronological recitation of my scars.  Ooh, I should add that to the list.

I'm hoping it will occasion more frequent postings from the bloggers I read, as well...especially since the lovely admins at Dooce have thus far ignored all my pleas for a community user account.  Hello (hello...hello...hello)?  I would like to play, too?  I mean, I know my title can be interpreted several ways, but I'm really not a pr0n site, and I can't delurk without an account, HeatherJon&Tyrant.

Love, Snatch

wardrobe malfunction

I went to a burlesque show last night, part of the grand opening celebration of a diner.  Perhaps an atypical way to introduce a business to a neighborhood, but entirely appropriate for its location.  I was expecting something between a striptease and a Rockettes show, but the performance was...wittier than that.  Sure, there were pasties and thongs and fishnet stockings, but there were also artistry and humor.  One of the acts was an "old lady" with a cane, who started off with These Boots Are Made For Walkin', hobbling around, scowling, and pointing fingers accusingly into the crowd...until the song changed, she wheeled back, dropped her cane, and peeled off her housecoat to reveal a negligee, etc.  Another girl, dressed as Cookie Monster, came onstage to Rehab and disdained the carrots she was given in favor of mainlined refrigerated cookie dough.

I don't object to strip clubs, although I feel for women who feel they have no better work prospects, or who end up there by virtue of abuse or self-esteem issues.  Strip club performances are definitely designed to appeal to men, however (even the ones I've seen at gay clubs), whereas these women seemed to tailor their acts to their own enjoyment -- at least in part.  Maybe there is something intrinsically demeaning about shaking one's ass for a crowd, but women are subjected to that kind of ogling constantly, and I think maybe it's empowering to select the circumstances, time, and place (and outfit?).  Furthermore, burlesque shows seem to celebrate feminine curves, where strip clubs generally favor toned, taut, lean, and surgically enhanced bodies.  Outside of the locker room at the gym, one rarely encounters nude women being...athletic...and undeterred by cellulite and other imperfections.  Airbrushed glossies are so misleading.  And depressing.

In honor of breaking our typically reclusive weeknight routine, I wore my knee-high black boots -- still with jeans, but it felt more appropriate than sneakers.  Girly clothes require so much more attention and posturing than androgynous clothes.  I can get away with a couple of inches of air between my knees in scrubs, but it's much more noticeable (and therefore whore-ish) when I've put an iota of effort into my attire.  I honestly find it rather exhausting to maintain the crossed ankles, straight-backed, demure posture, especially in a hot, crowded room of catcalling strangers.  I imagine one becomes accustomed to it after a while, but it draws such a parallel to a coming-of-age rite of passage, when a child is suddenly deemed an adult and must immediately change lifestyles.  No more playing for you, missy!  It's time to wash the dishes and settle down to your sampler!  (I actually enjoy needlework, but it's such an easy target here.)

I have one remaining question: presumably a parade of nude women produces some arousal in a crowd of heterosexual males, correct?  So I can't help but wonder how they can discreetly readjust to eliminate potential discomfort.  Maybe there's a tumescence wriggle similar to the strapless bra adjustment to correct the situation.  And what about when they need to walk to the bar?  Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day?

that which we call a rose pisses me right off

My parents both have fairly large, fertile families --> I have a lot of cousins, especially on my dad's side.  Most of them -- that is, all of them except my brother and me -- grew up in the same small, small town, went to school together, generally grew up together.  They are a tight-knit group of people, and we were always on the periphery.  We lived hours away, didn't fit well into the age- or gender-sorted comrade cliques, and didn't have a boat to take out on the beach (read: whereas the rest were burnished coppery-golden, we were more akin to...anemic marble).  We were close to each other, however.

My brother is dead now, and although my cousins have grown up and dispersed to different states, they still have the relationships forged during childhood, so now I'm the single black sheep at family holidays.  It's not nearly as isolating as it was in childhood, because we can all drink together, and they make an exemplary effort to include me.  But!

One of them named her baby after her dad (first name) and my brother (middle name); because my brother's middle name was after my uncle, her baby's name is my brother's middle and first names.  It was two years ago, but I recently became supremely pissed off about it.  I know I don't own the name, by any means, but that doesn't stop me from feeling possessive of it, especially since none of them was close to us and how dare she commandeer his name?  It's not like her life changed when he died.  She spends every spare moment she can with her brother, who. is. still. alive.  She hasn't worked for a decade-plus trying to come to terms with suicide, or felt someone missing at every significant milestone of her life.  In fact, to my knowledge, she hasn't had to deal with any remarkable hardships, including finding a grown-up job, or looking for housing, or worrying about money.  She just got married, moved back in with her parents, and started reproducing.  (I appreciate the challenges of SAHMotherhood, but doesn't compare to family tragedy or to forging through young adulthood as a recluse independent person.)  Probably none of that would bother me except WHAT THE FUCK DOES SHE KNOW and HOW DARE SHE STEAL HIS NAME.  Did it not occur to her that maybe, just maybe, I might consider it if/when I have children?

I've been thinking about it recently because I discovered that my parents have never met the kid.  Although I moved away from home and don't make it home for many holiday weekends, my parents usually do.  I was catching up with them and they mentioned that Girl Cousin is pregnant again, I exclaimed over how I'd yet to meet the first baby, and my mother said they hadn't, either.  He's almost two years old.  (As an aside, they're still living with her parents.  I don't think I could make all my babies in my parents' house.  That's just icky.)  So now I wonder if it occurred to her that maybe her blasé selection was hurtful to us, and maybe she's avoiding us meeting her baby.  Or maybe I'm just that narcissistic that other people's children's names revolve around me and my family and our personal history.  I was really disappointed in my therapist when she insisted that my brother's death is behind my depression because I spent YEARS working through it (besides, lady, I was depressed WAYYYY before that), but maybe what remains is issues about its lesser impact on other people.  Especially people who weren't even involved, weren't hardly affected, didn't qualify for naming rights.

I like Girl Cousin.  She's a genuinely thoughtful, charming person.  I hope this doesn't affect our future relationship, and I hope she doesn't ever stumble across this blog.  (Girl Cousin, if you're reading this, please try to see it from my perspective and realize that this isn't a diatribe against you, but rather against the way I feel about the circumstances.)  But I remain supremely pissed about the name.  Maybe this will help.

the exchange of bodily fluids

Back when I was dating the Rock Star, his band opened a show for the Misfits (legendary punk rock band).  I never grew accustomed to "groupie" status and usually insisted I was a crew member, despite the fact that I knew nothing about setting up the stage -- although I am pretty good at making an obscene amount of gear fit into a small passenger car.  So I had a backstage pass, but mostly used it to wander around feeling like a conspicuously out-of-place poser, trying to find places to smoke.  At least I knew how to dress the part.

Anyway, I was in the hallway when the Misfits finished their set and exited the stage.  It was a narrow cinder block corridor that stretched the length of the club, and there was nowhere to escape to get out of the way.  Now, risking the readership of this blog (ha! yeah, right! this blog has no readership), I will admit that a) I have never been starstruck by celebrities, and b) I think the Misfits are overrated.  (I have now lost any measure of street cred I ever accrued.)  But it's hard not to be overwhelmed as a nineteen-year-old waif when one finds oneself directly impeding the path of a group of large, endorphinized, world-famous rock stars.  Accordingly, I pressed myself up against the cinder block wall, from the heels of my appropriately-scuffed Chuck Taylors to the shoulders of my carefully-selected band t-shirt, held my breath, and averted my eyes.  At this point I should probably illustrate the personage hurtling through the narrow corridor toward me.  Let's just say Jerry Only is a very large person, in person.  As a world famous rock star, he evidently enjoys intimidating coy young women backstage.  He turned his brutish shoulders as if to slip past me -- because while it may have been a narrow corridor, it was certainly wide enough to allow two persons to pass one another if they were reasonably-sized, or if one were gargantuan and one excessively gracile -- then suddenly leaned forward, pressed his entire front into me (and my bony shoulderblades further into the cinder blocks) and rubbed himself across me, eyes boring through me, and continued on his way.

I don't remember the rest of the band passing, although assuredly they must have.  Later on, Rock Star's manager got Jerry to sign a poster for me because I was a) too shy to ask for myself, and b) not that intent on getting one.  I don't know what ever happened to it, anyway.  I only remember that that was the night Jerry Only sweated on me.  Besides the time in kindergarten when my dad took me to see then-vice-president George Bush (Sr.) give a campaign speech and he shook hands with me on his way out, I think that's the closest I've ever been to famous: rock star sweat.  All over me.

driver's education

My first car was a Pontiac 6000 STE. It was an '89, which was the year all-wheel drive became standard, and boasted 135 hp with its "upgraded" engine. It was maroon, with gold trim.

I got to use the car because my mom was fed up with my asking for rides (even though she usually said no and I mooched off of friends -- or friends' parents -- instead). But I think I'd have been shit out of luck if that old Pontiac hadn't been a bit...wonky. It used to stall out for no apparent reason -- sometimes at highway speed, sometimes just idling, sometimes while decelerating. It would always start right up again, but then -- often, but not always!, and not in any kind of a predictable pattern -- kill when shifted into Drive. There were days when it refused to budge, only to be towed to a mechanic who could find nothing wrong with it. My mom hated that car.  It seemed to perversely enjoy stranding her.  There's a photo somewhere of my grandpa teaching me to replace the serpentine belt.  He's standing over me, directing, while I bury my arms up to the shoulders in the engine block, twisting that belt into place.  There's grease all over both of us.

I got along with it pretty well.  It died on me a few times, and frustrated all my attempts at tricking or coaxing it into Drive: revving the engine, holding in Neutral, gliding slowly and gently into Drive, cursing profusely and pounding on various interior surfaces, but for the most part, it was reliable, and put up with more abuse than it probably deserved.  For example, there was that one time that I decided to test its top speed on a gravel country-ish road...we hit 97mph and I really thought the steering wheel might come off in my hands.  And there was that time in college (that Pontiac was my parents' high school graduation gift to me) when we were trying to navigate through an ice storm, and we slid through three or so red lights, because there simply was no stopping.  Oh, and the New Year's Eve when I was gallavanting with some friends -- before any celebration started -- and I fishtailed around a corner into a snowbank and landed with three wheels in the air.

I got in some trouble, too, but it wasn't the car's fault so much as my own.  Once I got grounded for taking my boyfriend, from whom I was grounded (were my parents the only ones to ground from specific people?) to the mall -- we only got busted because it stalled out in the middle of a busy intersection and I was afraid to let the cops push us out of the way.  Dad told me that car couldn't be towed, because it had all-wheel drive!  And there was the morning my parents woke me up to ask what had happened to my fender.  I played naive and said I must've been sideswiped while parked, but my father took me aside afterward and told me, gravely, that he'd picked the bark out of my fender before Ma saw it.  Trees don't hit people, he told me, people hit trees.

Once, in college, there was a domestic in my backyard/parking lot.  The loser neighbor, Louis, punched through the passenger window of the car his girlfriend had locked him out of, and then stormed off.  Since the cops wouldn't do it, I took it upon myself to offer her a ride home -- she was hella strung out on something.  As we were preparing to back out of the long, tree-lined, frozen driveway, Louis came after us swinging a 2x4.  The rear defrost hadn't dissipated the four inches of ice (okay, I exaggerate, but only slightly) on my windows, so as I squealed out in reverse, I took off the side mirror on a dumpster.  I had planned to duct-tape it back on, but my father refused to let me as he claimed it would ruin the paint.  Damn car only had a couple of flecks of paint left as it was.

It also had its muffler wired up with a coat hanger.  I didn't pull that one myself; it was the mechanic who took pity on my broke ass and agreed that it didn't need replacing so much as it just needed help hanging on.  A lady came into the Italian restaurant where I worked one day and reported a car in the parking lot with an umbrella hanging out the window.  Yup, mine.  The driver's side window would go down, but sometimes refused to go up and instead shut off the ignition.  I put the umbrella up in a mostly-futile attempt to keep out the thunderstorm while I worked me shift.  It was better in the winter, because the snow could be brushed off the seat before climbing in.

I pick'n'pulled a used radiator for it after it started blowing some serious steam one day -- on the freeway interchange, during rush hour.  I pulled over right away and tried to get out of traffic, but the rubberneckers made a scene of it anyway, of course.  Turns out I just had a leaky seal in the radiator hose, but my mechanic, a middle-aged ginger whose primary interests were his Harley and his mutt but who liked me because I'd sit and bullshit with him while he worked, assured me I was right to stop traffic.  ;)  I told him the story of the time my little cousin, who'd just gotten her permit, asked to drive us home from the movies and I put her off on a gut feeling.  On the way home, the accelerator stuck at 45 on a red light, and I had to cut the engine to bring it to a stop.  My poor cousin had her hand on the door handle, ready to abandon ship, with eyes like flying saucers in her cute little 15 year-old face.  I took the opportunity to explain about never putting a moving car into park, unless you want to leave your transmission in the road...although I think my warning that the belt might break and "it might sound like the engine has exploded, but don't worry, it won't!" probably didn't help the anxiety.  Of course we had to recite the lesson when we got her safely home.  I'm always impressed at parents' ability to brush off the danger kids get into with their thankfulness that everything turned out okay.

What finally did in that old Pontiac, ironically, was merely a flat tire.  My mom's old car gave up the goat my senior year of college, and she commandeered mine for her commute to work.  Actually, I willingly loaned it to her, but didn't expect that I'd never get it back.  In a typical conversation of that era of our relationship, my parents insisted that a person could not purchase just one tire for a car, and since it was unlikely to survive a full new set, it was time to cut our losses.  I protested, vehemently, that waiting for the bus in sub-zero winter was not preferable to paying to replace the tire -- and I 'd already replaced just one!  They totally let me, I swear!  No, no, it cannot be done.  A person cannot buy just one tire -- the tire people won't even sell them singly.  Despite all my whining and cajoling, they scheduled the donation.  I thought about driving it on the rim to the tire store, but that seemed unlikely to succeed in the dead of winter, so I gave up.  Ma knows I'm a soft heart, though, so she took pictures of the instrument panel from the driver's seat and sent them to me.  I loved that car.

this little piggy went to grandma's

I've been curious about the phenomenon of minimalist footwear for a while.  When I was younger, the bottoms of my feet leatherized during the summer months from all the running around on hot pavement, gravel trails, etc. (It snowed in the winter and I had to wear shoes...although there was that one memorable time when I tried to walk back from a dance at French camp to my cabin and froze the tootsies so badly that I couldn't get my boots on even when I tried: it was too dark to see and they were too numb to feel.  The defrosting process, however, can be exquisitely felt.)  I broke down a couple of weeks ago and ordered a pair of shoes with toes, i.e., they're cut to fit each toe individually -- like a glove as opposed to a mitten -- and have a flexible heel that allegedly uses the foot's own anatomy to absorb shocks.  Supporters say it creates a more natural gait, promotes good posture, and reduces injuries.  I don't have any injuries, per se, but I have a pissy ACL in one knee and, moreover,  I thought I might enjoy "barefoot" shoes.  Return to childhood and whatnot.

They arrived yesterday and I eventually figured out how to finagle each little piggy into its respective tunnel.  It's reminiscent of wearing toe socks, except with less flexibility.  Also, I have freakishly long toes -- no, really, FREAKISHLY long toes! -- and a Morton's foot, so my tootsies doesn't precisely conform to the model.  I have the sensation of...webbing?...and an empty space at the end of the "big toe" slot.  That said, they're surprisingly comfortable -- so far, at least.  I read that I need to train my muscles to walk in them and that I should break them in gradually to avoid pain/injury.  Really?  From walking?  Oh, right, this is America.  We're out of practice here.  (Since this is my second Americans-are-lazy-asses statement in a week or so, I'll take the opportunity to declare that I LOVE living here for so many reasons, and I love the privilege of driving, and eating what I want when I want, and not being expected to obey my husband or conceal myself behind swaths of figure- and feature-disguising fabric.  But I wouldn't be very American at all if I didn't feel compelled to exercise that whole first amendment thingy.)  In short, the initial phase of the minimalist shoe experiment is going auspiciously.

This weekend is Labor Day, and I get to visit my grandma.  Actually, I get to visit 20-odd family members -- or maybe it's 20 odd-family members -- but right now I'm focused on Gma.  She's well into her late 80s and still going, going, going.  She and my gpa still live in and maintain their own house, and remain active in their church, community, and family.  Gma is maybe my favorite person in the world.  I spent A GREAT DEAL of time with her growing up, and learned many valuable things about gardening, (sustainably) picking flowers, NOT picking on siblings, enjoying afternoon snacks and dessert, accepting people just as they are, forgiving people for their mistakes (even when those involve killing your child), making lefse, making popcorn (it is an ART in her kitchen), baking cookies and cinnamon rolls, the importance of teamwork, picking battles, how to know when to "cool your jets!" that sneaking candy into the movie theater is delightfully naughty, that cuddling can't fix everything but it sure can make it a whole lot better, that family is perhaps the most valuable resource in my life, and that the threat of the wooden spoon is often more powerful than actually being whacked with it.  She's been an overwhelmingly positive influence on my life and it does not escape me that I'm beyond lucky to have her still in my life as an adult (sort of).  So...the cost of a weekend trip to visit is negligible.  I'll have to remember that when I'm paying off my credit card at the end of the month.  :)

The forecast isn't as beautiful as it will be at home this weekend, and no doubt I'll miss the First Husband, since he's staying here.  It will be a whirlwind of a trip, as usual, but I have plans to visit some good friends and maybe hit up the Fair for some fried stuff on a stick (YUM!), and get out on the river.

license and registration, please?

I dug out the complaint letter I wrote to the DMV, and it's kind of a doozy. What follows is an abbreviated version -- apparently, when I get going, I'm quite the whiner.  :)

March 7, ----
Dear Ms. ----------:
As a recent registrant at the DMV, I am writing to express my disappointment at the apparent lack of standard procedures at your ---------- office. I relocated...and concordantly made an appointment on January 28th to register my out of state vehicle and transfer my driver's license...I was denied because your employee told me that my -- registration card was unacceptable, due to its not being printed on state letterhead.
I had my original registration, along with my title (which I was told was not required) mailed to me...[and] made a second appointment. At this visit, no one even asked to see my registration. I was sent outside to get my VIN and odometer verified, a process that took over thirty minutes due to your employees'...gossip over the theft of a man's car from the DMV parking lot after he had completed his driving test. Then they filed out...to move their personal cars closer to the building.
The employee serving me informed me that, in addition to my valid -- driver's license and US passport, she needed either my registered birth certificate or my social security card to process my request [whereas the website had claimed only two forms of ID, one if it were a passport]. The document in question...has never been damaged or tampered with, and matches my driver's license, student ID, checkbook, and all of my credit and bank cards, not to mention my appearance and description. I was informed that she would accept payment for my license, but that I would have to drive to ---------- during DMV hours with my passport and have my identification verified so that ---------- could send documentation to [the state capitol], who would then forward it to ---------- so that my license could be issued. After she accepted my payment, she issued me a receipt and informed me that if I didn't complete the process by --/--/--, it would become void, despite my payment. Had she told me that earlier, I would have deferred payment until license issuance, being that I still possess a valid -- license.
I was then sent to take a written test. The employee...scribbled out the reverse side of a 36-question form and told me to take only the front...but after I had it graded, I was informed that I had been given the wrong test and was sent back to complete the reverse side. When I returned to have it processed after waiting in line again, she informed me that she was going on break.
Reluctant to drive to ---------- during hours I am scheduled to work, I called the DMV hotline...told me there was no reason for me to [drive there] and that I should return to the ---------- office with a third form of identification. I had my certified birth certificate and my social security card FedExed to me from --. Today I made my third trip to the DMV, armed with all possible forms of identification, where I was placed in an hour-long queue despite my appointment and the explanation that all I needed was verification of my identification. I pleaded for expedition and was channeled through three employees, none of whom could figure out why I had been issued an interim license and filed as a fradulent applicant. They...tried to dismiss me. Finally, a woman reprocessed the entire application. As far as I know, my "fraudulent" application remains in your system.
I found the service at the DMV to be grossly incompetent and unsatisfactory. In total, I made three trips to the office, totaling 5.5 hours of time spent away from work...Despite their recognition of their colleagues' numerous mistakes in processing my standard requests, none of them offered me an apology for the waste of time their negligence caused me. A US passport is a federally-issued document, accepted internationally as identification even after its expiration, and I am aghast that it should be refused...especially when the accompanying payment was accepted without question.
 
It goes on for another paragraph in which I petulantly demand an apology and accuse the department of deserving its bad reputation before closing.  Following is the letter I received in response. The only lasting effect of my experience is that every year, I'm called for jury duty twice: once as the real me, and once as a misspelled, presumably fraudulent applicant. (Presumably, credibility is not important when it comes to jury selection.)

i'll see you in court!

after my ex-boyfriend and i had been living together for a couple of years, we moved out of the house we had shared with roommates and into a house for just the two of us.  i imagine it was something of a trial run for permanence.  we managed the household fairly well, equitably, and maturely, which should have surprised no one, but we always kept our finances separate.  at the lease signing, we brought separate credit reports, signed the lease separately, and he maintained his own office in the second bedroom, i.e., none of my stuff was in there.  we shared the master bedroom and the rest of the space.

our relationship ended without malice, and we continued cohabitating until the end of our lease (because we're big kids and we can be respectful and courteous of each other).  he moved out about a week before I did, and we scheduled a walk-through with the landlady.  because of some issues that had arisen with regard to the contract, we video-taped the walk-through.  she agreed to buy from us the refrigerator we had purchased and had installed, and stated specifically that if the house were in the same condition as it currently was when we turned it over, we'd both get our full security deposits back.  yay!  (i know some folks don't find it worthwhile to scour the oven and the blinds and the bathtub in a rental property, but i don't have the luxury of affording the deduction.)

fast-forward through the emotional process of seeing off the ex, shipping him all his crapola that he couldn't fit in his crate/didn't have time to deal with, finding my own apartment, moving out, cleaning up, and the landlady doesn't show up for the final walk-through.  bitch has three phone numbers and isn't answering any of them, even though we had already agreed upon the date.  i shot more video to document that the house was empty and spotless, and left.  she never scheduled a walk-through with me.

she refused to refund my security deposit.  she paid my ex in full, but they had always been on good terms.  my theory is that she started disliking me when i refused to pay for repairs to the sewer line, into which roots had grown.  i refused to pay for it because a) it's not my fault as a renter (there was nothing i could have done to anticipate or prevent it), and b) the lease we all signed specifically stated the tenants were not responsible for any damage to the pipes caused by tree roots.  and also?  she claims to be an attorney.

i say "claims to be an attorney" because i researched the law, and it was eminently clear to me that she had no legal claim to the deposit.  i dotted all my i's, crossed my t's, and filed a lawsuit...against my former landlady, the attorney.  there were a number of legal hoops to jump through, and i spent hours of my personal time reviewing the evidence of my case (in small claims court, you're not allowed to hire an attorney to represent you...which can be intimidating when the party you're suing IS an attorney).  i transcribed the dialogue of the entire walk-through from the video-tape...which is a very time-consuming and frustrating evening activity.  i had to take time off work for the court date, and showed up hella early at the county courthouse, in a suit (at work i'm in jeans, at home i'm in pajamas).  i stated my case in front of the judge, and tried my best not to stammer, even though i was shaking in my little space booties -- no, worse, i was shaking in my high heels, which is even more dangerous.  who sues an attorney, anyway?!

she claims to be an attorney, did i mention that?  i have never, in all my sick days of watching pathetic losers on The People's Court, witnessed someone testify so idiotically on his/her own behalf.  (by the way,  the Judge Joe Brown, Judge Mathis, and Judge Judy shows all contacted me and offered to take my case on national television.  i still have the letters!  but i decided that i didn't want my fifteen minutes of fame to typecast me as white trash, so i declined.)  she tried to countersue me for damage to the office carpet, which a) i had never inhabited, and b) was exposed durign the walk-through on camera.  she also claimed not to know that my ex and i were co-tenants, even though we gave her separate credit reports, separate leases, and paid every month with two separate checks.

i was pretty sure i had it in the bag (the decision was to be mailed, not announced in court).  i was so elated by my non-attorney spokesperson success in suing an attorney, i drove to the house we used to rent and knocked on the door.  i told the current occupant that i'd just gotten out of court with her landlady, and that she'd do well to document her experience as a renter: some of my best evidence was emails we had exchanged.  according to the new resident, the landlady claimed she'd never rented the house before.  hmm...that's what she claimed when she rented it to us!  i left her my contact information and told her i'd be happy to provide any help within my power.

i won the case.  i was awarded my security deposit, minus $20 for a craptastic mirror she left in the house that we thew away.  she also got away with stealing the refrigerator.  but i sued an attorney and i won!  y'all better not cross me, bitches.  i am a force with which to be reckoned.  and although i had been warned that oftentimes defendants never pay up on what they owe, i received a cashier's check in the mail and didn't even have to write a letter to the California bar advising them of the antics of their wayward sheep.  i could model it after the enraged tome i penned to the CA DMV.  i should publish that one...and the response i received to it.

safety net

*written after a friend's boyfriend dumped her instead of moving into her house*

The general consensus is that it takes courage to leave the place/people to which/whom one has made connections.  It's viewed as abnormal to isolate oneself from society.  Even the shyest people usually keep a few close friends.

I once read an evolutionary biology theory that postulated conversation is oral grooming.  People use conversation to forge and strengthen bonds amongst us.  Acquaintances are those we call for fun or for utility.  Friends are those we call on in times of need.  Boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, and wives are those who are close enough to be held responsible, in some degree, for our happiness and security.  They're the ones who listen to us recount our days -- good and bad -- and suffer the consequences if we have bad credit or make poor decisions.  They're the ones who put their tongues to our genitals because we like it.  If we die first, they carve their names next to ours on our tombstones, and wait for those who follow after to add the final date.

So it's particularly hurtful when one's "significant other" separates.  These are the people who know us best -- who know that we actually shit -- and still loved us for it.  That's perhaps the most affirming aspect of love: knowing about the shit and loving anyway.  It's the closest thing to unconditional love (without getting all theistic about it).  And when it dissolves, the primary support is gone.  And when it dissolves at an inopportune time, such as a) after one has relocated across the country and hasn't made new friends, or b) when one is already experiencing self-doubt and doesn't give much credit to the remainder of her support network or her intrinsic ability to seek out and live up to her alleged potential, the results can be...devastating.

Panic.  Grasp at whatever is the most immediately apparent, even if it's not as sturdy as one might like.  Just don't use it as a crutch forever.

first world problems

I purchased my car used -- second-hand, pre-owned, whatever the current jargon is.  I feel very fortunate to be able to afford a car outright.  However, I didn't get input into some of the options I'd have had as a new car buyer: I didn't choose the paint color, the stereo (I removed the tape deck!), or the interior, which is black leather.  I guess it's moderately fancy to have a leather interior, as I mostly see it on luxury cars or the suped-up versions of commutermobiles, but (aside from any objections about the practice of hiding animals for upholstery purposes) I really don't see the benefit.  Parked in the sun, with the windows up, the interior temperature of a car can exceed 125°F within 20 minutes.  You guys, I have a great idea!  Let's cover all that interior surface with black cowhide!  That way, whoever climbs inside will be cooked en papillote.  Americans are too soft, anyway, with all of our sitting at office jobs and driving back and forth all the time.  We must toughen up our lazy butts...and the backs of our thighs, lower backs, palms, and anything else that should accidentally brush against that superheated cowhide.

Given, one remedy for this problem are the A/C controls (because what better way to solve a first-world problem than with a first-world solution!).  My commute is three miles long, which means that I'd have to turn on the engine and run the A/C for about as long as my entire commute before the seats cooled enough for my American ass to perch upon comfortably.  It hardly seems worth the time or fossil fuels.  Instead, I endeavor to park in the shade, leave open the sunroof (glad he sprang for that option!) and crack the windows...which, for some reason, always makes me paranoid that some malevolent pedestrian will toss a smoldering cigarette butt inside my car.  (This has never happened to me and I don't know why I obsess over the remote possibility that it will.)  Inevitably, though, that leather is searingly hot by the time I return, and I go back to wondering why one would opt for a black leather interior.  I should probably pick up some leather treatment goop at Kragen on my way home, too, because all that heat and sun is starting to crack the leather.